Page 2 of Wingwoman
What even is that?That was me. Hope Marcoux-Evans: Professional Wingwoman. I’m like your specialized dating co-pilot. A cockcomplice. A cooter recruiter. Take your pick. Basically, I’m a matchmaker, but I take my job one step further. My clients are the bait and I’m the fishing pole, directing that chum through the fish-filled ocean that is the dating world.
And I amdamngood at my job.
I darted my hand out resting it over hers. “Maggie, wait.” She froze, responding to my command immediately. “I’m sorry. We’re just getting started. You can’t expect to see results within five minutes of sitting down.”
She dropped her purse into her lap, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Paying you five hundred bucks to … what? Be my pimp?” She shook her head again. “My girlfriends suggested this and… and I don’t think it’s a good fit.”
Her girlfriends. I nearly snorted, but swallowed my animosity. I had two of the most incredible girlfriends in the world, but prior to them? I hadn’t been so lucky. I had groups of “girlfriends” in college who swore up and down they had my back.
Oh, they had my back alright… they also had a knife and stabbed me with it in no time, ditching me at bars the moment some frat bro paid them any attention.
Then Maxie and Carrow came into my life. For the first time, I understood what having good girlfriends meant. But I wasn’t so naïve to believe they were easy to come by. “I’m not a pimp, Maggie. I’m a wingwoman. A damn good one, too. Can I take a guess at your situation?”
“I already told you my situ—”
“You told me your friends suggested this because when you all went out, you kept getting overlooked.”
“Right,” she said.
“Well, let me add to that story with some theories I’ve got.” I lifted my martini—Tanqueray, dry, extra olives, just the lightest coating of vermouth—and took a long sip. “I think you grew into your looks late… a lot like me. You were probably very shy growing up. Had a close-knit group of girlfriends. Most likely the star of your extracurriculars.” I leaned back, studying her sculpted arms, long legs and torso. Limbs that were probably long and gangly when she was younger, were now supermodel gorgeous. “Volleyball maybe?”
Her eyes widened. “Are you apsychicwingwoman?”
I smiled. “Not exactly. But there’s more.You grew into your body later in college. Maybe even after graduation. And suddenly, you started getting attention you didn’t know what to do with. Your girlfriends who always saw you as a non-threat in college, were now finding reasons to not include you in their happy hour plans. And when they suggested you hire me, it wasn’t because you were having troublegettingthe attention… it was because you were taking the attention fromthemand they didn’t like it. Not only did you take the attention, but you didn’t know what to do with it and eventually the men would give up on you.” I took another big sip and then asked, “Am I right?”
She bit her bottom lip, sliding that pink hued lip gloss onto her front tooth. “That’s amazing.”
I shook my head. It wasn’t amazing. It was simply close to my own story, too. Only with my story, my college ‘friends’ threw me to the wolves out of spite. Watching and laughing as I faltered and failed at flirting. Then they’d swoop in and take the guy that had shown me interest.
I’d been drunkenly left at bars by these so-called ‘friends’ more times than I could count. Ditched for their one-night-stands and left to find some way home myself. Finally, I got wise. Learned how to dress myself and flirt… and eventuallyIditchedthem. For good.
I wasn’t going to let Maggie waste as much time as I had if I could help it. By the time I was done with her, she was going to be smarter, savvier, and more worldly than I ever was at twenty-two.
I had all types of clients. Older women whose friends were all married and didn’t want to go out. Younger women like Maggie who never gained confidence. Divorcees who forgot the nuances of flirting. Men who needed help finding dates—either generally or to a specific function.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, leaning in closer to Maggie. “I know $500 per night is a lot of money. But my goal is not to have you constantly coming back to me for help. My goal is to teach you. Make it so by the time we’re done, you understand how to do this yourself and you don’t need to rely on me, your girlfriends, or anyone but yourself. When I’m done with you, you’ll be yourownwingwoman.”
Her eyes lit up at that, blue and glossy, her eyelashes damned near hitting her eyebrows. “Really? And I won’t have to … like… put on red lipstick or eyeliner or anything like that?”
“You won’t have to be anyone butyourself.”
Her smile widened, genuine and beautiful on both the inside and out.
Finding her a man was going to be easy. But teaching her not to fall for lines and bullshit? That was going to be my challenge.
“Are we okay to get started? Officially?” I asked.
She nodded and I slid a contract across the high-top table along with a pen. “Then go ahead and sign here and here. Payment is usually due at the beginning of our evenings, but I’d prefer it if everyone in here didn’t see you paying me while we get started.”
She nodded and held up her cell phone. “Venmo okay?”
I smiled. “Absolutely.”
She tapped a few buttons and I heard the beep from my phone. “Okay, let’s get started. First lesson—never turn and gawk when I mention a guy. During our time together, I’m going to get a feel for who you like and throw out some of my own suggestions that I think will be a good fit…”
“Because you’re a psychic wingwoman,” Maggie said grinning.
I laughed too. “Something like that. So, let me show you how to look at someone in the room without them noticing. Tell me a random person to look at behind me.”
