“First of all, love the shoes,” she says.
“Yours rock too,” I say gesturing to her Keds.
“Let’s dive right into this. I want to put your skills to the test right now,” she says, then turns to the audience. “I have a surprise for The Fashion Hound. She didn’t know about this in advance, but she’s going to teach us what makes a good Trophy Husband.”
She points back stage. “Bring out the boys,” Helen says and then three good-looking men walk onto the stage. Helen stands up, gesturing for me to join her. “Since you’re the world’s leading expert on Trophy Husbands, we thought we would pick your brains about what makes a good candidate.”
Okay, I didn’t expect that. I thought this appearance would be more about the why of Trophy Husbands, and the chance to turn the tables. But I’m on TV, so I need to go with the flow.
“Just like picking a wine.”
“Exactly. So you’re the sommelier. I want you to evaluate these men and tell us how each one rates as a potential Trophy Husband.” She points to the first guy. “This is Troy. Say hello, Troy.”
He follows her orders. “Hello,” he says with a wave. Troy has thick brown hair, deep brown eyes, a nice tan, and high cheekbones.
“Troy is twenty-three, six-two, a tennis pro, and is fluent in French. What do you think?”
That he’s nothing like Chris. That I have zero interest in him. That I don’t want to appraise men as if they’re livestock.
Instead, I stick with the original definition of a Trophy Husband and give my answer swiftly and immediately based on that criterion. “Height is perfect. I like that he’s athletic. The job – tennis pro – kind of sounds like you’re probably not into working very hard, which is a good thing for a kept man, but at least you have a skill to keep you busy. And I have to say the French is a nice touch. Very nice.”
I tell myself this is like speed dating, and it’ll be over soon.
“Next, we have Ethan.” Helen moves to the guy in the middle. Ethan has straight brown hair, streaked with blond highlights. His hair hangs a little shaggily across his forehead, covering his blue eyes a bit, until he sweeps it back. His hair reminds me of Chris, but I force myself to push the thought of him away for now. “Ethan is twenty-one, six feet tall, an amateur skateboarder, and knows how to cook Indian food.”
“I love Indian food, so that is a big plus. But the skater part worries me. Skaters can be slackers, and while I don’t need you to work, I do need you to not be a complete bum.”
Helen continues with the final man. “Here is Javier.” Javier is a little shorter, in good shape, with close-cropped black hair and warm hazel eyes. “He is five-eleven, hails from Brazil, works as a lifeguard, and loves to give footrubs.”
“Foot rubs are huge, Helen. Any Trophy Husband worth his salt should be skilled in footrubs. And the international flare is a great touch. I can trot that out easily in social circles to impress people.”
“So, right now, if you had to pick, who’d be the best Trophy Husband?”
“Troy,” I say firmly. “Il parle francais.”
“Voulez vous to you,” Helen says. Then she dismisses the men and they disappear offstage. We head over to her couch. “Look at you, just sizing them up and slicing them down, just like that. So this Trophy Husband project is all about empowerment, alpha females, going against the grain.”
“Two can play at the trophy spouse game, I say.”
“So this is a crusade, a cause?”
“Exactly. But now I want other women to take up the mantle. We’ve been told for years to date older men, but we can snag younger men too. Much younger men.”
Helen becomes more excited. “You’re amassing followers, aren’t you?”
“So many we should form an army.”
Helen can’t get enough of this. She slaps her palm on the arm of the couch. I take that as a cue to keep going. “I believe women can do what men can do. And we don’t have to feel bad. We don’t have to explain ourselves. We can just do it.”
The audience loves this, they are enraptured. I am going to end this on a high note. No one will remember that I bowed out the same day. They will remember the message and a generation of women who come after me will collect Trophy Husbands and they will remember this moment when I led them to the promised land of equality.
“I can’t imagine you’ve had any trouble finding takers though. So where do we stand in your quest? You’ve been dating JP and Craig and this guy Chris, but we never saw the video from that date. Are you really going to go through with this? Are you going to walk down the aisle?”
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out.
Helen is a pro though and she ably fills in the silence with humor. “What I really want to say is can I help you pick out your dress? Maybe help you get a tiara for your hair, a little princess crown or something? And maybe we can schedule your wedding to the Trophy Husband winner to air on TV too?”
The prospect sounds horrifying, and it’s as if there’s a weed in my stomach, twisting its way around my insides, latching onto my organs. A few hours ago, I thought the cause still mattered. I thought the point was worth making. But despite the new threats from Todd, the lying is gnawing away at me, and I don’t want to feel consumed by revenge anymore. If he’s going to go after my business, I’ll have to deal. That’s what lawyers are for and my friend is married to the best of them. I’ll get through whatever mud Todd slings my way just as I got through the break-up – with a little help from my friends.
A million thoughts race through my mind in this instant, a million voices. Chris saying ‘When this point is no longer important to you, that’s when you should call me again.’ I hear Andy’s words: ‘He doesn’t care what you do. He doesn’t care if you prove him wrong. I doubt Amber cares either.’ I hear Hayden’s daughter: ‘I think you should find a nice boy. I want you to be happy. I want you to find your sailboat in the moonlight.’ And my sister Julia: ‘ When I find someone I can actually talk to that’s when I’ll know I’ve found the one.’ The voices grow stronger, louder, like a Greek chorus, echoing in my ears.
And that chorus guides me on to this moment. To this truth: there’s no more getting even, just living my life, moving on.
Helen is staring at me, and I can tell she’s getting ticked that I’m no longer rattling off quips and snark. This is TV, after all, and she doesn’t want any dead time. I don’t want to let her down. I want to give her something good. And I realize this is the perfect way for me to move on. To drop the anger, to say goodbye to getting even, and to step into my future.