Page 2 of Pity Parade

“Perfectly.” Tom has a new hobby, my downfall.

“Now, do you want to hear our new concepts or not?”

I would rather have a piranha-instigated pedicure, but I need to know what I’m up against. Nearly choking on my own tongue, I ask, “What are your ideas?”

Tom makes a gun with his fingers and points it at Phil before pulling the imaginary trigger. In return, she picks up a folder and opens it. “We could do a show with as many of your ex-boyfriends as we can find and call it Rematched.”

Nausea rolls through me like a bout of food poisoning on the Titanic. There’s a reason my old boyfriends aren’t current boyfriends. Taking a steadying breath, I lie, “It’s not an awful idea, but there are only a couple of guys who aren’t already happily married. As such, I don’t think the premise will hold. What else do you have?”

Phil flips the page. “How about a show where B-List celebrities sign on to date you?”

Kill me now. “Who exactly are you thinking about?”

“Tony Trench, Bobby Smalls, and Jeremy Flinch, to name a few.”

A chill of revulsion shoots up my spine. “Tony Trench?” Tony is the host of a show called Bust My Balls where he runs around like a ball of greased lightning trying to keep contestants from kicking him in his man business. Seriously, that’s the whole freaking show. Bobby Smalls is a bookie with a heart of gold—as in, he really hates to break your knees, but if you make him, it’s on you. Jeremy Flinch is a chef with a temper the size of Hawaii and the emotional maturity the size of a mini-Cooper in an RV convention. He rose to fame when he stormed out of the kitchen and threw an entire pot of bouillabaisse on Food’s editor Bitsy Marcus for calling his recipes unimaginative.

“We’re entertaining other candidates as well.” Tom makes this sound like the threat I’m sure it is.

Grimacing, I tell him, “I’m sure you are. But if they’re of the same caliber as the ones you’ve already mentioned, I’m going to have to pass.”

After presenting the two most unappealing options, Phil plods forth. “How about bringing past contestants back and giving them a chance to date you?”

“So all the losers can have a go at me, huh?” I’m finding it difficult to keep my cool.

“Just because they didn’t find love on Midwestern Matchmaker doesn’t mean they’re losers,” Tom says stiffly.

My eyes nearly roll into the back of my head. “Really? Because that’s exactly what you’ve called them every season we’ve filmed.”

He ignores the truth of my words and carries on. “I like the idea of having a bunch of Chicago’s finest bachelors compete for your hand. You know, sports figures, businessmen, real pillars of society.”

“You mean men whose schedules are so busy there’s no way they’d have time to shoot a reality show?” I don’t mention that if they’re such pillars, they’d have no desire to even be on TV in such an embarrassing capacity.

“We only need five or six,” Phil says. “And they’d only have to be available to have their dates filmed.”

“What’s in it for them?” I want to know.

Tom rubs his hands together like a villain plotting the end of the world. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Gru from Despicable Me. “You?”

“While it’s flattering you now think I have that kind of draw, Tom, you know as well as I do that the only men who would sign up for this would have to have an ulterior motive.”

“So what?” he wants to know. “Not only would that be great for advertising, it would make for compelling television.” Darn it, he’s not wrong.

“Fine. If I have to choose one, I’ll take the last one.” I silently pray that none of the men they engage are in the mob, laundering money for a drug cartel, or have anything to do with politics. I view politicians the same way I view every other criminal—with disdain.

Tom jots something down on a pad of paper. “We’ll aim to start shooting at the beginning of September.”

As though on command, my pores open and beads of sweat dot my hairline. “What do you mean, we’ll start shooting in September?” I remind him, “You’ve got to sell the idea to a network first.” The original plan was that we wouldn’t film until the winter and only if we had a network. If we didn’t, I’d be free to carry on with my life, maybe return to my former matchmaking business.

Tom’s head bounces back and forth like a jack in the box on a spring. “That’s what we had originally planned, yes. But with no takers for the first go-round, we’re going to have to give the networks more to get them to bite.”

Well, that’s not humiliating. Translation: That is SO humiliating. “You said my signing on to do the show would be enough.”

“Clearly I was wrong.” With a smug expression, he adds, “Now that you don’t have a show, you’ve become something of a B-List celebrity yourself.”

Phil decides this is the perfect time to enter the fray. “Even when Midwestern Matchmaker was a viable commodity, you still weren’t that far above Tony Trench. To be honest, he was probably higher, given his show’s ratings.”

“So just because Midwestern Matchmaker got canceled, I’m suddenly not even as good as a guy who’s made a name for himself by letting people try to kick him in the crotch?” I’m beyond horrified at such a suggestion.

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