Rebooting in Beverly Hills by Marcy Miller

Author:Marcy Miller [Miller, Marcy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-61088-069-5
Publisher: Bancroft Press
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

KOI ARE OUT

The fundraiser should be an ideal venue to meet new people (i.e., eligible males). Think about it: People with similar interests willing to pay ridiculous sums of money for a lousy dinner and boring speeches in the name of a favorite charity. So once again, I identified those causes about which I was passionate enough to write a check, and I bought tickets to a series of events, hoping the karmic payoff might be meeting the equally charitable and like-minded man of my dreams.

My first check was written to a political lobbying group, and the event was to be held at the home of wealthy donors. I had to make some last-minute wardrobe adjustments. Because the men were presumably coming directly from work, I wanted a professional look. But I had to combine professional and sexy—a delicate balance—to get their attention at the bar as they traded stock tips. With men, money always trumps sex.

When I arrived at the McMansion at six on a balmy evening, the first challenge was to decide which strangers to approach. I first looked at what the man was drinking. If it was Diet Coke or Perrier, I moved on. Vodka or wine was at least a clue that he wanted to relax and enjoy the evening, and maybe he was loosening up enough for a little flirting.

“Hi. So what brings you here tonight?” I opened. My first victim was tall, fit, there solo, and had just ordered a vodka on the rocks. But he was pedantic and serious and only wanted to talk about politics in Sacramento, so I moved on. I had to case the joint swiftly—the cocktail hour was ludicrously short, after which time I would have to sit down at an assigned table. Being trapped almost always signals the end of the hunt.

I located the host. I did not know him exactly, but had Googled him as part of my homework for the event. He was sixty-four, tall, and attractive, had made a fortune in commercial real estate, and was married to his third wife. They had two teenagers together, and he had several grown children and grandchildren from his prior marriages.

“So how much did you pay to be here tonight?” he inquired.

“Two hundred dollars,” I replied.

“Is that all? I’ve never had such a cheap event at my house.”

He did not appear to be kidding. The Tudor mansion with its tennis court, lagoon pool, guest house resembling a tavern stop in Ye Olde England, and putting green in the middle of Beverly Hills smacked of new money with not a lot of taste.

“So, do you expect more money from me?” I joked. I was just flirting. There was no way this boring event was even worth my two hundred-dollar contribution.

“How about writing a check for one thousand dollars?” I was still not certain if this real estate tycoon was joking or going for the jugular.

“No way and too late,” I replied. It was time to make a fast exit before I was shaken down.

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