Desperation of Love (28 page)
Alice Montalvo-Tribue lives with her husband and daughter in New Jersey. She has a bachelors degree in communications and is currently working on her masters degree. She spends most of her free time reading, writing, and when the weather permits sitting on the beach sipping a margarita.
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First and foremost I’d like to thank all of the readers. Your kind words and enthusiasm make this all worthwhile.
To all of the bloggers who have helped me promote and spread the word about my books there’s too many of you to name individually but you know who you are.
To my beta readers, Monica Martinez, Stephanie Locke, Anji Albis, Kristy Garbutt and Wendy Ferarro. I love experiencing my words through your eyes. Your advice, excitement and friendship mean more to me than you’ll ever know.
Stephanie, I’m so lucky to have you in my corner, I look forward to our daily conversations, getting your feedback on any and everything and more importantly discussing our KA addiction. I could not imagine getting through this writing process without you.
To Monica Martinez, where do I even start with you? You have worn so many hats on this project, beta reader, casting director, photographer, cover designer, beta reader, promoter and most importantly friend. It’s been quite a journey for us so far and I can’t wait to see what comes next. You have an amazing talent and an even more amazing heart.
Turn the page for a sneak peek of
by
Whitney G.
Dear Journal,
I just realized that the key to advertising can be summed up in one word: Bullshit.
That’s right, the key behind every single strategic slogan, even the greatest ones—Nike’s “Just Do It,” McDonald’s “I’m Lovin’ It,” and L’Oreal’s “Because You’re Worth It”—is pure
bullshit
.
It’s all about making the customer think that those one hundred dollar tennis shoes work ten times better than the twenty dollar ones, even though they’re made of the exact same materials. It’s about making people believe that the Big Mac is the tastiest American sandwich—despite the fact that it’s over-processed, slightly dry, and full of pink slime. And last but not least, it’s about making each and every woman think that putting on L’Oreal’s latest nude lipstick and waterproof mascara will make her look like a million dollar celebrity.
As a marketing director at Statham Industries, the number one software company in the country, my team and I have the “privilege” of coming up with new bullshit every day. Everything our company produces—cell phones, laptops, advanced tablets, et cetera—needs a savvy slogan and a matching promotional campaign months before it can be officially released.
My job is to make sure that only the best campaign ideas get sent up to the approval committee, so in all actuality,
nothing
should be sent up. Ever.
All my associates are recent college graduates and future copyeditors. (God bless their poor, unfortunate souls …) Some of them have potential, but the majority of them don’t. Whenever I reject their proposals with pages of red-inked notes, they whine and say, “Can’t you just give it a try? Can’t you send it up anyway? I got an ‘A’ in Business Marketing in
college
!”—as if that means a goddamn thing in the real world …
These “grade-A” geniuses recently submitted the following taglines for Statham Industries’
s
Phone, the iPhone’s biggest competitor: “
s
Phone. Because ‘s’ comes
after
‘i’.” “The new
s
Phone. You
so
want it.” “
s
Phone. Because we can.”
See? This is the type of fuckery I have to listen to (with a straight face) for hours on end.
To make matters worse, the CEO of the company—who
never
makes an appearance, sends out incessant memos about policies that don’t make any sense. He recently implemented “hourly parking zones” in the parking lot to “better enable employees to get home quickly and safely,” but the real reason is to discourage overtime. (Cars left in the lot after five fifteen are immediately towed away)
How ridiculous is that?
He also paid some idiot
two million dollars
to speak to all company employees, an idiot who passed out bean bags and “energizing packets” to boost employee morale.
We now have to attend weekly “Zen sessions,” monthly “coming together” focus groups, and spend thirty minutes a day writing in our “Zen journal,” i.e.
you
.
Yes, believe it or not, you were almost tossed into the trash seconds ago, along with the rest of that useless “Zen” crap. However, something told me to reconsider that once I flipped through your empty pages … I guess I can use you as a therapeutic device instead.
I hate you and I hate my pathetic excuse for a career,
Claire.
PS—I promise I don’t normally curse that much … on purpose …
My reflection was lying to me.
She was showing me a happy woman in bright red lipstick and coral eye shadow, a woman who looked like she’d just won the lottery—not a brokenhearted woman who’d spent the past four years trying to put her life back together.
You don’t look your age … You don’t look your age …
I could practically pinpoint where my wrinkles would come in, where the creases near my eyes would multiply and spread out over time; where my lips would eventually thin out and dissolve into my mouth. So far I’d been lucky, but I was pretty sure the hundreds of anti-aging and wrinkle-prevention creams I’d been using were the real reason why.
I was turning forty in two weeks and I was suffering from all the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. I was questioning everything I’d ever done, comparing myself to all my friends, and wondering if I would ever find more fulfillments in life. I’d even started making a list of everything I needed to do once I hit the big 4-0:
1) Make a plan to quit my job in five years and pursue my dream career: Interior Design.
2) Pay off all my credit cards and start making larger mortgage payments on my house.
3) Stop reading so many romance books …
4) Save up enough to take my daughters on a week-long cruise in the summer.
5) Stop looking for potential wrinkle-lines and quit considering Botox.
6) Clean my house from top to bottom and KEEP it clean!
7) Stop blaming myself for my ex-husband’s affair …
8) Stop hating my ex-best friend for being part of the affair …
9) Treat myself to a new restaurant every month.
10) Learn to be happy
alone
.
“Claire! Let’s go! We’re going to be late!” My friend Sandra called from the kitchen.
“Coming! Coming!” I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs.
I took another glance at myself in the hallway mirror and cursed under my breath. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to let her drag me out to another singles mixer. I never found anyone worth my time at those things, and the foul scent of desperation always hung in the air.
“You look stunning!” Sandra tugged at my strapless black dress. “Can I
please
borrow your wardrobe?”
“Only if I can borrow your life …”
She rolled her eyes and ignored my pessimism as usual. “Tonight is the night you’ll meet the right guy! I can feel it!”
She always says that …
“Do we really need to go to another one of these things, Sands? I have some marketing research I could—”
“On
New Year’s Eve
? Are you out of your mind? We’re going out!”
“What’s the point? We’ve been to a ton of these things and it’s always the same … Can’t we just stay in, drink some wine, and go over our resolutions?”
“Claire …” She walked over to my front door and opened it. “We’re going out. Now. You don’t have any work to do and you know it. And it’s your turn to drive so let’s go!”
I stood in the winding buffet line and tossed a few veggie chips onto my plate. I looked up at the banner that hung over the bar and sighed. It read “New Year’s Middle-Aged Singles’ Mixer: Let’s Get Jiggy!”
Aside from the tacky banner, the interior of Pacific Bay Lounge left a lot to be desired: Surfboards served as table tops, old park benches were strewn about, and dingy blue and green streamers hung from the ceiling to simulate “waves.”
Tonight, the lounge was way over-capacity—not a huge surprise since lonely people seemed to flock to these types of events. I was so used to them that I’d become quite the people reader: The guy standing by the window was at least sixty, the blond hair dye he’d been using to look twenty years younger was beginning to fade. The woman who was dancing against the speakers was clearly going through a divorce; she was still wearing her wedding ring and she tossed back a shot every time the DJ yelled “Cheers to all the single ladies!”
I’d been there. Done that.
On the window seats that lined the far wall, shy women were fidgeting with their hair and clothes like nervous high school students. Most of them were being forced to be here and had probably never had a fully-functioning relationship in their lives.
I grabbed two beers from the end of the table and sat on an empty couch, observing one man’s poor attempt to get a shy woman to dance.
“Is this seat taken?” A gorgeous man with grey eyes smiled at me, interrupting my fascinating people watch.
“No. No, it’s not …”
“Great.” He sat down and put his beer on the table. “I’m Lance. What’s your name?”
“Claire. Claire Gracen.”