Rick
“Benton, take me back to the office, please,” I call from the back of my limo. Then I nervously wait for my assistant to call me back. I don’t really know what to do with my hands. I thumb the buttons of my BlackBerry aimlessly. I reach for a bottle of water, then decide it’s not worth the 6.50 the limo company will charge for it. Billions. That’s how much money I could spend and still be able to afford the extravagances I’ve become used to. But a bottle of water that costs the same as some poor college student’s splurge on a Chipotle burrito? Can’t do that.
My BlackBerry’s sudden buzzing makes me jump. Samira. Why couldn’t the tattoo have told me she was my soul mate? It would be so cliched but kind of romantic, the big boss-man falling for his cute, but whip-smart, assistant. Like when the chief of staff finally started dating his assistant on The West Wing after seasons and seasons of sexual tension. Or when Iron Man fell for Pepper Potts. Only, Samira already has a cool USC football-player boyfriend. I sigh before I answer my phone.
“Samira.” Gosh I like the sound of her name.
“Mr. Graves, I’ve located the person you requested.”
“Samira, you do not need to be so formal. I’ve told you that before. Think Iron Man. I like the relationship he has with his assistant.”
“Sorry….Rick. It just seems weird on the phone. But. Yeah. Matilda Jones.”
“Right.”
“So, she’s still living in Connecticut. She appears to be single, though you never know with social-networking sites. But yeah. We have a phone number, an email address, and a home address.”
“All right. I don’t have anything the rest of the day, is that right?”
“You do not.”
“Okay, call the airport. We’re taking the jet in 2 hours. You’re coming too. I’ll explain on the way.”
“Okay, then. I will meet you there in 2 hours.”
Samira
The VIP part of LAX airport is the strangest experience for a non-celebrity like me. I’ve seen Billy Bob Thornton, Harvey Weinstein, and Donatella Versace about to board private jets. Not my first choice of celebs to see in person, but still. It’s always fun. An airport employee briskly marches me out onto the tarmac, where the Little Ricky is sparkling grandly in the California sun. I’ve only ridden in Rick’s jet twice (one time he flew me and Grant to Vegas for my birthday–ah, the extravagant perks of working for a billionaire), and I’m excited as hell for our spontaneous cross-country trip. Sometimes I wonder if a guy who built his fortune through eco products should have a private jet, but you can’t deny a red-blooded American man the ultimate display of wealth, I guess. No one can compete with an airplane.
I climb the stairs and enter the sleek cabin, where Rick is sitting on the edge of his leather recliner, looking like a ten-year-old with ADHD. Something very bad has happened, I can tell.
“Samira!” he says.
“Hi. Quite the day at the office.”
“Yeah, well, we have more important matters to deal with than running a company.” He turns to the cockpit and tells the pilot we’re all set to go. He gestures to the recliner across from his and I take a seat. The leggy flight attendant does her spiel, and the plane starts to head over to the runway. The flight attendant disappears and Rick looks very concerned as he tries to decide how to start telling me what’s happened.
I know all about this Ed Grund person, mystical tattoo artist to the rich and famous. And since I know every detail of Rick Graves’ daily schedule, it’s a reasonable assumption that this trip has to do with the results of his tattoo. As Rick looks so deeply into my eyes, with such a serious look on his face, I briefly wonder if my name has been tattooed onto his arm, and we’re only flying to Connecticut to find out if this Matilda Jones woman is okay with her ex-husband re-marrying (I wikipedia-ed her name after he asked me to locate her–it was news to me that he had been married). The notion is ridiculous, though, and anyways I have a great boyfriend. But you can’t tell me you wouldn’t end it with your college boyfriend if a dashing billionaire wanted to marry you.
“So….how did the tattooing go?” I ask.
“It was awful.” So he’s not about to tell me he loves me….
“How so?”
He sighs deeply, then pulls his button-up shirt down past his shoulder to show me the name Matilda Jones. Yeah, my first assumption had been right. He just found out he divorced his soul mate eight years ago. Ouch.
“You didn’t watch the press conference?” he asks.
“No, sorry, I was on the phone with–”
“It’s fine,” he interrupts. “Basically, I didn’t want the press to find out so I had Ed draw a decoy tattoo.” He shows me the tattoo that says Anna Gushlenslaw.
“And she’s not real.”
“Hopefully not.”
“And we’re going to see Matilda? Who has no idea about this?”
“Who has no idea,” he confirms.
“Are you going to try to get her back?”
“I don’t know. I guess. I mean, my first instinct was just to get on this plane and show up at her doorstep. If she’s been online in the last few hours, she’ll think I’m tracking down some Anna girl right now. Although, you know, Matilda’s too Catholic to believe in this voodoo tattoo business. She’s probably laughing at how gullible I am right now.”
“Well, we’ll see how she feels once she finds out it was her name that came out of that needle.”
“True.”
“Here, I’m going to quick watch the press conference on my laptop,” I say. Thank god for in-flight wi-fi. Wow, that Ed Grund guy is not how I pictured him. His name makes him sound like a gross ex-pro-wrestler. “Hey Rick, what’s this thing about Melanie Wollace?” I ask when the video’s over.
“Oh yeah. I forgot about that. There’s allegations that Ed’s tattoos are fake? God, wouldn’t that just be the ultimate hoax of all time? Convincing people to marry strangers and ex-wives.”
“Does it make you nervous?”
“Nah. How could Ed Grund have known about Matilda Jones?”
“Well, I wikipedia-ed her name, and there’s a page about how she used to be married to the eco-billionaire playboy Richard Graves.”
“You think he could have wikipedia-ed me and found out about her?”
“Honestly, yeah.”
“Shit. Maybe I am laughably gullible.”
“Or maybe this Melanie Wollace person is trying to get money from Ed G Tattoos. Her statement would be an easy one to retract after he’s paid her off,” I say.
“Have you wikipedia-ed her?”
“I’ll do that now.” From the internet I learn that Melanie Wollace was the first person to ever ask Ed Grund for a tattoo of someone’s name. She came in to the place he was working and asked for her boyfriend’s name but for some reason Ed Grund wrote a name he’d never heard: Enrico Gomez. Obviously Melanie was furious, thinking this tattoo artist had deliberately branded her with a name she hadn’t asked for. Ed Grund couldn’t convince her that he’d been as surprised as she was when his hand wrote a different name than what she’d requested. She threatened to sue but was content with him paying for the laser removal (I’m guessing she later hid from the press how much the additional settlement was, in the interest of looking like a generous and forgiving person). Ed Grund was able to hold onto his job at a crappy tattoo parlor but banned himself from writing names, on the off-chance that the same thing happened again. Three years went by, and Melanie was in a relationship she later called “uninspired.” One night while she was on vacation in Miami, she met a hotel bartender named Enrico Gomez; the coincidence was just too random, so she spent the night with him. He turned out to be her other half, as she put it. Melanie brought a few of her single girlfriends to Ed Grund and each of them found great relationships thanks to his tattoos. The rest is history.
“So now Melanie and Enrico break up, and she’s demanding that the press questions the legitimacy of the whole Ed Grund operation?” Rick asks.
“Or, like I said, maybe it’s a stunt.”
“Maybe the money they could get out of a settlement with Ed Grund is worth more to them than their relationship.” He pauses, his brow knit. “Great. So now I’m on my way to a reunion with a woman who hates me, who may or may not be the only woman I’d be happy with.”
“Do you want to turn around the plane?”
“No. No. I think….I think Matilda will know what to do about this. I might as well talk to her about it. Anyway, I’m kind of interested to find out what she’s up to. But it’s absolutely imperative that you stand right next to me when she opens that door. I don’t want to get punched. I used to just let my lawyers deal with Matilda.”
Ed
Ella and I are sitting in a booth at a restaurant that we wouldn’t have gotten a table at if it wasn’t for my driver’s license. By that I mean, the maitre d’ didn’t believe I was Ed Grund without my trademark mustache. I had to flash him my ID to convince him I was worthy of a seat in this pretentious establishment of exclusivity. I think he was questioning if it’s possible for Ed Grund to even be Ed Grund without a walrus mustache. Whoa, identity crisis.
Ella’s huge green eyes are fixated on my mouth. “I mean, you just look so different,” she says.
“I hope that’s not a bad thing,” I say as the waiter puts our food in front of us.
“No!” she says emphatically. “It’s just weird working for a guy with a huge mustache and then when he asks me out, a guy with no facial hair shows up. Are you really the same person?”
I laugh. “You decide.”
“What if your magic gift disappears with your mustache?” she says, looking worried.
“Do I even have a ‘magic gift’?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
Ella shrugs. “I’ve always believed in it.”
“And now? Do you believe in it amidst allegations that I’m a fraud?”
“I do.” She’s not going to indulge in amusing conspiracy theories with me, so I change the topic.
“Would you ever get one of my tattoos?” I ask.
“Yeah right, you do not pay me enough,” Ella says, before quickly adding, “I mean, you pay me like way more than other tattoo parlor employees, but I could never afford what Rick Graves paid.”
“Okay, well if money wasn’t an issue?”
“Then….I don’t know. I’m only 24. I wouldn’t want to know just yet. But someday that would be something I’d consider. What about you?”
“I don’t even have to consider it, since I can’t tattoo myself. I haven’t met any other tattoo oracles yet, so I guess I’m just going to have to figure out my love life on my own.” What if the tattoo said a name other than Ella Vee? If this girl isn’t the one I should end up with, I don’t want to know that. For a year-and-a-half, I’ve seen her sunshine-y face every day, and I’m pretty convinced she’s perfection. I kind of thought that if I could only work up the balls to ask her out, we’d fall head-first into new-couple nirvana. But here we are, doing the whole going-on-a-date thing. How unromantic.
“Oh, this stir-fry just melts in your mouth,” Ella says with a flash of her cat-eyes.
“Ella, you’re really great,” I say. I’m hoping the warmth spreading through my cheeks isn’t showing up as a blush. Where’s that mustache when you need it?
She smiles softly, and I can tell that she can tell that the tenor of the night has changed. Until a moment ago, we were friends. Now, I think she gets just how significant my feelings are for her. And her smile just might be a confirmation that she has been thinking about me for a long time, too.
Rick
For the second time today (the first being my time at the fortune-reading tattoo parlor) I am so nervous I would give all my billions to fucking Harvard if it meant I could be somewhere else, and you know how loyal I am to Yale. Samira is waiting in the town car, parked on the curb in front of this little New England saltbox house with dormers and powder-blue shutters. This house is way too charming for a woman like Matilda Jones. Clearly Samira has gotten it wrong.
No, no, she hasn’t. In a sweeping motion that scared me so bad I might have lost consciousness for a moment, Matilda has opened the door and is staring at me with huge eyes.
“Rick,” she says, surprised but seemingly neither happy nor angry at the sight of me.
“Matilda.” We stare at each other for a while. She is still pretty, with long dark brown hair and a serious, slightly lined face; a school-teacher version of Cindy Crawford with ten more years on her. Underneath her guarded expression there’s a hint of weariness that wasn’t there the last time I saw here.
“I saw you on the news today,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Why would I be here on the day she saw me on TV?
“Yeah. Um. That’s sort of what why...I’m here.”
“Do you need my permission to re-marry?” she asks sardonically.
“Hm. We need to talk.” She opens the door for me and let’s me inside. Her cottage is the coziest place I’ve ever been, the exact antithesis of my stark, minimalist mansion. As Matilda leads me into the living room, she asks me how I’ve been in a very guarded, impersonal way. I tell her nothing specific, and in return she tells me that she’s the vice-principal of an exclusive private school. She scowls when I ask jokingly if education is the only thing they do in New England. “After all, it was the only reason I ever came here,” I say.
“And why are you here now?” she asks pointedly.
Goodness, she has not done anything to calm my nerves. “I have an interesting problem,” I say. “That is, a problem that might interest you.”
“Doubt it.”
I ignore this typically snarky comment and take a deep breath. “Okay, so this is all going to sound strange, so I’ll say it. You know I went to that magical...tattooist...today?” She nods. “Well, the tattoo didn’t actually say ‘Anna Gushlenslaw.’ That’s a name we made up because it sounded like a name no one would have. Really, it said…your name.” No reaction on her face.
Matilda
Do you want to understand my psychology? I have a master’s in psychology so I like to analyze these sorts of things. I was once a slightly-jaded, but ultimately idealistic young intellectual, as most college students are. I saw the world in the rainbow hues of peace and progress and politics and passion. When I met Rick Graves we were 24. He was a Yale grad student and I was doing my Master’s at UConn. He was the first guy I’d ever met that could keep up with me. Articulate, driven, funny, cute, and maybe a little crazy. I spent ten great years with him, my entire twenties, and then suddenly he struck gold with his prescient vision that sustainability (was that even a word then?) was the big idea of the future. He changed. We got a divorce about two minutes before the supermodels starting catching his eye. From what I hear, he turned into quite the world-class skirt-chaser, while I took the half-a-million he left me with and bought this little house. My half-brother, hearing about the money and thinking that was a fortune, decided my house was a better place for him to live than a mental institution. So I have been a single mother to a difficult teenager for years. I’ve always found it ironic that Rick divorcing me was basically the reason I never had kids, but it’s also the reason I ended up with a teenager. I think the men I’ve dated since the divorce have never measured up to my crazy, brilliant, ultimately very selfish ex-husband, so I’ve never remarried. I hate Rick, I really do, he ruined my life. Well, my career has been rewarding. I love the school and the students, but it hasn’t been the jet-setting adventure that Rick’s has, has it? So am I a tired, middle-aged school administrator who’s stuck in a small town in Connecticut? Gosh, it looks that way. I hope not.
Okay, so Rick has just told me that a tattoo predicted that I’m his soul mate and I am very carefully trying not to react. I don’t know what to think about this.
“There’s more,” Rick says. “I had Ed Grund draw the decoy tattoo so that the press wouldn’t know this turn of events. I wanted to talk to you first. I know, I was surprised too. I mean, we got divorced, like, ages ago. But there’s more. Um, I don’t know if you heard, but there have been allegations made today that Ed Grund’s whole business is a sham. Apparently some girl that got one of his tattoos broke up with her boyfriend and is claiming that they got together because of the tattoo, and now that it turns out they’re not soul mates, Grund must be playing some kind of elaborate prank. And I mean, I can see how he would run with it, once people started to believe in his magic. He makes a killing from those tattoos. Anyway, in light of this development, I won’t blame you if you don’t want to take this tattoo business seriously. Grund could have looked me up on Wikipedia and found your name and done this to mess with me. Or maybe we’re...supposed to be together?”
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I don’t know what to think. I thought I’d run it by you. I flew over on the Little Ricky first thing.”
Private jet. Of course.
“So basically, Rick, you’re leaving it up to me whether we get back together just because a sketchy tattoo artist wrote my name on your arm?”
“I guess. But Ed Grund isn’t sketchy. No, he’s just a cool guy that has a weird gift. I totally believe in it, or at least I did until this afternoon. I paid a fortune to get it.”
“You wanted it to be some model’s name. A movie star. Someone other than me.”
“That’s not true. I did it because I’m sick of models. I want something real.”
“Ha! Sick of models. What kind of a person has the luxury of being sick of models? We had something real. You threw it away.” As I say this, I ask myself Who has the luxury of turning down a billionaire?
“I know. I’m not expecting to walk out of here with a fiancee or anything, I just want to find out your opinion on the matter. It’s easy for me to believe in it, but I know you’re not…”
“Not what?”
“Well, you’re not really a romantic.”
“No. Not anymore.”
After a moment of strained silence, in which I feel slightly embarrassed about this melodramatic statement, suddenly Rick jumps up and darts over to my kitchen counter. He leans in close to an 8” x 10” framed picture of a beautiful Australian shepherd dog. His breathing is heavy with emotion and he turns to me and says, “You still have a picture of Leia.”
I nod.
“I haven’t seen a picture of her in years.”
“She was a great dog.”
“An amazing dog. You know, sometimes I think I’ll never be as happy as I was on the days I spent with Leia. And you.”
Quietly, I say, “I think about that too. But then I remember how bad her begging was.” I shake my head. “So annoying.”
Rick laughs. “Oh, but we would have gone to the ends of the earth for that dog. And now, I’d pay a billion dollars just to have that dog back.” We sit there in silence, lost in memories of the dog that had completed us. Shared memories that are as close to perfection as they ever get. Just as I’m about to suggest that he go and buy a new puppy, he says, “So maybe we could just get to know each other.”
“Okay.”
“What?” he asks in surprise.
“Okay. Let’s get to know each other.” I pause. “I know I should probably run you off my property with a machete, but I’m tired of my life being completely...stagnant. If there’s a chance of happiness together, I’m willing to try it out if you want to.”
“Wow. Hm. What happened to Bitch Matilda?” he asks. Then he quickly adds, “I didn’t mean that. You’re not really a bitch.”
But I’m not mad. I laugh. Rick Graves. Wow. The only man who could ever keep up with me. Would it be the worst thing if I forgave him? Maybe we could be in love again, all over the world, on yachts, in penthouse apartments, in Dubai, in Paris, on his private jet. Would you blame me for letting go of the last eight years?
“Can I see the tattoo?” I ask. He pulls aside his collar and pushes his shirt down to show me my own name on his arm.
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