Free An Ex to Grind by Jane Heller

the serious tone giving way to a girlish enthusiasm. "When would you like to come in?"
    "Preferably early in the morning or at the end of the day. I have a busy schedule."
    "How's Wednesday morning at eight-thirty?" she offered.
    "Perfect," I said.
    She asked me for my name, address, and phone number, then told me where they were located. "You'll need to bring the five-thousand-dollar fee with you," she added.
    "Already? Doesn't Desiree have to do anything to earn it first?" I was still very queasy about spending so much money, but Weezie had reminded me how much I'd be saving if things worked out.
    "We refund it if she doesn't make a match for you."
    I started to explain that I wasn't looking for a match for me but decided to save the speech for her boss, since the situation was fairly complicated.
    "You'll also need to bring a recent photo," she said, "as well as a one-page biography detailing your educational, financial, and marital histories; an essay of any length describing your hopes, dreams, desires, and dating patterns; and a complete medical history, including a list of current medications, particularly anti-depressants or antipsychotics, and any sexually transmitted diseases. If you've had herpes or genital warts, for example, you'll need an accompanying note from your doctor indicating the date of your last outbreak."
    Gee, did she want to know about the regularity of my periods too?
    "Melanie?" she said. "Did you get all that down?"
    "Yes," I said. "It's just that—"
    "You're a little embarrassed about the STD query?"
    "No, it's not—"
    "Because you shouldn't be. It's just part of the background check, and if you've been sexually active, you've probably had something, right?"
    "Right. But I—"
    "Oh, I know. You don't think you'll be able to pull all the info together in two days. Because of that busy schedule you mentioned."
    "Exactly." This was crazy. I was crazy.
    "Not to worry. Everyone feels overwhelmed by the paperwork, but it'll be easier than you think. And it's all for your benefit, don't forget. The more Desiree knows about you, the easier it'll be for her to find you your special someone."
    Nope. This wasn't such a hot idea. I would find another way to deal with Dan, a way that didn't involve special someones. "Oh, gosh. I just remembered I have a meeting Wednesday morning so I won't be able to make it," I said.
    Taylor giggled. "Everybody does that too."
    "Does what?"
    "Try to chicken out. It's normal." She took a breath. "The consultation will last about an hour, so plan accordingly. And when you start getting butterflies, keep telling yourself that Desiree is all about bringing you a lifetime of happiness. She really is a magician when it comes to putting people together."
    It was that last line that roped me back in. If Desiree Klein could put Dan together with a woman for ninety days, she'd be bringing me a lifetime of happiness all right. I just had to fill her in on the game plan and hope like hell she was a sports fan.
    Her Office was off the living room of her apartment, a glitzy affair on Fifth Avenue with a spectacular view of Central Park. Its message to all visitors was: "You can never have enough gold." There were gold silk draperies and gold-leaf mirrors, and wood tables inlaid with—what else?—gold. There was also a zebra skin rug and a grand piano and a gilded cage in which a parrot rested on a swing chirping a ribald Eminem lyric. Well, Nards had warned me that Desiree was a character. As I sat in the chair opposite her desk and waited, I noticed that the only reading material available were articles about her.
    "Hey there," she said, waddling into her office, an overdose of sickly sweet perfume wafting after her. She was in her fifties and plump as well as short—a dumpling, except for her chin, which was pointy in the manner of, say, Maria Shriver. She was wearing a purple caftan and matching fuzzy slippers with little pom-poms on them and a long, platinum blond wig with bangs.