No Ordinary Love (8 page)

During a commercial, Trina surfed to Facebook and looked at what her friends—all five dozen of them—were already saying about the show:

“This show is off the chain! This is REAL reality TV! I can’t stop laughing!”

“Is this for real? ’Cuz if it is, I will be watching this show every week!”

“That man is DESTROYING those women! Those LYING WENCHES are getting what they DESERVE!” “Who chooses the women for that show? They’re all trifling hos. Let me get up on there.”

Trina clicked on a comment below the last post:

“Girl, you tripping. You know you just got out of jail. LOL!”

That last woman,
Trina thought.
Just when she thought she had a shot at millions from lying about having children, one of the kids she “sold” robs her of the chance. A fitting end. Life does come full circle sometimes. Karma’s gonna get you. I truly like Vincent St. John’s methods.

Oh, it’s the tall woman in the short silver metallic cocktail dress. Stork lady, you’re about to be cut down to size.

“Miss Lauren Gray, you are employed at Bess Baron as a stockbroker, is that right?” Mr. St. John asked.

That silver swizzle stick is a stockbroker? She looks as if she’s getting ready for a New Year’s Eve party, not that I’d ever know about going to one of those. I know I won’t have a date this year. Geez, I can see the blue veins in her shins.

“I’m not a stockbroker for Bess Baron anymore,” Lauren said. “I’m on my own now.”

TRUE!

“But you wrote on this application that you were currently employed by Bess Baron,” Mr. St. John said.

“I was employed by them at the time I filled out the application,” Lauren said.

TRUE!

“But that was only three months ago, Miss Gray,” Mr. St. John said.

“I’ve been on my own for the last seven days,” Lauren said.

TRUE!

“Why aren’t you with Bess Baron anymore?” Mr. St. John asked.

“Like I said, I decided to go out on my own,” Lauren said. “I have always wanted to be self-employed.”

LIE!

She got fired!

“Miss Gray, if I gave you a million dollars to invest for me, how would you invest it?” Mr. St. John asked.

“In today’s difficult market,” Lauren said, “I’d invest in long-term treasury bonds, stocks in businesses like JCPenney, Sears, and Sonic, and in commodities like corn, wheat, and sugar.”

What the what? Is this woman high? JCPenney, Sears, and Sonic? I know she got fired now.

“I talked to Mr. Bess and Ms. Baron over at Bess Baron,” Mr. St. John said.

Lauren audibly swallowed. “You . . . did?”

I wish I had a high-definition TV. I know that woman is sickly gray now. She has become her name. She looks like a thin piece of gray chalk with blue veins.

“He says you lost quite a bit of your clients’ money,” Mr. St. John said.

“But the market has been volatile,” Lauren said.

“It’s been steady, Miss Gray, with a slight uptick, actually,” Mr. St. John said. “All of my investments are turning a steady, healthy profit.”

“You must have a lucky stockbroker, Mr. St. John,” Lauren said.

“I’m my own stockbroker, Miss Gray,” Mr. St. John said. “I use E*TRADE and make all the transactions myself. Cuts out the middleman—and the costs.” He leaned forward in his wheelchair. “So, Miss Gray, how much money did you lose?”

“If they had let me stay, I know I would have gotten it all back for them,” Lauren said.

“I’m only curious,” Mr. St. John said. “How much money did you lose?”

“Only a couple . . . hundred . . . thousand,” Lauren said.

LIE!

“The exact figure was six point two million dollars, Miss Gray,” Mr. St. John said.

Trina whistled. “Wow.”

“That’s more than nothing, especially if your clients trust you to invest wisely for them,” Mr. St. John said. “Have you ever made any money for any of your clients?”

Lauren bowed her head. “I guess not.”

TRUE!

“We also checked your credit score,” Mr. St. John said. “You have the lowest score of anyone who applied to be on this show—and one
thousand
women applied, Miss Gray.”

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not on there. I think I have the lowest credit score you can get.

“I’ve had some . . . setbacks,” Lauren whispered.

TRUE!

“Why are you really here?” Mr. St. John asked.

Lauren looked up. “To meet you, Mr. St. John. To hopefully be your wife.”

“Aren’t you really here to use your assets to get my assets?” Mr. St. John asked.

Good one!

“But I don’t have any assets.”

TRUE!

“I had to rent this dress.”

TRUE!

Oh, that’s embarrassing. Wait. I’d have to rent a nice dress, too.

“Miss Gray, I cannot marry a woman who routinely mismanages money, has little business sense, gives ridiculous investment advice, lies often, and has no empathy for her clients. Good-bye.”

“Buh-bye,” Trina said.
Maybe she’ll be able to get a job at JCPenney, Sears, or Sonic to help pay what she owes those people.

During the commercial break, Trina read the
Second Chances
application’s main question: “Why should
you
get a second chance for love?”

Because I never really had a first chance.

She started typing:

Robert and I met as undergrads at UCSF. He was going to be a surgeon, and I was going to be a nurse. We married after graduation, I passed the NCLEX on the first try, I became an RN, and I agreed to fund his dream because I believed in him. I worked double-shifts at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital as often as I could for most of our marriage. And then two years ago, he met Dr. Too White.

Oh, it’s back from commercial.

“Denny Millington,” Mr. St. John said. “That’s quite an unusual name for a woman.”

That’s not a woman. Wow. And she’s wearing a turtleneck. Oh man, no fair! Her breasts are bigger than mine are!

“Denny” cleared her throat and said, “It’s a nickname for Denise.”

LIE!

“So, Miss Millington,” Mr. St. John said.

“Oh, do call me Denny,” she said.

“Or
Danny,
” Trina whispered.

“Denny, you know we took a blood sample earlier today,” Mr. St. John said. “I have to be careful, you know. I had to make sure you ladies had no drugs in your systems and no, shall we say, buns in the oven.”

He knows! Of course he knows!

“I am
definitely
not pregnant,” Denny said.

TRUE!

Duh.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Miss Millington,” Mr. St. John said. “Can you have children?”

“No,” Denny said. “I’m not able to have children.”

TRUE!

Mr. St. John pulled out a green piece of paper. “This is a certified copy of your birth certificate, and it says your birth name was Dennis.”

Denny sighed. “I had sexual reassignment surgery, and I am legally a woman now.”

TRUE!

“Denny, I want to have children with my future wife,” Mr. St. John said.

“We can adopt,” Denny pleaded. “We could get a surrogate.”

But you couldn’t supply any eggs, Denny!

“I’m sure sexual reassignment surgery is quite expensive,” Mr. St. John said. “Are you hoping to win my heart so your bills can be paid?”

“It would be a weight off my shoulders,” Denny said.

TRUE!

Smaller breasts would be a weight off your shoulders, Denny.

“Your honesty is refreshing, Denny,” Mr. St. John said,

“but your dishonesty is not.” He pulled out a thick stack of papers. “On your application, you left the criminal history section completely blank.”

“Because I have no criminal history, Mr. St. John,” Denny said.

LIE!

“As
Denise
Millington, this is true,” Mr. St. John said. “But as
Dennis
Millington, you have had several felonies, including assault, malicious wounding, and grand theft.”

“But I’m a changed woman now!” Denny cried.

How could you be a changed woman, Denny? You weren’t born a woman! You are definitely a changed man!

“Miss Millington, the rules of the show prohibit anyone with a felony from appearing, no matter if she was a he when she or he did them or not,” Mr. St. John said.

“But that was
Dennis,
” Denny pleaded. “That wasn’t me. Dennis is
gone.
Denise has a clean record.”

“I’m sorry, Denny,” Mr. St. John said. “I believe that no matter what you do to your exterior, your interior stays basically the same. I could never marry anyone who believes her exterior is more important than her interior.”

That was deep. And wise. My exterior isn’t much, but I’m content with it.

“Good-bye, Denny,” Mr. St. John said. “Who’s next?”

Another woman pressed her button and left in a hurry.

He scared her away! Ha! Serves her right. She had to protect her lying life. There’s only two left. One is the human Jell-O girl, an obvious airhead and community chest, and the other is ... beautiful. The all-American girl. Dark hair, blue eyes, perfect complexion. She’ll win. From twenty-four women to two in only forty minutes!

Trina opened another window on her laptop and again checked Facebook:

“The blonde is toast! Do they have earthquakes in Colorado? That woman can’t stay still!”

“He’ll pick the cute white girl. They always do . . .”

“He’s been saving the best for last. She’s the one he’s wanted all along. I’ll bet they already hooked up. I knew this show was rigged.”

Maybe Mr. St. John is saving the brunette for last because she’s the
worst
of the bunch.

The camera zoomed in on the airhead’s chest.
Those are so unattractive. Maybe they stuffed those fake things with jumping beans. Are those silver dollar pancakes under there or what?

“Miss Constance Carroll,” Mr. St. John said.

Constance waved, and her breasts seemed to
do
the wave. “That’s me. Hi.”

“I have never seen such an extensive curriculum vitae,” Mr. St. John said.

“A what?” Constance asked.

“You are incredibly well-educated, Miss Carroll,” Mr. St. John said. “Undergrad at Yale, graduated summa cum laude . . .”

She probably spelled it “some come loud.”

“. . . Harvard Medical, residency at Johns Hopkins,” Mr. St. John continued. “Served five years with the Peace Corps, two years with ‘Doctors Without Borders. ’”

“Yeah,” Constance said, giggling. “Those doctors were fun.”

TRUE!

“And you’re currently a heart surgeon at . . .” Mr. St. John held the page closer to his eyes. “Ciders Sinus.”

“I’m a bad speller,” Constance said. “It’s supposed to be Cedars-Sinai.” She giggled. “I love the field of medicine.”

TRUE!

She loves to
take
medicine.

“Do you drink alcohol, use illegal drugs, or smoke cigarettes, Miss Carroll?” Mr. St. John asked.

“Only occasionally,” Constance said.

LIE!

“In the first paragraph of the application you filled out,” Mr. St. John said, “in big bold letters, it says that I desire a woman who
doesn’t
drink to excess, use illegal drugs, or smoke.”

“I’m not a very good reader either,” Constance said.

TRUE!

“Miss Carroll, have you been drinking, smoking, or using illegal substances while you’ve been in the mansion?” Mr. St. John asked.

“No.”

LIE!

Mr. St. John sighed. “I’d like to show you what we recorded two hours ago.”

The screen faded to black and lit up quickly with a split screen, a grand library inside the mansion on the right, and the very bouncy and lively Constance on the left. The camera in the video zoomed in on Constance reading a book.

“Hey, there’s me,” Constance said. “Look at me reading.”

“For the first time,” Trina whispered.

In the video, Constance looked side to side then snorted a line of a powdery substance from the book. Then she shut the book, drank from a flask she took from her little purse, and lit up a cigarette.

Well, at least she can multitask,
Trina thought
.

The video faded out, and the split screen disappeared.

“Miss Carroll, can you explain what you were doing?” Mr. St. John asked.

“Well, I was nervous,” Constance said. “I had to get right, you know?”

I avoid those substances to
stay
right,
Trina thought
.

“Miss Carroll, did you really go to Harvard?” Mr. St. John asked.

“No,” Constance said. “I only wrote that to get your attention.”

TRUE!

“And it worked!” Constance shouted. “Here I am on TV.” She waved at the camera and blew a kiss.

“Miss Carroll, you lied about your education, your occupation, and you are currently under the influence of several controlled substances,” Mr. St. John said. “I cannot abide that in a wife. Good-bye, Miss Carroll.”

“Okay.” Constance bounced up and wiggled all the way to the mansion.

And then there was one.

“Does this mean I win?” the last contestant asked.

“Not necessarily, Miss Wolfe,” Mr. St. John said.

“But I’m the last one,” Miss Wolfe said.

“Humor me, Miss Wolfe,” Mr. St. John said. “I must follow the rules of the show.”

As technicians attached the wires, Miss Wolfe said, “You can call me Sheena, Vincent.”

“I shall,” Mr. St. John said. “Let’s see, Sheena, are you currently single?”