This is the seventh of a series featuring Canadian writers' true tales of love.
I looked across the table at Toronto as he nervously fidgeted and cleared his throat. He was at a loss. Where'd the love go? I asked. Where were all those acting jobs he used to shower me with? He stared ahead blankly, not meeting my gaze. It was clear Toronto was losing interest, so before he could dump me I broke up with him first.
During that drought of 2003-2004 that many of us in showbiz remember all too well, I moved out of the one-bedroom apartment I could no longer afford and took the train 14 hours south to have an affair with another city. I'd dreamed of living in New York ever since The Kids from Fame and I figured, if I was going to wait tables and struggle in Toronto, I might as well wait tables and struggle in New York. I fell madly and passionately in love.
Love's first blush gave way to the reality that I needed a job.
I sort of wanted to be a waitress, but only one who could wear what she wanted, sit down most of the time, and drink during a shift. Unfortunately, such positions (and all good restaurant jobs in New York) are about as difficult to land as a plum acting role, and are generally reserved for the hot girl the sous chef is shagging.
So I answered an ad on Craigslist for a personal assistant. My future employer answered the door of his swellegant Park Avenue pad in Prada loafers. I had to contain a gasp as I stepped inside. Had I not been disturbingly smitten by his movie-star shoes and taste in art, I would have gathered that this guy was a creep.
I was to be in charge of his Internet dating. Yes, I was the one who would manage his various profiles on various sites and actually correspond with women on his behalf.
Apparently, he and his girlfriend had just broken up. Like the night before. He made it very clear that he was not to go one weekend without a date, so time was of the essence. He also very helpfully pointed out that he couldn't screw me because I was his assistant now, and that would be messy. Great.
He'd written these very blasé, non-specific profiles for himself, which made sense for a sociopath. The woman in me was disturbed. The writer in me was enthralled. So instead of walking out on the creep, I punched up his profiles, making him sound like a guy who actually wanted to meet someone, which he didn't. He wanted arm candy. He wanted revenge sex. And I was to help him get them.
I left this job after about a month. Fifteen dollars an hour wasn't cutting it, and Crazy looked like he was getting back together with the girlfriend anyway.
New York was proving to be a much more fickle lover than I'd hoped. The walls were going up. One minute he'd be there lighting fires under my ass, and then he'd be gone for days at a time. I fretted. Maybe I can't make it here. Maybe I can't make it anywhere. But then suddenly he'd be at my door at 3 in the morning as if nothing had happened. He'd snuggle into bed with me, proffering his divine afflatus, reminding me that I was a clever girl and that I wasn't in New York to effortlessly open bottles of pinot or cater to narcissists. I took him back. Of course I took him back. And, roused by the city's imagined belief in me and a desire to subsist by my wits rather than menial labour, I decided to invent myself as a dating coach.
