The Importance of Being Married (16 page)

“Jessica Wild? That’s really your name?”

He looked surprised. Everyone always looked surprised by my name, like I was somehow traversing the trade description act. And I guess I was. I wasn’t wild at all—didn’t want to be. I was sensible. Disciplined. At least I always used to be…

“Really,” I confirmed.

“Suits you,” he said.

“No it doesn’t,” I said on reflex. “I mean, look at me. I’m not wild. Not one bit.”

“I think it suits you really well. Jessica Wild. Very glamorous. Tiny bit dangerous. You’re lucky.”

I looked at him incredulously. My name had always struck me as entirely inappropriate. My grandma blamed the surname for my mother’s waywardness; I’d spent my life doing my best to make sure I didn’t go that way as well. “I am?”

“My name’s Frank,” he said. “Frank Werr.”

“Frank Verr?”

“That’s right. Only with a hard
W,
not a
V
like it sounds. I got called Wanker a lot growing up,” he said. “People said it was just rhyming slang.”

“Right,” I said, feeling suddenly very sorry for him. “Yeah, that’s not great, is it. So, look, can I…can I get you a drink?”

Frank shook his head. “I think I’ll probably just go home, actually. I mean, my date’s not coming, is she? And you’re a million miles out of my league, plus there’s a match on the telly that I might get home for if I leave now.”

“A million miles out of your league? I am not,” I said indignantly. “Not even one.”

Frank looked at me uncertainly. “You’re
so
out of my league. You’re gorgeous. You’re, like, a nine. I’m probably a five. Maybe five point five. I mean, everyone likes to think they’re just above average, don’t they? I’m not in bad shape. No beer belly or anything. I think that gives me point five, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re a seven,” I said firmly.

Frank shook his head. “No. Not a seven. Six tops.”

“Six, then,” I relented. Then I looked at him curiously. “So you really think I’m a nine?”

“Nine point five. I was trying to be cool before.”

I grinned. “You’re mad. But look, don’t go. Come and join me and my friend for a drink.”

“Really?” he asked, smiling nervously. “You mean it?”

“Of course I do.” I nodded, leading him toward our table. Helen looked at him as we approached, a quizzical look on her face.

“This is Frank,” I said. “Frank, this is Helen.”

“Helen.” Immediately, Frank went red and held out his hand uncertainly before deciding it wasn’t such a good idea and retracting it. “Very nice to…Can I get you a drink?”

“Love one.” Helen smiled graciously. “A white wine, please.”

“White wine.” Frank nodded. “Yes, of course. Right away. You, too, Jess?”

I nodded, smiling, watching as he pushed his way to the bar, his back suddenly a little straighter.

“Well, you took your time,” Helen said, grinning. “But you got us both a drink so I think you passed the test.”

Two hours later, and a little bit tipsy, I was amazed to find that it was already 11:30
PM
. Not once had I looked at my watch, not once had I been tempted to make my usual excuses and leave early. I’d actually enjoyed myself. Frank was funny and interesting and although I wasn’t interested in him in the slightest (or him in me), the three of us were still laughing as we made our way out of the bar and out into the cold, crisp air outside.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you,” Frank said as we paused briefly on the sidewalk.

“Likewise,” Helen said.

“Definitely,” I agreed. This meeting-people lark wasn’t as hard as I’d thought. It was almost kind of fun. Maybe Helen was right. Maybe I should enjoy myself more.

We waved Frank good night, then made our way down the street. The bar was in Soho, which meant walking up to Oxford Street to attempt to find a cab. The road was full of drunk office workers shrieking, clusters of girls wearing next to nothing, and groups of lads taking up the whole pavement and leering at anything female that crossed their path, but tonight they didn’t worry me too much; tonight I almost felt like someone else, like I almost lived up to my name.

“I just started talking to him,” I said to Helen, linking her arm in mine. “And he wasn’t a weirdo or anything. He was nice.”

“Yes, he was,” Helen agreed. “Very nice.”

“And he said I was a nine point five,” I continued. “I mean, I’m sure he didn’t mean it, but it was nice all the same.”

Helen stopped and looked at me quizzically. “You are a nine point five, Jess,” she said seriously. “Honestly you are.”

I grinned sheepishly. “I’m not,” I said firmly. “But thank you. And thanks for getting me out. It was…”

“Fun?” Helen prompted.

“Kind of.” I nodded.

“And now you’re going to start flirting with Anthony Milton?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding again. “Yes, I am. I’m going to do it, Hel. I’m just going to walk up to him, and I’m going to smile, and I’m going to—”

I was interrupted by the rush of a car as it sped past me, making me lose my balance and fall onto the pavement.

“Jess! Are you okay?” Helen jumped down, her face indignant. “What a maniac.”

I nodded—my leg hurt a bit, but it was shock that I felt more than anything.

“You stupid bastard,” Helen shouted, chasing after the car, which had screeched to a halt at the taffic lights just behind us. “You should look where you’re going.”

“And you should walk on the sidewalk, not the road,” a woman’s voice shouted back. Evidently the driver’s friends were as rude and inconsiderate as he was. As Helen continued to argue with him, I pulled myself to my feet and hobbled over, taking Helen’s arm.

“Leave it,” I told her. “It’s not important.”

“Yes, it is,” Helen said crossly. “He nearly drove into you. He should be more careful.”

I shrugged and tried to pull Helen away. But not before taking a curious peek into the car. There was a girl in the passenger’s seat with dark, sleek hair—her face was obscured by large sunglasses, which considering the time of night struck me as faintly ridiculous.

I looked past her to the driver. And then I felt my mouth fall open.

“Come on, Hel, let’s go,” I said quickly, my eyes widening as the driver clocked me.

“Go?” she said defiantly. “Not until they say sorry. Not until—”

“Now,” I insisted, dragging her away. “I want to go home.”

I saw an empty cab and stuck my hand out; seconds later it drew to a halt and I pulled Helen in.

“What was all that about?” she rounded on me crossly as we drove away. “You could have brought charges against that driver. He was obviously drunk.”

“Yes,” I said uncertainly. “But I’m not sure if that would really fit with our game plan.”

“Game plan?” Helen’s face twisted into an expression of incomprehension. “What are you talking about?”

“Project Marriage,” I said quietly. “The driver, you see, was Anthony Milton.”

Chapter 11

THE NEXT MORNING,
when I woke up and wandered into the kitchen, Helen was at the cooker, frying eggs.

“What’s this for?” I asked curiously.

“Fuel.” Helen grinned. “How’s your leg, by the way?”

I shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve got a bruise above my knee, that’s all. Fuel? What for?”

“For today’s activities,” she said firmly. “So eat up, because you’re going to need your energy.”

“Not more shopping?” I asked worriedly. “I’m broke, Hel. I can’t afford anything else.”

“Not shopping. Anthony Milton owes you. He owes you big. And when he apologizes profusely for what he did to you yesterday, you need to be prepared. You need to be so great at flirting that you fell him in seconds.”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in trepidation. I had a bad feeling about whatever Helen was planning. “Hel, he’s not a tree, you know,” I said, attempting a smile.

“Nevertheless, he is going to be felled. And I’ve got someone to teach you how.” Helen grinned. “So there’s no getting out of it now.”

“Teach me?”

Helen nodded excitedly. “The idea came to me last night, on the way home. She’s amazing. She was working in one of the bars we filmed in for that
London Uncovered
program I did last year. Remember? Anyway, her name’s Ivana, and what she doesn’t know about seducing men isn’t worth a thing. And she’ll teach you for free, too. Well, free for now. I said you’d bung her a thousand pounds when you inherited the money. I told her it was like an investment.”

I looked at Helen closely. “Ivana? Are you talking about the Ivana you interviewed for the piece on lap dancing?”

“Yes, but she wasn’t the lap-dancer. She was the escort. It’s different. These girls don’t dance, they just flirt and seduce and convince men to buy drinks for fifty pounds a pop just to spend more time with them.”

“She’s a prostitute!” I exclaimed. “You’ve asked a prostitute to teach me? You’re mad. Forget it. There is no way on earth—”

“She’s not a prostitute,” Helen interrupted crossly. “She’s an escort.”

“Who has sex with her clients.”

“Who sometimes might have sex, yes, but that’s not the job. The job is to seduce. God, Jessica, I’d thought you’d appreciate this. It wasn’t exactly easy to convince her, you know…”

She looked really hurt. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be so negative. But…I’m just not sure she’s…right. If you know what I mean?”

Helen shook her head. “She’s right, Jess, believe me. If anyone can get Anthony to propose to you, Ivana can. Now eat up, because we’ve got to be at hers by eleven.”

Ivana, it turned out, lived in a flat on Old Compton Street in Soho.
Flat
was probably an exaggeration—it was a room, on the second floor, with a large mattress, a cupboard that, when opened, revealed a teeny-tiny kitchen, and another cupboard that masqueraded as a bathroom.

She was beautiful in a kind of sleazy-exotic way—full lips, soulful brown eyes, silky brown hair, and a figure that was petite and curvaceous in one. Her eyes were green, her hair was cropped into an angular bob, and she was dressed in a tight black dress and wedges at least four inches high. On Helen’s insistence I had dressed up in my best seduction outfit—high black heels, tight pencil skirt, all bought after my makeover at Pedro’s—and I still felt like a frump.

She and Helen exchanged kisses and held a quick, animated conversation about the program they’d worked on, and I found myself mesmerized by Ivana’s Eastern European tones (“I heff so much business after theees program. The police, they come to see me. I know! They don’t do nothing, though. They just come to
see
me, you know what I mean?”).

And then she turned to me, looked me up and down, and folded her arms.

“You not know how to be sexy?” she asked, and I blushed awkwardly. “You need seduce men and get him ask you to merry him?”

I nodded, awkwardly, my face probably now an attractive puce color. Somehow, laid out like that, my predicament sounded utterly pathetic.