Page 56 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"Well, okay. I bought a Dior saddle bag. Cost me a small fortune, and it was possibly the ugliest thing I've ever seen in my life. I thought it was ugly the first time I saw one, and then I saw it again and again, and suddenly, before I knew it, I was convinced I needed one. Not because I actuallywantedit, but because of the way it was sold to me. I thought Ihadto have it, or I'd be somehow left out. Now it sits in the back of my closet, gathering dust. I've been trying to sell it for months now, but no one is buying them for anything even close to the original price."
I chuckle. "I never thought you would be the type to buy into the hype of something like that."
"Yes, Grayson, but that's the thing. Neither did I. But we all are. Good marketing is insidious. It's hard to fight, especially when you don't even know it's happening." I shrug. "Instead of being mad about it, I decided to incorporate the lesson I'd learned from the whole experience into my business. After all, that's what a lot of my clients' events are: Marketing. It's usually companies that want to look good and relatable to their customers, and not the cold corporate soul suckers they really are, or it's wealthy elites who are trying to look good in front of their so-called friends, who in reality, of course, are their bitterest rivals, all trying to get one up on each other."
My oh my, what a cynic. She's dead right, though, I have to agree. Very neatly, I realize, she's diverted us back to the symposium issue. Clever.
"You know I'm right about the showcase," she says. "You can either put on a black and white, wholly forgettable affair, that tells everyone you're exactly who they fear you are, or you can show off your good side—always assuming you can find one, thatis—and make all the people who work for you and with you look good by association."
She raises an eyebrow, waiting for a response.
I can't help the smile that goes across my face. "Yeah, you definitely should never be a model."
She shakes her head and glances down at her iPad.
"You have a very narrow view of models. Have you ever thought that maybe you just have shallow tastes, and the strong-willed, ambitious ones with a bit of maturity to them and some sense in their heads just aren't attracted to you?"
I smirk. "Maybe," I say in a voice that expresses my deepest skepticism.
"Anyway, you never answered my question." She looks back up, leaning forward. "Have you always been this austere?"
"I guess," I respond. "Growing up, I've never really bothered with fashion. My mother was very into it, and she overwhelmed all of us with it, to the point that when I was a teenager and getting dragged to fashion shows against my will, to watch ridiculously thin models parade up and down in even more ridiculous so-called clothing that nobody n their right minds would ever wear outside of a weird bondage party, or something. That was when I finally decided that I was done with fashion. I know what I like, and I stick with it. What I like… well… it's simple, it's honest, and it's not pretentious."
"Interesting," she says. "What if I asked you just to try and wear something, nothing major, maybe a light blue cufflink at one point?"
I raise an eyebrow. "No."
"Aw, come on. It's been years. You don't know what you might like if you don't try."
"And since I'm not willing to try, I guess we'll never know.
She smirks. "How about we make a bet?"
I cock my head, intrigued. "I'm listening."
"I'm going to get your mother to like me," I say. "Then you're going to wear whatever I want for a week straight."
"Ridiculous. Out of the question"
"Oh I see." She grins at me. "So you're scared of losing?"
"No, I'm more worried about how delusional you actually are. You think you can get my mother to like you?"
"Isn't that the point of this whole fake engagement?"
"No. I said she had to tolerate you, to accept you, but I'm not stupid enough to actually hope for her to like you."
"Why? What's wrong with me?
"It's not about you. It's abouther. Have you actually met that woman? She doesn'tdo"like". It's hard enough for her to even tolerate anyone, especially people who aren't from her social class. The only way she'll like you is if you magically transform into one of her country club set buddies, and tell her you're going to be a stay-at-home wife, who attends the ballet when there's something nice on, and occasionally helps out at the better quality charity events."
She sighs. "What's her problem, anyway?"
"She's traditional. Very traditional. It's how she was brought up." There's some truth in that. We'realla product of our upbringing, even my self-made father, Michael. There's a little more to it than that, for sure, but that's all she needs to know for now.
"What about you?" Jenna asks. "Are you traditional too?"
"Hardly," I say. "I don't mind if my potential wife wants to be a full-time mother or full-time shoe-shiner, although I will admit, I've always been more attracted to ambitious, career-oriented women. In any case, don't worry about getting my mother to like you. It won't happen, and it's not a requirement for our engagement anyway." Fake or real, I don't need my mother tolikemy fiancée. I just need her to be convinced it's real, so that my father will also be convinced.
