The Importance of Being Married by Gemma Townley

Slowly, I turned off the projector. I was going to have to apologize and give up. I had nothing to say, no pitch to present.
    I picked up my bag—Helen’s bag—aware that everyone was staring at me, aware that in a few seconds my career at Milton Advertising would be over. As for Project Marriage, I figured that Project-Getting-Anthony-to-Speak-to-Me-Again would be hard enough.
    “Jess? Is everything okay?” It was Max, his face creased with concern.
    “Of course she’s okay,” Anthony said quickly. “Come on, Jess, don’t keep us waiting. I bet you’ve got something in that bag of yours, haven’t you?”
    I hesitated for a second. Then I bit my lip. Maybe it wasn’t over quite yet. Anthony didn’t think there was anything wrong. He thought I could pull it out of the bag, quite literally. And maybe I could. Helen was right—sometimes you had to go for it. Deal or No Deal. And this job was too important for me to give up. It was going to be Deal all the way. Purposefully, I put my bag back down.
    “Sorry about that,” I said, as the silence around the table deepened uncomfortably. “But no slides are going to get to the nub of the issue here.”
    “The nub?” Chester asked tentatively.
    “The nub,” I confirmed. It was all or nothing, I decided. Sink or swim. And I was going to do what I could to stay afloat, even if it meant doggy paddle. “And the nub of the issue is that women, particularly the ones who’ve got enough money to invest in an investment fund, would probably rather spend the money on…”
    I looked at Marcia, and my eyes were drawn to something on the floor next to her. Something made of the softest, buttery leather. Something that, I had no doubt, had cost upward of three hundred pounds. And then I had an idea.
    “…on a handbag,” I concluded firmly.
    “A handbag?” Chester was staring at me now.
    “A handbag,” I confirmed. “Or a great pair of shoes.”
    “Instead of an investment fund?”
    I nodded. If I was going down, I was going to fight all the way. “Marcia,” I said, seriously, “how many pairs of shoes do you have?”
    “Jessica, I’m not telling you that.” She glanced around the table with a slightly baffled look on her face.
    “No, tell us,” Chester said intently.
    She looked at Anthony, who nodded, and she sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. Thirty, maybe.”
    “Including the ones you don’t wear much?” I asked her.
    Marcia smiled uncomfortably. “Okay, maybe more like forty. No, fifty. Something like that, anyway.”
    “And bags?” I persisted. “How many bags?”
    Marcia was looking very uncomfortable now. I’d seen her with at least ten designer bags in as many months.
    “Fifteen,” she said with a shrug. “Twenty. What does it matter? We’re talking about an investment fund, Jessica, remember?”
    “Fifty pairs of shoes and twenty handbags. Average cost of each, three hundred pounds. That makes…” I frowned as I did the calculation, unsure how many zeros to add…“Twenty-one thousand pounds! Twenty-one thousand pounds that could have been secured in an investment fund, but only if that investment fund made Marcia feel as good as if she’d bought a new pair of shoes, or a new bag.”
    “Twenty-one thousand pounds on…on accessories?” Chester said, busily scribbling on a piece of paper. “And this is normal?”
    “Completely,” I said confidently, thinking of Helen’s wardrobe back home. “Some women will have a lower budget, of course, but the proportion of salary will be similar.”
    “Really? So how do we do it? How do we make a fund as desirable as a handbag?” Chester asked, leaning forward and picking up his pen. Anthony grinned at me and I felt my shoulders relax just slightly.
    “Well,” I said, playing for time. I suddenly remembered the Vogue article I’d read when Pedro had been trussing my hair up like a chicken being prepared for Sunday lunch. It had been discussing the key items of the season, pieces of