Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?: a fun and feisty reality TV romcom

By Joanne Bonny

Journalist Emma Fontana is in the middle of setting up a women's magazine called Revolution, when she discovers that her best friends have signed her up for the reality show Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire? For ten days, eligible bachelor Marco Bernardi will host twenty girls in his villa and then choose one of them to be his bride.

At first, Emma is furious, and sets off for Como with the intention of discrediting the whole show. But it isn't long before she finds herself caught up in the ridiculous thrill of it all. And then there's Marco's older brother Leonardo, who is as charming as he is suspicious of Emma's real intentions.

As her feelings towards the Bernardi brothers become more complicated with each passing day, Emma finds herself wondering: does she want to marry a millionaire?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: May 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838932954

Joanne Bonny

Joanne Bonny was born in Milan in 1986, with another name. Her pseudonym derives from her passion for pirates who were the protagonists of the first novel she wrote between one university exam and the next. Although she never finished her pirate saga – or her degree in Cultural Heritage – her love for writing survived. Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire? marks her debut in adult fiction.

Book preview

cover.jpg

WHO WANTS TO MARRY A MILLIONAIRE?

Joanne Bonny

Translated by Amy Mugglestone

AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

www.ariafiction.com

First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Joanne Bonny, 2019

The moral right of Joanne Bonny to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781838932954

Cover design © Cherie Chapman

Aria

c/o Head of Zeus

First Floor East

5–8 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

www.ariafiction.com

Contents

Welcome Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: It’s a Man’s World

Chapter 2: Girl Power!

Chapter 3: A Drought

Chapter 4: Who Needs Sex When You Have Nutella?

Chapter 5: Sorry, I’m Washing My Hair

Chapter 6: Mr Popularity

Chapter 7: Wonder Woman

Chapter 8: Going Over to the Dark Side

Chapter 9: Smile, You’re on Camera!

Chapter 10: Bitches on the Horizon

Chapter 11: Is Anyone Home?

Chapter 12: A Face From the Past

Chapter 13: What on Earth Are You Wearing?

Chapter 14: Welcome to the Hunger Games!

Chapter 15: You Do Not Have the X-Factor

Chapter 16: What’s the Catch?

Chapter 17: Eat Up

Chapter 18: Not the Hair!

Chapter 19: On Your Marks, Get Set… Bake!

Chapter 20: Are You Trying to Kill Me?!

Chapter 21: A Nest of Vipers

Chapter 22: I’m Sexy and I Know It

Chapter 23: Can I Help You?

Chapter 24: Nobody Puts Emma in a Corner

Chapter 25: Judges, Raise your Paddles

Chapter 26: A Louboutin a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Chapter 27: A Holiday in Cortina

Chapter 28: Who Are You Calling a Wimp?

Chapter 29: About as Genuine as a Three Euro Note

Chapter 30: Sweet Revenge

Chapter 31: The Stinky Family

Chapter 32: The Wrong Brother

Chapter 33: The Wire

Chapter 34: If It Says It in Top Girl It Must Be True

Chapter 35: Stargazing

Chapter 36: On a Promise

Chapter 37: Haters Club

Chapter 38: On the Hook

Chapter 39: A Classy Establishment

Chapter 40: Conspiracy!

Chapter 41: Suck It Up, Buttercup!

Chapter 42: Incriminating Images

Chapter 43: Can I Phone a Friend?

Chapter 44: Gotcha!

Chapter 45: You’re Fired

Chapter 46: We Have a Sushi Restaurant Too?

Chapter 47: The Devil Wears Prada, and So Do I

Chapter 48: Operation Versace

Chapter 49: Old Chicken Makes Good Soup

Chapter 50: Meet the Parents

Chapter 51: The Lady of the Camelias

Chapter 52: Handbags at Dawn

Chapter 53: Show Yourselves Out

Chapter 54: One Kiss Leads to Another

Chapter 55: I Hadn’t Considered the Triangle

Chapter 56: Hello, I’m in Love with Your Husband

Chapter 57: Did I Miss Something?

Chapter 58: That’s Showbiz!

Chapter 59: Et Tu?

Chapter 60: I Love Shopping in Hawaii

Chapter 61: The Morning After

Chapter 62: Going on Stage

Chapter 63: Flying High

Chapter 64: Barefoot on the Beach

Chapter 65: Déjà Vu

Chapter 66: The Theory of Doubt

Chapter 67: The Wrong Hut

Chapter 68: Sleeping with the Enemy

Chapter 69: Yes Or No?

Chapter 70: From Hero to Zero

Chapter 71: Left at the Altar

Chapter 72: Nothing But the Truth

Chapter 73: The Perfect Man

Chapter 74: Here Come the Girls

Chapter 75: Feminists and Gentlemen

About the Author

Become an Aria Addict

‘There is an extreme form of feminism that I don’t like. Two aspects of it in particular. The first: hostility towards men. It seems to me that there is already too much hostility in the world - black vs white, right vs left, Christian vs non-Christian, Catholic vs Protestant - and there is no need to create another ghetto. The second: the fact that it is seen as progress for the modern woman to put herself in the same condition as the modern man - as a business manager, a financier, a politician - without seeing the absurdity and even the uselessness of such ventures.’

MARGUERITTE YOURCENAR

Cast off the shackles of yesterday!

Shoulder to shoulder into the fray

Our daughters’ daughters will adore us

And they’ll sing in grateful chorus

‘Well done, Sister Suffragette!’

MARY POPPINS, 1964

1

It’s a Man’s World

Okay, here goes.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for for three years, ever since I first crossed the threshold of the newsroom as a fresh-faced editorial assistant. I stand outside the closed door to the Editor-in-Chief’s office and smooth a crease in my skirt, cursing myself for not having worn trousers. The last thing I want is for Carlo to think I wore it on purpose because I think flashing a bit of leg might persuade him to give me the promotion.

As if I needed to pull a stunt like that!

The only other candidate for the role of senior correspondent is that moron Fabio, and he has no chance against me. We started working at The Record together, first as editorial assistants and then as editors, but our output could hardly have been more different.

While I was tied to my desk, working unpaid overtime in the evenings and at weekends, Fabio spent his time hanging out by the coffee machine, flirting with the cleaning ladies. In three years he hasn’t written so much as a comma more than was necessary, always putting in the bare minimum of effort. And not always even that. To be honest, I don’t know why Carlo renewed his contract three times. Elisabetta, who sits at the desk next to mine, says he’s like one of those guys at school who never does any work, but somehow still ends up as teacher’s pet thanks to some mysterious combination of charm and arse-kissing.

But none of that is going to help him today. Carlo will make his decision based on which of us has been the most dedicated and hardworking through the years, and which of us has the most talent. In both cases, I win hands down.

Perhaps Fabio has realised it too, seeing as there are two minutes left until the interview and he is still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps becoming a senior correspondent doesn’t interest him as much as I thought. Perhaps it has occurred to him that if he gets the job he might have to do some work for a change.

I smile to myself, excited to think that when I walk out of that office I will finally be an actual reporter. No more paperwork or boring office admin, from now on I will travel the world interviewing important people and being on hand to witness important events unfold before my eyes. I will be at the forefront of demonstrations against the oil lobbies and I will ask tough questions to the occupants of Downing Street and the White House.

Emma Fontana, correspondent from the The Record.

Emma Fontana, intrepid reporter, always gets her story.

Emma Fontana, winner of the Pulitzer Prize...

‘Emma?’

‘Eh?’ I am startled back to the present by Luisa, the boss’s secretary, who is peering at me over the top of her spectacles with a polite but puzzled air.

I had been in the middle of my acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize, which I had been awarded for persuading the presidents of Israel and Palestine to shake hands and declare peace in front of the cameras.

‘Carlo’s ready for you now.’

I jump up from my chair and stride confidently towards the oak-panelled door, the thunderous applause of the Swedish jury still ringing in my ears as my fingers close around the handle.

Emma Fontana, journalist of the century.

I throw open the door and smile at my bright future.

‘Emma, take a seat,’ Carlo offers from behind his desk, gesturing towards the chair on his right.

The chair on the left is already occupied.

‘Hello, Emma!’ Fabio exclaims, in a cheery voice that sounds even more fake than the smug smile painted across his face.

Shit.

I step inside the editor’s office with a strained smile at my opponent. Okay, let’s just keep calm and try to behave civilly. Take a deep breath, and…

What the fuck is he doing here?!?

Shouldn’t he be perving on the cleaning ladies out in the corridor, or watching YouTube clips at his desk while pretending to work?

I take a seat, trying to avoid Fabio’s gaze so as not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the annoyance and frustration building inside me. It turns out I needn’t have bothered, because in the absence of any cleaning ladies to ogle, he has decided to entertain himself by staring at my legs.

It takes me a few seconds to realise that Carlo is talking.

‘... anyway if Allegri doesn’t patch up the defense, he’ll never make it past the quarters. You can’t expect Buffon to perform miracles every match.’

‘Yeah, but I’d change things round up front, too,’ says Fabio, ‘Higuaín can’t do much good stuck out there.’

‘I’d have put Dybala in at the start, to hell with Higuaín!’

‘Are you serious? Higuaín is top scorer in the championship!’

Aha. Now I understand why Fabio is here. He must have got Carlo talking about last night’s game and used it as an excuse to get into his office early. I glare at him. Elisabetta is right, he never does any work and still ends up as teacher’s pet.

Well, if he thinks he’s outsmarted me, he can think again. He can’t exclude me from the conversation that easily.

‘The formation’s all wrong if you ask me. With a defense that weak, you can’t leave two men alone in midfield,’ I observe.

The two men turn together, open-mouthed, to look at yours truly, staring at me as if they had just witnessed human speech coming from an orangutan. I should be offended, but I’m too busy enjoying the baffled expression on Fabio’s face.

‘Did you watch the Juve game?’ Carlo asks, incredulous.

I can’t help but notice that he’s looking at me in a completely new light, with an interest and respect that he never showed me in all of the last three years of working for him.

And all because I watched some crappy football match!

Which I didn’t, actually. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than watch grown men chasing a bag of wind around a field. I didn’t even know there was a match until I overhead heard two blokes criticising the formation on the subway this morning.

‘Oh sure! I never miss a Champions’ League match!’ I say, smiling.

‘I thought you hated football.’ Fabio frowns, his limited reporter’s brain beginning to smell a cover-up.

‘A good journalist must understand everything,’ I reply virtuously.

‘Well said, Emma,’ Carlo approves.

Yessss! Back of the net!

‘Okay then,’ says Fabio, recovering his composure, ‘If you’re such an expert on football, who would you have out in midfield?’

Bastard.

‘Oh well, I don’t know if we’ve got time to talk about...’

‘Yes, who would you put in there with Marchisio and Pjanić?’ Carlo insists, still looking at me with renewed interest.

I would be happy to answer him, if only I knew the names of any of the Juventus players. An awkward silence falls as I pretend to ponder the problem. I can feel Fabio eyeing me like a vulture, ready to throw himself on my carcass when I fail.

Come on, Emma, say something! Think of a name.

Ah, there! I have a sudden recollection of a shirt hanging in one of the cubicles in the office: a Juventus shirt with the name...

‘Pirlo!’ I exclaim triumphantly, ‘I’d have brought Pirlo on.’

‘Pirlo?’ Carlo echoes. His expression is still one of astonishment, but this time in a negative sense.

‘Oh Pirlo, of course!’ says Fabio, ‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to play midfield for Juve, if only they hadn’t transferred him to New York City two years ago. Or are you giving us your Fantasy Football picks? I assume you’re an expert on that, too?’

The boss tries in vain to disguise a laugh by coughing, and I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Fuck it! Fuck him, fuck Fabio, and fuck Pirlo, whoever he is.

‘Well Emma, I hope your list of Michelin starred restaurants in Milan is more up to date than your Juve lineup. Have you finished it for me?’

‘Yes, it’s ready to be included in the article.’

‘Great, then you can go,’ says Carlo, bowing his head to rearrange the scattered sheets of paper on his desk.

I remain motionless in my chair, forgetting even to breathe, ‘I’m here for the interview. For the senior correspondent job.’

Carlo looks up, his gaze moving from me to Fabio, and then back to me.

‘I’m sorry, Emma, but the role of correspondent has already been filled.’

‘Yeah,’ Fabio gloats, rocking back in his chair, ‘Congratulate me, Emma. You’re looking at The Record’s new correspondent!’

I see Carlo’s lips move, but a whistling noise in my ears prevents me from understanding his words.

It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Perhaps it’s just a nightmare. Maybe I dozed off outside in the waiting room and in a few moments Luisa will wake me up.

‘Anyway,’ Fabio continues, rising from his chair, ‘I’d better dash if I want to run that piece on the demonstration in front of the Iraqi embassy.’

‘Iranian,’ I correct him, still stunned.

‘Exactly. Er, Emma, you won’t mind correcting the proofs for the articles on my desk, right? I don’t have time for things like that now I’m a correspondent. Do a good job for me, please.’

He gives me a pat on the back and, with one last look at my thighs, he leaves the office.

I remain glued to my chair, my eyes boring into Carlo, who has gone back to tidying up his papers. When the silence becomes unbearable and he realises that I have no intention of moving, he reluctantly looks up, not quite meeting my gaze.

‘Did you want something, Emma?’

The annoyed tone of the question fails to conceal his obvious discomfort. He feels guilty.

And so he should.

‘Did I want something? I want my promotion, boss! I want the job I’ve been working my arse off for these past three years. I can’t believe that you chose that idiot Fabio instead of me! This is a man who thinks interest rates means how many followers a person has on Twitter, and who evaluates European ministers based on their ‘shagability’!

Carlo sighs, scratching the thinning hair on his temples.

‘Did you even consider me for the position?’ I thought I’d worked well.’

‘And so you did, you worked very well. You’re the best editorial assistant I’ve ever hired and I’m sure you would make an excellent correspondent.’

‘So what happened? Did you not like my last article? Is it because I took the day off on Wednesday? I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t an emergency, I had to take the cat to the vet …’

‘No, Emma, it’s because of that,’ he explains, pointing to my left hand. I follow his gaze, bewildered. What’s wrong with my hand?

‘You’re a nice-looking young girl, it won’t be long before someone puts an engagement ring on that finger. After that we’ve got maybe two years before you pop out your first baby, and who knows, after that, maybe a second, or even a third. It’s not a risk I’m prepared to take. The Record needs active, dedicated correspondents who can be ready whenever a story breaks.’

‘I’m very active! I don’t think you’ll find anyone here more dedicated than I am, and I can assure you I have no intention of... popping out babies any time soon!’

‘That’s what you all say,’ says Carlo, his tone hardening, ‘None of you would even dream of having children. The very thought horrifies you, and then you get pregnant just when it’s least convenient, and Muggins here has to fork out for maternity leave and get cover whenever the kid is sick. I can’t have you vomiting over Barack Obama during an interview because you have morning sickness, or running away from a sit-in in Hong Kong because you’ve got to do the school run.’

‘So you’re telling me I didn’t get the promotion just because I have a pair of ovaries?’ I ask, breathless with indignation, ‘This is discrimination, pure and simple!’

‘It’s common sense my girl, and you’ll have to get used to it, because this is the way the world works.’

‘And if I refuse?’

Carlo shrugs, irritated, ‘What are you going to do, start a revolution?’

‘A revolution ...’ I think to myself, ‘Maybe I will...’

2

Girl Power!

Two years later.

‘Boss!’

Coming out of my office, I turn to locate the uncertain voice out in the corridor and see the new intern, Daniela, hurrying to intercept me, her arms full of steaming cups.

‘I got you some chocolate. Er... hazelnut is your favourite, right?’

‘They all look delicious, thank you,’ I select a cup at random, ‘And it’s very kind of you, but don’t feel that you have to waste time bringing people coffee and doing their photocopying just because you’re an intern.’

‘Oh! But Giorgia said you wanted a chocolate. And then she said to get one for her and all the others while I was there…’

I roll my eyes. Every time we take on a new intern, Giorgia treats her as her own personal slave. And then tries to sleep with her.

‘Don’t pay any attention to Giorgia,’ I say, ‘Here at Revolution, you just have to concentrate on learning and giving us your best work. And stop calling me boss.’

‘Yes, of course. And boss - I mean Emma - I just wanted to say how much I admire you, as a woman and a journalist. I’m so proud to have the opportunity to work at a magazine like this, and I can only hope that one day I will have a brilliant career like yours…’

‘God, finally, the chocolate has arrived. Where have you been? Look at me, I’m wasting away!’ Alessio swoops down on us from nowhere and grabs one of the cups of chocolate.

‘Ugh, fudge!’ he exclaims with a grimace, handing the cup back to Daniela and taking another, ‘Well come on, let’s let’s hand them out before they go cold. Chop chop!’

He makes shooing motions towards the main office and Daniela scuttles away obediently.

‘Stop picking on my interns, Ale,’ I warn him.

‘Oh, they love it really! Anyway, you can’t fool me, you just wanted her to keep telling you how much she admires you as a woman and a journalist.’

‘Maybe a bit,’ I admit.

‘Anyway, it’s not my fault if I have a slight dictatorial inclination,’ he continues as we walk away, ‘The last place I worked interns were the last step on the social ladder. Even the director’s pug had more influence.’

Until a year ago, Alessio was a top graphic designer at one of Italy’s leading fashion magazines, and was much sought-after by rival publications. By all accounts, the director was straight out of The Devil Wears Prada, but she wasn’t the reason Alessio left the magazine and the shining world of fashion publishing behind. The only boy of six children, he adores his five sisters and for their sake has decided to dissociate himself from the warped image of the perfect woman that the fashion industry promotes.

‘Where are you at with the cover for the next issue?’ I ask.

‘Almost finished, just a bit of retouching to the background.’

‘Well, let me know as soon as it’s ready, I can’t wait to admire it.’

‘Now that we’re on the subject, do you know who would look fabulous on one of our covers?’ Alessio asks, with a careless tone that doesn’t deceive me one bit.

‘Hmmmm, let me guess ... is it Beyoncé?’

‘Please, Emma! We absolutely must dedicate an issue to Queen Bey! She is without a doubt the most influential and powerful woman in the entertainment world and …’

‘... And you can’t wait to meet her and throw yourself at her feet.’

‘I was thinking perhaps a duet of Single Ladies…’

‘I’ve already told you, she’s busy touring and promoting her new film and her agent is a nightmare to get hold of, but as soon as she has a free moment I will try to book her. I can’t promise you any duets, though! Hey, why is the workroom all locked up?’

I reach out to grab the handle, but Alessio dashes in front of me, putting himself between me and the door.

‘Er, hang on a minute, let me check,’ he says, suddenly flustered.

He opens the door just wide enough to poke his head through, and I hear him whisper, ‘She’s here!’

There are muffled squeals and frantic shuffling noises in response from the other side.

‘Ale, what are you up to?’ I ask suspiciously, making another move towards the door.

But Alessio is too quick for me once again, and he flings the doors open with a theatrical flourish and shouts, ‘Surprise!’

‘For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellowwwww…’

The entire editorial staff have left their desks and are standing bunched together like carol singers, singing at the top of their lungs, wearing party hats and surrounded by brightly-coloured balloons that have been tied to their desks.

I shoot a questioning look at Ale, who gives me a beaming smile and joins in with the choir, ‘...Aaand so say all of us!’

The singing is followed by laughter and screams as handfuls of streamers and party-poppers are launched in every direction, and Elisabetta pops the cork on a bottle of champagne.

‘Er, guys!’ I try to make myself heard over the din, ‘You’ve got it all wrong. My birthday isn’t for another six months,’ I intercept a golden balloon floating past me, and raise an eyebrow at the number printed on it, ‘And I’m certainly not sixty-five years old!’

‘We borrowed some balloons from my Dad’s party the day before yesterday,’ explains Olivia, Alessio’s assistant.

‘And I found the party poppers in my nephew’s room, I think they’re left over from New Year’s Eve,’ adds Elisabetta.

‘I’m bowled over by your commitment to recycling, really, but it’s still not my birthday!’

‘We’re not celebrating your birthday, silly!’ laughs Alessio, ‘Last night I just happened to be having a drink at Frank and a little bird - a rather sexy little bird, but that’s another story - whispered in my ear that the Sisters have decided who they will be naming ‘Woman of the Year’. And who should it be but our own magnificent founder and director of Revolution, Emma Fontana!’

Whoops and applause accompany Alessio’s announcement, and I acknowledge them with an embarrassed smile.

‘You’re the best, Emma!’

‘We’re so proud to work for you!’

‘They couldn’t have made a better choice!’

‘But why didn’t you tell us?’

‘I only got the email the day before yesterday, I was going to wait for it to become official,’ I say, ‘But thank you so much for your support!’

‘When will the awards ceremony take place? Have you prepared your speech? What will you wear?’ Elisabetta fires question after question at me, while holding out a glass of champagne.

‘In about two months, no, and my old Armani sheath dress.’

‘Forget that, I’ve already spotted a single shoulder Versace number that will look amazing on you,’ Alessio replies, ‘Cupcake?’

‘I hope these aren’t recycled too’ I observe, eyeing a vanilla cupcake with suspicion. Although on closer inspection, it does look delicious.

‘Don’t worry, I raided Knam’s pastry shop on the way in this morning.’

I bite into my cupcake with a moan of pleasure, seconds before I am overwhelmed by a bear-hug from Giorgia. Judging by the smell of her, she must have polished off a bottle of champagne well before the festivities had begun.

‘I stink, sorry,’ she admits, releasing me from her embrace, ‘I didn’t make it home last night.’

‘So what else is new?’

Giorgia is the only person I know who can still look incredible in crumpled clothes and smudged makeup from the day before.

‘So are you taking me with you to the award ceremony?’ she asks, with an adorable little girl pout.

‘Gio, the Sisters’ ceremonies are not actually a den of sex-crazed lesbians, despite what the press might say. Most of the members are happily married as far as I know. And to men.’

‘Even better. I love a challenge! Pleeeeeeaase?’

I laugh and nod, ‘Yes, you can come.’

‘Might there be a place for me, too?’ Alessio looks at me with puppy dog eyes.

‘Sure, if it doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable being probably the only man in the room.’

‘Are you joking? I’m the only man in my family, the only man here in the newsroom. I was born to be among women! Finding myself in the stands at the San Siro Stadium, surrounded by cavemen and homophobes, now that was trauma!’ He shudders, tossing the curls on his forehead, ‘That’s the last time I date a football fan!’

‘Speaking of which...’ Giorgia interrupts, ‘How did your date last night go, Emma?’

‘Sorry, what did you say? I can’t hear you,’ I bluff, mouthing the words so they get lost amid the sound of Run The World, which someone has put on at full blast.

Giorgia gives me an impatient look. Evidently she is not fooled, ‘So let’s go and talk about it in your office, where it’s quiet.’

She nods to Alessio, grabs a cupcake from the plate, and before I can protest they both take an arm and drag me away from the party.

3

A Drought

Now settled back in my office, I take another bite of my cupcake to stall for time. Giorgia has taken a chair and is watching me from the other side of the desk with her large green eyes. Alessio is perched on the window ledge with his legs crossed, the light filtering through the blinds making the buttons of his Vivienne Westwood jacket glitter. I feel like a suspect being interrogated by two very stylish detectives.

When did going on a date become a crime?

I try to bite into the cupcake again, but Alessio takes it away from me and places it on the desk.

‘Since when do you suffer from nervous hunger?’ he inquires, eyeing me shrewdly, like some sharp-suited detective from Law & Order.

‘Since the two of you started sticking your noses into my love life,’ I grumble, folding my arms across my chest.

‘Your lack of love life,’ Giorgia corrects me.

‘Judging by all this reticence, I deduce that yesterday’s date did not go well,’ Alessio continues.

‘I’m not saying anything until my lawyer gets here,’ I mutter.

‘What happened this time?’ Giorgia sighs, ‘Riccardo didn’t seem so bad for a straight man. Did he pick his nose in public? ‘

‘No’.

‘Did he chew with his mouth open?’ asks Alessio.

‘No.’

‘Did he use bad grammar?’ Giorgia guesses.

‘No’.

‘So what was it? Honestly, Emma, you straight women are too picky! It’s slim pickings from what I can see. You might have to learn to settle.’

‘There was nothing wrong with him in that sense. He was well-dressed, polite and his grammar was excellent, from what I can recall.’

‘So?’ They both exclaim in chorus.

I sigh, ‘He called me Signorina’

‘Oh, no!’ Giorgia groans, throwing her head back.

‘Poor fool.’ Alessio shakes his head sadly, ‘He must be at least the third to get the boot over this.’

‘Fourth. And he didn’t get the boot. He self-eliminated.’ I recover my cupcake and bite into it with feeling, my mind running over the events of the night before.

The romantic little restaurant with low lighting, an evening of shared laughter and meaningful glances between courses, our hands touching...

With Riccardo things had really seemed right.

Until we got to dessert.

When he asked the waiter for ‘a dessert menu for myself and the Signorina,’ I just couldn’t stop myself. I hate the term Signorina. It’s so patronising and sexist.

Think about it: why should adult women be called Signorina until they marry, like they were still little girls, when men are all called ‘Signor’ whether they are married or not? They are treated as adults as soon as they are of age, while we are catalogued according to whether or not we belong to a man. As if you are somehow incomplete as a woman without a man.

‘So, let’s hear it, how did he react to the lecture?’

‘He said I was being silly and he liked the term Signorina because it reminded him of ‘something delicate and fragile, like the petals of a flower.’

‘Oh!’ Alessio gasps, putting a hand to his mouth.

‘That guy really wanted to die!’ Giorgia grins.

Scenes from the remainder of the dinner flash through my mind. My annoyed retort that a woman is not something weak and fragile that needs protecting in case she breaks, him saying dismissively that I am overreacting, and me accusing him of not understanding how the patriarchy...

In short, we never got round to ordering from that dessert menu.

‘Well, let’s look on the positive side,’ says Alessio, brightening, ‘At least this time you made it to the end of the main course.’

‘Yeah, the last guy was given his marching orders before he’d even picked his starter!’ Giorgia nods.

‘He was a pig! He called a woman at the next table a slut because she was wearing a plunging neckline.’

‘And what about the one before that?’ Alessio continues, ‘He didn’t even make it to the restaurant!’

‘Because he put on a Laura Pausini CD when we got in the car, and I said why not put on some Black Sabbath, because I knew he was a massive fan, and he said Black Sabbath was not for girls!’

I still remember the discussion inside the car getting more and more heated, until I undid my seatbelt and slammed the door in his face. He hadn’t even started the engine. On the plus side, I probably set the record for the shortest date in history.

‘Emma,’ Alessio sighs, ‘You know that we adore you, and that we support your feminist struggle completely, but when you’re on a date could you not ... hold back? Just a little bit.’

‘Hold back?’

‘You know, just...let certain things go,’ Giorgia suggests.

‘It’s not my fault that men are such cavemen!’

‘I know, but with that attitude you only scare them,’

Alessio warms to the theme, ‘Try to be less confrontational about it, otherwise you’ll keep making them all run away.’

‘Let them run! I am a modern, independent woman, I don’t need a man to complete me!’

‘Well, no, but you do need a man for...other things.’

‘What Ale is trying to say is that you need a good shag,’ Giorgia intervenes, ‘You’re all tense and rigid like a broomstick. Seriously, when’s the last time you got any?’

‘Erm, two years?’

The fact is that I’ve been far too busy with the magazine to pay even the slightest attention to my love life. I only really started dating again over the last couple of months, and only once did we actually make it to the bedroom. Unfortunately, he then refused to let me go on top because he didn’t want to be the woman, and when I pointed out that only men who are insecure about their manhood think that way, he went in a massive strop about it, so my abstinence continues unbroken to this day.

‘Well, maybe we already found the solution,’ says Giorgia, brightening up, ‘If Emma is chosen for ... mpf ...’

The rest of her words are stifled by Alessio hurriedly putting his hand over her mouth.

‘Hey, what was she going to say?’ I ask suspiciously.

‘Oh, don’t listen to her, she’s talking nonsense as usual,’ he replies hastily, ‘Who knows how many illicit substances have been in her circulation since last night, poor thing. Anyway, we’ll stop disturbing you now, goodbye!’

‘Goodbye, Woman of the Year,’ Giorgia laughs, following him through the door.

Once they are gone I finish what remains of the cupcake, although the worm of suspicion that has crept into my mind prevents me from enjoying it to the fullest.

I don’t need my journalist’s sixth sense to know that those two are hiding something from me.

4

Who Needs Sex When You Have Nutella?

It’s better to be alone than to be tied down, that’s what I always say. Why waste your time with someone who treats you like nothing more than a talking sex doll or tries to make you feel inferior just because you don’t have a penis?

‘We don’t need men, do we, Olympe?’

The cat stretched out by my side on the sofa responds with a soft meow.

‘And sex… whats so great about sex?’ I continue, sinking my spoon into a jar of Nutella, ‘Do you know what’s really great? Going to Washington to meet Michelle Obama, that’s what! Or being nominated Woman of the Year by the most important women’s association in Italy!’

It’s still hard to believe. Just two years ago I was no more than a disillusioned wannabe journalist, to whom every path to success seemed blocked simply because I was at the right age to get engaged and start a family.

After my bitter disappointment at The Record, my greatest desire had become to give a voice to all those women who had been let down and ignored like I was, by founding a new magazine for modern, independent women. No more fashion spreads featuring dangerously underweight young girls, no petty gossip or criticism of ‘badly-dressed’ celebrities. My magazine was to be a beacon of hope for every woman, from the little girl in need of healthy examples to the mature woman in search of social redemption.

Founding such an ambitious magazine, however, required substantial funds, and after resigning from The Record, I was jobless and penniless. I was about to put aside my dreams of glory when my former colleague Elisabetta suggested that I try crowdfunding. Sat in front of a PC and a cup of steaming coffee, she showed me a popular website that showcased different projects and allowed anyone to pledge money to support them.

‘Why don’t you sign up?’ Elisabetta suggested, ‘I bet there are plenty of women out there who would be excited to contribute to your idea.’

And she was right. In just a few weeks, I had earned enough to rent a small office and hire and handful of like-minded people.

The real game-changer, however, came a month later, when an anonymous donor pledged an extremely generous figure, allowing us to make a big leap in quality and start competing with the big magazines. To this day, we still wonder who gave us that six-figure sum. The person responsible has never revealed themselves, and my every attempt to identify them has been in vain (or rather, to identify her, since I am sure it must be a woman). Too bad, I would have liked to pay homage to her in my acceptance speech at the Sisters award ceremony.

I put a generous spoonful of Nutella into my mouth, trying not to think about how tight that Versace dress will be, and flick through the TV channels, until I come across An Officer and a Gentleman. I know this film off by heart. When I was younger, my grandmother had a bit of a thing for Richard Gere, and when I spent afternoons at her house we would always watch a videotape of one of his films.

An Officer and a Gentleman was our favourite. I hadn’t so much as thought about it for years, but now I select it with the remote control and settle down with my Nutella to watch it right through to that famous ending that my grandmother and I had loved so much. There is Debra Winger, working in the paper mill, and the notes of Up Where we Belong begin to play in the background as Richard Gere walks in, looking drop dead gorgeous in his pilot’s uniform. Then he lifts her up in his arms and, to cheering and applause from her teary-eyed colleagues, takes her away from the factory towards their happy future together, and…

Hang on a minute.

This ending is sexist!

What are they trying to say? That women aren’t cut out for work, and we’re all just waiting to be rescued from our jobs by a Prince Charming who will keep us with his money? And all those other workers, desperately envying Debra Winger, wishing they were in her place. If your life doesn’t satisfy you, why don’t you try to change it yourself, instead of waiting for a man to come and save you?

But what can you expect? This sort of thing is drummed into us from childhood. We’re expected to be like Snow White, who depends on men for everything: the huntsman who saves her life, the dwarves who keep her alive outside the castle, and the prince, who restores her to her rightful place.

I change the channel with an irritated gesture, and at the exact same moment, my phone rings.

‘Alessio?’ I pick up immediately.

‘Are you alone in the apartment? No-one has buzzed the entry phone?’

‘N-no,’ I reply, surprised by his urgent tone, ‘But the outside door is broken at the moment, so they wouldn’t need to.’

‘Shit!’ exclaims a voice in the background.

‘Hey, is that Giorgia? Hello!’

‘Look, we’re coming round, don’t open the door to anyone until we get there, understood?’ Alessio insists.

‘What’s the matter with you? Why shouldn’t I open the door, and why are you coming here?’

‘We’ll explain everything when we get there.’

‘Can’t you give me a clue?’

‘Emma,’ I hear him breathing heavily into the receiver, ‘They’re coming to get you.’

‘Who’s coming to get me? Aliens? The Nazis?’ I wipe a blob of Nutella from the side of the jar and put it in my mouth, ‘Weight Watchers?’

‘Worse, believe me. Just hold on, we’ve turned into your street, we’ll be there soon. But in the meantime...’

‘Yes, yes, I won’t open the door to anyone. But can you please tell me what’s wrong?’

There is no reply because Alessio has already hung up, leaving me staring, perplexed, at the TV adverts, without seeing them, wondering what on earth is the big mystery.

Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe Alessio and Giorgia have organised another surprise party and are trying try to divert my suspicions by behaving strangely. I’m starting to wonder if I ought to freshen up and put on something nice when the bell rings. I don’t need to check who it is because I can hear the excited voices of my colleagues through the door.

As soon as I open the door, Alessio rushes past me into the apartment, and Giorgia plants a hasty kiss on my cheek, enveloping me in a cloud of Givenchy and vodka, before following him inside.

‘So? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ I ask.

‘Shhh! Don’t say a word!’ Alessio warns me, rushing around the apartment and drawing the blinds one after the other.

Giorgia raises her hands in surrender and collapses onto the sofa, drawing an indignant yelp from Olympe, who darts out of the way just in time.

‘Ale, what the hell are you doing?’ I insist as he grabs the remote from my hand and switches off the TV.

‘Be quiet! They mustn’t hear us!’ he insists.

‘Maybe it’s better if you sit down, Emma,’ Giorgia suggests, patting the sofa.

Her uncharacteristically serious expression convinces me to obey. Has something serious happened? I suddenly feel afraid.

‘Have you lost a bet with the mafia and they’re coming to take me hostage?’ I ask, only half joking.

Giorgia and Alessio exchange a long look in silence, and he takes a seat on the coffee table in front of us.

‘Emma,’ he begins in a trembling voice, ‘We really fucked up.’

‘Oh God, don’t tell me it is the mafia!’ I exclaim, dismayed.

‘It’s worse. Do you remember Ugo?’

‘Your ex Ugo? Ugo the Bastard?’

‘Yes, him. Oh, don’t make that contrite expression, Emma, I’m over him now. As I was saying, when Ugo left me, two months and twenty-four days ago, the week after our first anniversary, that heartless piece of ... Anyway, I suppose you could say I didn’t take it very well. It was the weekend you were in London interviewing Malala and you didn’t see the desperate state I was in, but fortunately, Giorgia came to my house to cheer me up. We downed a bottle of Jägermeister and started reminiscing about all our failed relationships. And then we realised there was someone whose love life was even more tragic than ours,’ he smiles at me brightly, ‘You, Emma!’

‘Thanks a lot!’

‘Well, sorry, but you know how

Reviews for Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?

[nasdean · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

WHO WANTS TO MARRY A MILLIONAIRE by USA TODAY Bestselling Author Nicola Marsh is a January 2012 release from Harlequin Romance.Rory Devlin was just getting his family business back on track after it nose-dived with his irresponsible father at the helm.HE didn’t need or want any negative publicity yet here was another of a fanatical environmentalist, chained to the display of his latest project.It was obvious she wanted something- he’d never give as he didn’t take kindly to blackmail. Gemma Shultz was the best in her field. She was a marine environmental scientist, headhunted the world over. Yet when she heard about her family coastal land sold without her knowledge, she came back to Melbourne to try and minimize the environment damage which will be caused by development of the land. Rory’s company built huge mansions for rich people and Gemma wanted to ensure that all development work was under her guidance to minimize the risks to her beloved land.She did manage to convince Rory to take her on, but her dedication is sidetracked by her attraction to Rory!Rory had never before met a woman as unique as Gemma and he is captivated by her yet isn’t he using her as a public face for his company for positive publicity? Gemma didn’t take kindly to being used for publicity stunts. Would she forgive Rory? The growth and progression of love among the Rory and Gemma is subtle and naturally depicted. Nicola Marsh’s mastery of the subtleties of relationships is amazing to read. This story comes to life and at the end we are left with lot of surprises. It is a romance packed with sizzle and sexual tension adding to the page turning quality of a book!