How to Marry a Billionaire Read online

  “Another stupid chocolate cake with poisonous frosting,” Dana complains, checking herself out in the mirror before walking into a stall.

  It’s the most that Dana has deigned to say to me in months. The gatekeeper of the corner office, the bodyguard of the helipad, has conveniently ignored me, more or less for over a decade.

  I want to complain to her, to tell her that I deserve the stupid chocolate cake with poisonous frosting, not Howard Ward. I want to give her a color-coded, bullet point list on a PowerPoint of all the wonderful things I’ve done for the company. I want to get in her face, wag my finger under her nose, and read her the riot act, demanding that I’m promoted to senior vice president in charge of promotion and marketing immediately.

  Come on, Rosalind, I tell myself, grow a pair.

  But I don’t grow anything. I let Dana pee in peace and quiet, and I walk out of the bathroom. Tranquilizer-less, I cannot celebrate the promotion that I should have gotten. I can’t face my colleagues in a non-altered state. Not without melting down.

  Before I blow, I blow out of the office, walking toward the elevator as the sounds of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” filter out of the conference room.

  Beatrice

  I walk in a fog of rejection. I’m not aware of my surroundings, just that I need to get away from the apartment that’s not mine anymore, away from the hurt of being thrown away.

  I put one foot in front of the other, a notch above zombie speed. With each step, I hear the little high school counselor in my head say, “You’re alone. You’re a failure. Nobody loves you.” I hate the little high school counselor in my head. Why is she in my head?

  Now I’m worried about my head.

  Not knowing how far I’ve gone or how I’ve gotten here, my tired feet wake me out of my haze just long enough to realize that I’m in a small park in the middle of three office buildings.

  I’ve graduated from sad to sad and lost. All I see are glass buildings, concrete, and a patch of nondescript, pathetic green. I could be anywhere, which is as good as anywhere, so I sit on a park bench and take a load off.

  Now what?

  “May I sit here?” a young woman in yoga pants and a man’s golf shirt asks me. I nod, and she sits next to me, grabbing one of her bare feet. “Next time I run away, I have to remember to wear shoes,” she says, dusting off the dirt from her foot.

  Running away must be on the menu today. Two women running away from life at the same time…what are the odds?

  “I’m running away, too,” I say.

  “Olivia,” she says, offering me her foot hand. I shake it and dust my hand off on my pants.

  I introduce myself. “My boyfriend left me and took my Keurig with him.”

  She nods, as if she wishes she had a nickel for every time she’s heard that story. “My husband got me pregnant four times and disappeared. I heard a rumor that he went off with a teenager named Tiffany. She’s a cheerleader. Rex always liked pom-poms.”

  “You win,” I say. I can’t compete with four babies and a pom-pom-bearing Tiffany. Neither can Olivia. She looks like she got run over by a Mac truck.

  Wow, marriage is rough.

  Olivia and I lock eyes, and there’s a current of understanding between us. I know where she’s coming from, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she knows where I’ve been. We have a cosmic connection. We’ve found each other in the middle of nowhere. “I don’t know where I’m going,” I admit.

  “I have to get home in two hours, or my mother will either call social services or lock my kids in the closet while she watches Entertainment Tonight.”

  My eyes well up, thinking that I have nowhere to go and nobody loves me. And I want to want to watch TV, too. “I’m an E! Television fan, I have to say.”

  “I like Game of Thrones, but I can’t afford HBO, and I fall asleep at seven every night,” she says and bursts into tears. I pat her back and hand her a Kleenex that I find in my purse.

  While we’re blowing our noses and dabbing our eyes, a woman in an expensive suit and shoes stomps toward us, kicking up dust. One hand is clutching onto a Birkin bag, and the other is swinging like she’s marching in a Soviet parade in Red Square.

  “They can take their cake and shove it,” she yells.

  My ears perk up. I would kill for cake, especially one with chocolate frosting.

  “Can I sit here?” she asks and sits down next to Olivia before we have a chance to respond. She glances at Olivia’s bare feet and at my stained t-shirt. “They’re going to have to beg on their hands and knees for me to come back,” the businesswoman announces.

  “Is that a Birkin bag?” Olivia asks her, perking up. “I’ve only seen one on Sex and the City.”

  “Dress for success, they say. Ha! I’m all kinds of dressed for success, but where has it gotten me?”

  “You’re on a park bench with two women who’re running away,” I tell her. “Well, sort of. Olivia has to be back in a couple hours or her kids will get locked in a closet, and I have to get to work in the morning, but I’ve nowhere to sleep.”

  “I’ve got all kinds of places to sleep. If I slept for the rest of my life, nobody would care.” She’s fuming. Her face is red, and her lipstick has escaped her lips in an angry line. She’s scary, but stinks of desperation just like me and Olivia, and I feel an instant kinship to her, even though her shoes cost more than a month of my salary. The three of us are like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  We fit together.

  “I’m Beatrice, by the way. My boyfriend dumped me, stole all of my belongings, and threw me out of my apartment,” I explain.

  “Bummer,” she says. “I’m Rosalind. I’d give you a Xanax, but I’m out.”

  I can’t express how disappointed I am that she’s out of Xanax.

  “My husband ran off and left me with four kids under five and not a penny to my name,” Olivia says, introducing herself.

  “Rough,” Rosalind says. “I’ve worked fourteen years making a billionaire richer without any recognition. I’ve got tire tracks on my back because I’ve been run over so many times. I may seem like I’m Hillary Clinton in a nicer suit, but I’m really a big, fat wimp. I’m tired of waiting for a man to make my life better.”

  She doesn’t seem like a wimp, and there isn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on her. But I believe her anger and desperation. Somebody has blocked her from her passion, and she’s stuck in frustration, with an eye on the prize but paralyzed to claim it. It sounds so familiar.

  “In my experience, you’ll be waiting a long time for a man to make your life better,” Olivia says.

  I nod. “My last man maxed out three of my credit cards. And broke my heart.”

  “Men suck balls,” Rosalind announces.

  “And they get you pregnant. A lot,” Olivia adds.

  Rosalind gasps. “Bite your tongue.”

  “I love love, but love keeps biting me in the butt,” I say, and a tear pops out of my eye and rolls down my cheek.

  We sit in silence for a moment, and I think about love and men sucking balls. It’s probably the lowest point in my life, where I have nothing and no one, and love seems like a fairy tale that only comes true for princesses who can sing. I thought puberty was bad, but being twenty-eight years old blows chunks. Despite being stuck in this deep trough of helplessness quicksand, however, I’m warmed by the two helpless women who share the park bench with me.

  We’re Gloria Steinem’s worst nightmare, but we want to be the Three Musketeers of female empowerment. I’m sure of it. It’s like a bolt of lightning has hit me and told me so.

  Or I have a hunger headache. I haven’t eaten all day, and I could really go for a sandwich. Or a lasagna with ice cream and Cheetos for dessert.

  A seagull lands on the patch of green in front of us and eyes us, like he’s judging us or we’ve stolen his bench. It’s a sign for us to move on.

  Rosalind is probably thinking the same thing because she asks, “You want to get drunk?”


  The hopeful part of my brain kicks into gear, and I drool, slightly. Yes, I want to get drunk. I want to get drunker than drunk. I want to get Charlie Sheen winning kind of drunk. “I want a Whore Margarita,” I say.

  “Tequila without the margarita mix. I can get behind that,” Rosalind says.

  “I want to get drunk, but I don’t even have shoes,” Olivia says.

  “It’s on me,” Rosalind says. “And I have an extra pair of shoes in my car. Come on. Let’s get blotto like the good Lord intended.”

  Chapter 2

  Beatrice

  Since Olivia needs to gets back to her kids, we decide to take our pity party to her house. We have become fast friends, bonded in our nervous breakdowns. Rosalind gives Olivia a pair of her running shoes that she keeps in a gym bag in the back of her Mercedes, and we pile into her car, a little happier to have sympathetic, like-minded company in our time of need.

  We stop at Jerry’s Liquor and Stuff and buy enough booze to host a sophomore frat party and enough chips, dips, and peanut M&Ms to blow my diet for the next four hundred years.

  When we get to Olivia’s apartment, I shove a handful of peanut M&Ms into my mouth while Olivia opens her front door. She lives at a rundown complex in the Valley. There’s a Christmas wreath on the door with pictures of her four kids attached to it, even though Christmas was six months ago.

  When we walk in, her four children run to greet her like puppies. She drops down to her knees and takes them into her arms, giving them a huge dose of love. An older woman wearing a housedress, slippers, and what looks like a smear of oatmeal on her chin taps her foot on the floor and puts her hands on her hips.

  She’s got the pissed off mother look down. A line of perspiration erupts on my forehead, and I feel like I stayed out past curfew and now I’m in big trouble.

  “Where have you been?” she demands. “You vanished. Bianca had three poopy diapers, and Mick got into the cabinet and ate a half pound of flour. I gave them frozen pizza for dinner. It was a big hit. Who’s this?” She scowls and sticks her thumb in Rosalind’s direction, as if she’s hitchhiking in the living room.

  Rosalind puts her hand out. “I’m Rosalind, and this is Beatrice. We’re having nervous breakdowns, too. Where’s your ice?”

  “I’m Diane,” she stammers. Her mouth stays open, as she watches Rosalind take control, like this is her home, and Diane is one of her children.

  I don’t know why Rosalind hasn’t made it to the top of her company. She’s always in command, always completely sure of herself. I would follow her anywhere; I would be scared not to. She steps gingerly around the kids and walks confidently on her high heels to the little kitchen where she gets busy organizing the drinks and snacks.

  I hand the oldest child, who’s been eyeing my stash of candy, an M&M. “Nice to meet you,” I tell Diane, who I assume is Olivia’s mother. They both have the same long red hair and blue eyes.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening,” she says, her eyes wide and unfocused, but the television announces the start of Supernatural, and she turns around and sits on the couch, her eyes riveted to the boob tube.

  “I’m going to bathe them and put them in bed. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” Olivia tells us.

  She grabs the baby, and the rest of the children follow her to another room. I like kids, but four under five is overwhelming, even after five minutes, and I’m grateful for their early bath and bedtime. I’m tempted to offer Olivia help, but since I’ve only had one traumatic babysitting experience when I was thirteen--which ended with a small fire--I figure she’s better off without me.

  So, I help Rosalind in the kitchen. She gives me a bowl, and I pour the M&Ms into it. Handing me a couple bottles of booze, she orders me to start laying out the coffee table for our party. Diane stares at the television and absentmindedly scoops out some M&Ms from the bowl, which makes me freeze in place and bite my lip. I don’t want to share.

  I like drinking, but I know that I need the sweet, crunchy goodness that only the peanut M&Ms can give in order to calm down and start coping with my day’s trauma. I watch her hand take four more candies, and I feel my coping go down her throat. I panic and grab the bowl.

  “Just going to wipe this off,” I mumble and clutch it to my body. I’m a generous person, normally, but it’s only a one-pound bag, and I need at least that so I don’t run around the room crying and screaming.

  I’m not proud.

  “Sit,” Rosalind orders, and I plop down on the floor, crisscross applesauce, next to a Slinky and a Dora the Explorer puzzle.

  Rosalind sits elegantly on the couch and pours me a vodka and orange juice just as Olivia walks in after getting the kids to bed. Her shirt is wet, and her hair looks like she brushed it with an egg beater. She exhales loudly and practically falls on the couch.

  “Nice couch,” I say and explode into tears, mourning my lost furniture and belongings. Rosalind hands me my drink and points at it.

  “Knock it back, baby. And stop bogarting the chocolate. Today’s the day I blow five straight years of Atkins. Atkins can kiss my bony ass.”

  “Atkins can kiss my ass, too,” Olivia says. “You know, even though it’s not bony. I wish it was bony. Is that tequila?”

  A commercial comes on TV. “I still don’t know what’s happening,” Olivia’s mother says. I reach the bottom of my glass, and I’m starting to not know what’s happening, either. I give the glass to Rosalind, and she refills it.

  “We’re giving up, Mom,” Olivia explains.

  Rosalind pours drinks for all three of us and hiccoughs. “We’re not giving up. We’re strategizing.”

  “We are?” I ask, wiping my sweaty face on my shirt. I pop more M&Ms into my mouth.

  “Yes. We’re incredible women. We don’t back down for anybody.” She looks at me as I chew a mouthful of M&Ms. Then, her eyes slide toward Olivia, who picks a Cheez-It from her cleavage and eats it. “Well, maybe not incredible. Maybe pathetic losers. But the good thing about being pathetic losers is that the only way is up. Up! We’re going to do great things.”

  She pours us new drinks. I haven’t drunk this much since freshman year in college. Olivia slumps a little to the left, but she doesn’t lose her drink.

  “Maybe ‘pathetic loser’ is a little harsh,” I say.

  “You have peanut crumbs on your chin,” Rosalind says, slurring her speech so that “chin” comes out as “shin.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m a pathetic loser,” Olivia says. “Pathetic loser with super ovaries.”

  Rosalind crosses her legs. “As long as it’s not contagious.”

  “Pipe down,” Diane says. “This is the one where Dean shows his butt crack.”

  We all turn and look at the TV, but there’s a sad lack of butt crack.

  That’s totally my life story…not enough butt crack, but too many assholes. Maybe Rosalind’s right. Maybe the only way is up. Maybe there is a strategy.

  “A strategy?” I ask. “What kind of strategy?”

  “Uh…” she says, spilling her drink a little. “A strategy where we’re not sitting on a Walmart couch, eating crap, and watching a dumb TV show.”

  “Hey!” Diane yells. “This is a very complex, emotional story of two brothers who have supernatural—but founded in science—experiences. And it won two Emmys for sound editing.”

  Olivia slides down on the couch until her head is lying on the arm rest. “Mom, Rosalind is trying to help me…aren’t you?”

  “No,” Rosalind says, gulping another drink. “We’re going to help ourselves. We’re the three musketeers of get-your-shit-together. We’re Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Suze Orman wrapped up into…you know, the three of us.”

  Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Suze Orman sound good to me. They probably have furniture, and Stedman is nothing to sneeze at.

  “They all have shoes,” Olivia says. Her eyes are at half-mast, and her arm has slipped off the couch. “I want shoes. Is it hot in here?”


  “And love,” I say. “Nobody loves me. Everybody leaves me. Four in the past year.”

  “Bastards,” Diane says, as commercials blare on the TV. “You got the loser magnet in you, just like Olivia. You attract low-life jerks.”

  I nod. Diane understands me.

  “Men,” Rosalind spits. “They’re all low-life jerks.”

  Olivia opens a bag of barbecue potato chips, and we dig in. Besides chewing, we’ve grown quiet. I figure they’re thinking about the low-life jerks in their lives because that’s what I’m thinking about. Is Diane right? Am I a loser magnet? Am I doomed to attract low-life jerks for the rest of my days?

  “We have to stop attracting them,” Olivia says. “I mean, they have to attract us. I mean…”

  Rosalind puts her hand on Olivia’s arm. “I know what you mean. We have to go on the offensive instead of the defensive. We have to Peyton Manning them. Or Patton them. Peyton or Patton, take your pick.”

  The world spins around, and I try to focus on Rosalind’s nose, but I can’t decide which one to focus on. She has three, now. “What kind of offensive?” I ask.

  “A targeted strike.”

  “Like a drone,” Olivia says. “Wait a minute. I don’t want to drone a man. I just want child support or a job that pays the bills and childcare. Men get me pregnant and leave me.”

  Diane mutes the television and turns her full attention on her daughter. She’s the only one of us who’s sober, and her mannerisms seem sharp and her speech clipped. “Hold on. Of course you want a man. You think you can get a decent job when you only have a GED and over-active ovaries?”

  “I don’t want a man,” Olivia insists. “My uterus is tired.”

  Rosalind takes a notebook out of her purse and jots down some notes. “You want money and shoes,” she says, writing. Then, she points at me. “And you want a man who doesn’t steal your appliances. And I want to finally get the recognition I deserve from the CEO of my company so that I can climb to the top where I belong.”

  I snort. “Recognition from a billionaire? How’re you going to do that?”