Angie: Only if you help navigate
Claire: Squeeeeeee I knew you couldn’t resist my charm
I switch my attention back to the date at hand for tonight. I need to see if a shopping spree can be done with enough time for everything else. Back at the screen of my laptop, I find the block that states the date. Sure enough, the number is bolded and blinking on the calendar and a paper/pencil icon is attached indicating that a message is enclosed. I click to open a small box. The air leaves my lungs in an avalanche-force rush as I read the name of my suitor—Mark Tanner.
He doesn’t waste any time. Unease washes over me. Graham hates the man. But Graham is not my boss. I am empowered to make my own choices in this life.
The message attached is lengthy and requires me to scroll to see the end.
I will pick you up at your place at 8 PM. I will pay you the required $200 an hour and will plan on the date ending at 10 PM unless we both mutually agree for me to purchase more time. The meeting will be with potential business executives. I need you to find time to complete the following requests:
short black dress, at least 6 inches higher than the top of the knees
sheer black nylons, thigh-highs, whatever
black clutch, satin if possible
4-5 inch stilettos in black, whichever is more comfortable for you
minimum of 15-minute tanning bed session; no spray tan
hair styled up, classy
French manicure; be sure it is professionally done, no DIY
fake lashes, lots of mascara in black
lipstick, no bright red or brown shades
get eyebrows professionally shaped at salon
Well, fuck me sideways! Nothing about that sounds even remotely fun. What a picky bastard!
No wonder Graham was giving him an incredulous kill-dagger-death stare last night. Part of me wants to just say “screw it” to Mark and cancel. The other part of me needs to step out of my comfort zone and jump through the hoops, trusting that more proverbial doors will open—hopefully not revealing more can’t-please-worth-a-damn pricks.
I hesitantly click confirm to accept the date, refraining from writing a nasty note with my stipulations on what Mark should do to prepare for tonight. I doubt that getting a full body wax and professional lessons in manners are on the top of his to-do list. With confirmation, I enter in my home address to indicate where the date should pick me up. The paranoid part of me worries that a bunch of men will now know where I live, but I am nearly positive a simple Internet search will also provide that information. Dominic assured that everyone is cleared of criminal offenses and is legit. Thus, in theory, Mark Tanner should be safe.
I type in my schedule for the next two weeks into the calendar on the site, allowing clients to know when I am busy with class, fundraiser events, and personal stuff. While typing, the machine beeps, and a red flag appears at the top of the main screen. I hover my mouse arrow over the rectangular flag and read the pop-up words stating that another date is scheduled. The phone buzzes and I look. Shit.
Agency: Date scheduled for September 18 at 17:00. Entice automated message.
Back at the calendar, I find the 18thbolded and blinking. I open up the attached message from Will Jenkins. This one is not so complicated.
Pickup at 5 PM at a location of your choice. Wear a nice knee-length cocktail dress. Nothing too flashy. Dinner and drinks with new hires at my company. I will pay $250 an hour and am expecting it to last 2.5 but will reserve and pay for 3 just in case.
I click confirm. Will seemed very nice at the mixer event. This date should be easy.
My head spins with the realization that my evenings are going to get very busy. I open my top nightstand drawer and pull out a notepad and pencil to jot down all the things that need to be done or bought before the weekend. Mark Tanner’s requests will be the hardest to comply with, hands down. At least the date with Will Jenkins should be low-key and maybe even fun. He seems real and less politician-like.
I check the time and see that it is quarter after eight. I have a half hour to get ready and be in the car. I log off the site and put my laptop to sleep, plugging it in to charge. A quick shower and blow-dry top my to-do list, followed by my half-ass makeup application techniques. My River Valley University gray hoodie and sweat set with light consignment shop pink Ugg boots complete my look.
With five minutes to spare before I absolutely have to leave, I find myself in the kitchen digging through the freezer for my frozen fruit to blend into a smoothie. I open the cupboard to pull out the protein mix, only to see a note in Claire’s handwriting attached with a frowny face sketch.
Dearest Angie,
I found this bag of protein mix that you bought and did a little investigating. You can thank me later. So, it turns out that thisshitmix contains Soy Protein Isolate, also known as SPI. Okay, before you freak out at myawesomenessanalness, I am placing the research on the coffee table in the living room for you to read at your leisure. But in short, this stuff is B-A-D! It has some sort of estrogenic properties and can increase growth and shit—and not the good kind of growth (like where boobies are concerned). This poison-powder is packaged and marketed to appear to be healthy…but beware! I am going to outlaw this from our humble abode upon confirmation that you read this. I will purchase you a replacement. Promise! Always looking out for you!
Your Sister from Another Mister,