Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?. Stephanie Doyle
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“It’s about one of the girls,” Bridget tried.
Distracted, Richard looked over his shoulder and spotted two men in suits walking through the entryway into the large living room, which had been temporarily transformed into a television set. Don and Dan Meadle were the co-CEOs and owners of Breathe Better Mouthwash. They also happened to be twins, which never failed to amuse Richard and cause him to silently mock the parents who had named them. Obviously, they were here to check up on the project, but he refused to be nervous. Everything was on schedule for his advertising masterpiece.
Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob? a reality dating show set in New York, was going to put the burgeoning mouthwash company on the map. Two live group shows, four taped individual dates and two romantic weekend getaways, also taped and edited for maximum dramatic effect, would feature exclusively the mouthwash commercials that he had created.
The entire package had been Richard’s concept. Once he had found a cable channel that would support the dating show over the course of eight weeks, his vision had become a reality. Now it was time for the show to air and his nerves were being put to the test, although there was absolutely no reason for it, he assured himself. He had left no stone unturned.
The first piece of the puzzle had been finding the location. He and Bridget had searched the summer play area of New York’s wealthy, South Hampton, for days. Then they had stumbled on a house that was both markedly luxurious and effortlessly romantic.
The sprawling Victorian sat on an inlet of Long Island Sound. Done in white both inside and out, except for the hints of color strategically added throughout, it lent itself to a summer dream. A covered pool took up space on the green lawn that extended toward the water. And in back of the house there was a massive patio, complete with a hot tub and porch swing. It was a heartthrob’s ultimate bait.
The season was right. It was late fall, a little chilly perhaps, but the summer season was over and most of the tourists were gone. This would allow them more flexibility to get the shots on the beach and in the restaurants that they wanted for the four hour-long dates that would be aired individually.
That’s right, Richard thought. Not one stone. He had handpicked each of the fifteen women as well as the heartthrob. Every detail of the show was in his control. Nothing escaped his notice. Not Brock’s cologne, not the host’s tie, not the wardrobe of the ladies. Nothing.
He was investing everything he had into this ad campaign. If it was successful—and it would be because the idea was genius—the Breathe Better Mouthwash executives would have no choice but to follow him when he branched out and opened his own agency. He’d worked for this night for years and success, real success, which to date had been an elusive lady, was within his grasp.
Unfortunately, it was usually moments like this when he thought he was so close to something that nothing could go wrong—that it all went wrong. He need only reflect on that last week before he was to have graduated from Yale to get a reminder of that particularly painful lesson.
“They’re here,” Richard announced ominously, his chin lifting slightly in the direction of the twins.
Bridget turned and glanced at the two men who were standing off to the side observing the spectacle that was a live television show.
“This is it,” Richard told her somewhat fatalistically, feeling his heart beat hard against his rib cage and his palms beginning to sweat. For the most part he wouldn’t have considered himself a nervous man, but right now it felt as if his whole life was coming down to this one crucial moment. He glanced at Bridget, grateful for her presence. Not only did he know that he had her support throughout this endeavor, but he also knew that she would cover his tracks if he needed to leave the room real quick to puke. “If this works—And it is going to work, right? We both agree it couldn’t fail. Right?”
“Right.”
“You’re only saying that because you know that’s what I want to hear, aren’t you,” he accused her.
“Right.”
He could live with that.
“This will be the big one. The one I’ve been looking for. The one that is going to free me and my creative genius from the death grip of the V.I.P. Advertising Agency.”
Bridget rolled her eyes.
“I saw you do that.”
“You’re so dramatic,” she said. “You’ve been looking for the ‘one’ for years now. And V.I.P. doesn’t have you in a death grip. They pay you really well. That’s why you stay with them.”
“It’s just that I have a loft in Soho. You know what I pay in rent. I can’t quit and start my own agency until I’m positive, absolutely sure, that one of these big companies is going to follow me. But this is it. I can smell it.”
“You don’t think that’s the mouthwash?”
Richard took his eyes off the two executives and focused them on his assistant again. Her lips were turned up in that soft smile that she was famous for. Subtlety, he thought, thy name is Bridget.
It was there in the way she pulled her midnight hair back into a tight bun, the way she always wore stark black clothes and the way she always maintained a sense of calm even in the face of chaos—as she was doing now. He couldn’t help but envy her that serenity.
“You know this night is about your future, too,” he told her. “Didn’t I promise you I would make you vice president?”
“Ooh. Vice president of a two-person company. A staggering promotion,” she quipped. But the truth was she knew that following Richard to his own company was the career break she’d been looking for since she’d graduated college and ended up in the assistant pool at V.I.P. It did occur to her that he’d never really asked her if she was willing to quit V.I.P. and join him in his endeavors. He’d just assumed she would.
He was right of course, but still…a girl liked to be asked.
“Don’t you want me to be successful when I do leave?”
She shrugged. “It’s not as important to me. I only have an efficiency in Brooklyn.”
He smirked at her then turned his attention back to the scene before him. The women were arranging themselves around the room ready to greet their potential husband and heartthrob. Bridget watched Richard count them and waited for him to notice that something was missing.
Then Buzz, the cameraman/director that Richard had hired, approached the two of them. A mobile camera, one of three that they were using for the show, sat heavily on his thick shoulder. He had thick, salt-and-pepper-colored hair that hung heavily down his back, a bushy beard, several tattoos and Richard could see Buzz’s round belly where his T-shirt didn’t quite meet the top of his jeans.
Suddenly, Richard was very grateful that this man would always be behind the camera. Buzz was definitely not what America was tuning in to see. Richard quickly checked the living room for mirrors and was satisfied when he saw none.
“We’ve got a problem,” Buzz announced.
“I told you,” Bridget sang.
Richard glared her into silence. “I know. There are still only fourteen girls. Where’s—” Richard scanned the faces of the women, ticking off in his head each of the candidates “—Bambi?”
“Boob accident,” Bridget announced. Both men looked at her. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. She just called. Apparently she developed complications after her implant surgery.”
“What kind of complications?” Richard asked.
“It seems she might have gone a little overboard, three cup sizes overboard to be exact. Her body couldn’t hold them up, and as a result, she threw out her back. She’s going to be in traction for the next three weeks.”
“Three weeks!”
“Wow,” Buzz mumbled.