Mrs. True Love

by Cam Mackie

Marcy Love sat at the reception desk of Lewis & Clark & Builder & Miller & Sons Solicitors, painting her nails for the second time that afternoon with the new shade of red from the pharmacy next door. Three and a half years she had been there; it was an easy job. If she giggled at all of Miller’s stale one-liners and flashed puppy eyes at Builder when he walked in, she got one hell of a bonus at the end of the year.

She glanced up at the man gawking at her like a mad dog.

‘You really shouldn’t waste a surname like Love, so I plan to hyphenate,’ she said, holding out her nails to the light. ‘At fourteen, I realised that—to make the most of it—I would have to be selective. No messing Coxes or Dickinses because who knows might happen. He might become all clingy, get me pregnant, then before I knew it I’d have a shotgun wedding and become Marcy Love Cox? Ugh. Therefore, I only choose men who have a good name to offer me.’

‘Are you serious?’ he sputtered. But he should know woman had to be ruthless if she was going to get on in the modern world. She had to trust her worth.

 ‘I got my first boyfriend at fifteen, Andrew Felling. Now, I was already quite a stunner then, and he was all spotty and hairy; my friends teased me for dragging him around to parties and the beach like a pudgy pug. It was quite… problematic for my status, especially for my campaign to get Best Figure at graduation. But I was willing to make a sacrifice to one day become Mrs Felling-Love. Get it, Fell-in-Love? Not my best catch; I still had work to do. But I was quite proud of myself. Not that Andrew Felling appreciated any of it. He dumped me two months later to moon over some physics scholar from the year below. Probably for the best though; it freed me up to test better options. With me so far?’

‘Yes, I-’

‘Next was Tom. Guess what his surname was, bet you can’t… Hate! I could’ve been Mrs Love-Hate. Don’t laugh. I had just discovered harnesses could be an accessory and was coming into my “edgy” phase at the time, so I thought it was hysterical. When we went to restaurants I’d write down both our names on the reservation, just to make the servers say it. Love-Hate. Oh, to watch their eyes pop. I think the name had bad mojo though because we argued a ton about stupid shit like taxes and moving-in together. So, I had to cut him loose. Plus, I realised Love-Hate is a bit cliche.

‘Then, last year, there was Simon. He seemed perfect from the moment. Carol introduced us. She’s tried to introduce me to all kinds of guys with all kinds of names. She tells me my expectations are too high, like a good name is too much to ask. But with Simon, it seemed—at last—she got that empty head of hers around what I really wanted.

‘Simon was a banker at that place up the street at that place, what’s it called, Silver Sacks! Absolutely rolling in it. Had a yacht, owned a place in Paris, shopped at Farmer Joes—and best of all his last name was Hart. Simon Hart. My greatest find to date. I might’ve been writing Marcy Love-Hart on my tax return by now if he hadn’t of been such a traitor.’

‘What happened?’

Marcy Love sighed. ‘One day I was looking for his Couetts card to buy some curtains for the downtown apartment he was buying me. I didn’t find the card, but I did find a letter from his dentist. It was addressed to Mr Simon Harrison. The lying scumbag! Of course, I had to let him go. He begged me to let him stay, tried to tell me that he only pretended his name was Hart because Carol said I wouldn’t touch him otherwise. God forbid a woman have her own desires!’

The man stared at Marcy Love. His name was Peter Lewis, not of Lewis & Clark & Builder & Miller & Sons fame (that was a coincidence), but a clerk from two floors up—and he was in love with her. That was clear. Why else do you buy someone coffee every day and then hang out at their desk for half an hour? Especially when that coffee is a seven-pound, large Caramel Cream Frappuccino with two pumps of hazelnut syrup, mocha drizzle, chocolate drizzle, no ice, and an extra shot?

She liked her coffee sweet.

Marcy Love was usually content to entertain him. Their daily conversation gave her another excuse to gossip about Miller & Builder, obviously fucking after hours in the photocopier room, and the intern who was slowly embezzling from the Rainy Day account to fund his uncontrollable tropical fish addiction. Of course, within five minutes, Peter Lewis’ eyes grew puppyish, as if he wanted her to reach out and stroke his washed-out, sandy hair. But every time she ignored them. Men had looked at her like that for years. She was used to it.

That day however, poor Peter Lewis had asked her if she wanted to get dinner. So, she had to let him down.

After all the excuses failed—she was allergic to garlic and couldn’t eat out anywhere; she did her laundry at dinner time; she was soon going on a six-week trip to Anchorage, Alaska—she had to hit him with the truth. It was simple enough, after all.

‘You see, that’s why I can’t get dinner with you, Peter Lewis. I would merely be ‘Marcy Lewis’ or Marcy Love-Lewis for the rest of my life. I can’t fade out into such an indifferent woman; I need to save myself for the perfect match.’

Peter Lewis furrowed his brow. ‘Lewis isn’t my surname.’

‘It’s on your badge.’ Marcy Love pointed out kindly. How were men so forgetful?

Peter Lewis burst out laughing. And didn’t stop. First, coffee came sloshing out the top of the cup so violently it splotched the arm of her silk blouse, and soon he was doubled over, heaving. Was he having a fit? Should she call an ambulance? No man had ever done this in front of her before.

‘Lewis isn’t my surname, its my middle name.’ He said between deep breaths. ‘My surname is True. I’m Peter True’

‘What?’

‘It’s True! You know, as in True-Love.’

Marcy Love knocked over her nail polish, and a red pool spilled over her desk. It dripped down onto her knees in heavy, bloody spatters.

‘I-’ She tried. She couldn’t believe it. If only he had said that earlier. ‘What were you saying about dinner?’

Peter Lewis straightened up.

‘Are you kidding? You’re fucking insane.’

BIO: Cam lives in Scotland and is working towards a PhD in English Literature. However, she spends more time writing stories than reading academic texts.