Indecent proposals

This story is not about getting 1 million dollars for spending a night with a millionaire, but marrying someone for money. When I was au pair girl in France, my family’s father was quite worried me not getting married with wealthy enough guy, he had seen my boy friends and didn’t think they could offer me the future I deserved. So he had a couple of, for me at that time indecent, more or less serious proposals. They had a family friend, a young count from a famous champagne chateau, and the father thought he would make a perfect match for me. Come on, this young count, very rich I don’t deny, had a little fault. He stuttered very badly. I could possibly not spend my life with a stuttering count, not when I was just 20 years old. Today I am wiser and know that even if this count had been missing all his three legs and his face had been eaten by a crocodile, it wouldn’t matter. It is about the inner beauty (yeah, sure).

Well, me not even wanting to discuss this matter, the father suggested I married the slightly alcoholic Oncle Bob. I and Bob had spent a lot of time together playing tennis when ever we were at their chateau at the countryside, but no, I couldn’t see myself together with a guy 3 times my age. The father kept telling me that for just a few marital duties I one day would inherit his apartment in a very fashionable quarter in Paris and live happily ever after with my heritage. But Oncle Bob could easily live 30 more years! And I did have my not so wealthy Jewish Frank, whom I was very much in love with. I couldn’t know that a year later my Jewish lover dropped me in an embarrassing scene of jealousy. However, from every relationship and from every break-up we learn something; I learned that never try to tell a French guy your male acquaintances are just friends. They know better. But the worst part of it all was that Oncle Bob died of pneumonia just two years after, without leaving his apartment or his money to me.

Not needing to start preparations for Hanukkah, I was wasting my time in Cannes (just a matter of speaking, one could never waste time in Cannes) for the next couple of summers. During the Cannes Film Festival the first year I had a chance to work as an assistant for Mrs Dauphin who organizes the Deauville Film Festival. We arranged a cocktail party for important people like every body else, with tough competition from Joan Collins. Dear reader, can you say that you once arranged a party and some one didn't come as he went to Joan Collins' birthday party instead ??? Mrs D was very happy with my assistance, even I had tried to deny entrance for an important film director as he didn’t have his business card on him. “Don’t you know who I am?” “No, non, njet, and I don’t care. Just give me the bloody business card if you want some free drinks !” Mrs D asked if I would be interested to help her in Deauville in September as the American stars need to be taken by hand and I said, sure, I will call her later. I never did. This I will use as an evidence of my insanity if I one day commit a murder.

Instead I packed my bags and went back to my very comfortable life in Morocco. Why would I assist anyone if I can have a life with maid, gardener and even someone to carry my groceries at the local souk. I am sorry little Hassan if you broke your back under the basket of 60 kilos of oranges ! Easy living with piano bars and nightclubs, and the only worry being which handbag will go with my new pair of shoes.

Not even trying to get my hands in a rich American producer really pissed God off. One night God said to me (God always appears when you are tired and can’t defend yourself): “I have given you three chances of getting a rich husband, but you didn’t use them. I will punish you by making you marry a poor Danish guy”. Sorry my dear husband, I didn’t put it that way, God did.