Just Not That Into Billionaires Read online

  Just Not That Into Billionaires

  Annika Martin

  Copyright © 2021 by Annika Martin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  0000008062021ccf

  Psst: are you in on my newsletter?

  You are cordially invited to join in on my Smuckers-approved newsletter for freebies, fun stuff, cat pictures and other bits of randomness!

  It’s all in the newsletter, my friend! http://www.annikamartinbooks.com/newletter/

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Also by Annika Martin (aka Carolyn Crane)

  All the Annika deets!

  The newsletter with the mostest…cat photos

  Let’s have some fun!

  One

  Francine

  * * *

  I’m limbering up at the edge of one of the big rehearsal spaces at the Gotham Metropolitan Ballet complex when legendary choreographer Dusty Sevigny comes storming up.

  He stops in front of me, bushy brows drawn so low they nearly blot out his eyes.

  “You’re to report to Rosemary’s office,” he says in his thick Russian accent, tipping his head toward the area where the company support staff toils away.

  Sevigny is difficult to read, what with his brows, his Einstein hairdo, and his stormy artiste vibe, but it’s safe to say he’s upset.

  “Right this moment?” I ask uncertainly. It’s a strange request, considering we need every second of practice on “Plamya,” his big comeback piece. Let’s just say the breakneck time signatures trip up a lot of dancers. There are thirty arabesques at one point.

  “Immediately,” he says

  I plaster on a bright expression “On it!”

  He crosses the expanse of hardwood and disappears out the door.

  My fellow dancers are scattered all over, stuffing their pointe shoes and rubbing their muscles in preparation for our five-hour rehearsal, but now all eyes are on me.

  I stand. Heart pounding, I walk toward the door, passing a horrified cluster of colleagues who clearly think I’m in trouble.

  They’re not the only ones.

  I put my hand to the side of my mouth and do a quick stage whisper. “Sevigny so loves her performance, he can’t even!”

  People give me sympathetic smiles.

  As pep talks go, telling a ridiculous story about the bad thing that’s happening is probably not that effective, but it’s what I do. I pass them but I’m not done. I turn and walk backwards, adding, “He’s sending her to the back office to pick up a huge bonus and a brilliant bouquet of flowers!”

  Somebody snorts.

  I turn and go out the door and rush down to the stairwell.

  The admin section of the massive refurbished building has a highly polished tile hallway that leads past old-world doors with wavy waterglass windows. Words like “administration” and “tickets” are painted on them. It’s all very film noir.

  What could be the matter? Why not wait until rehearsal is over?

  This feels bad. Like dream-crumbling-before-my-eyes bad.

  Being chosen as second soloist for this piece was the hugest honor of my life. Only the first soloist and principal dancer have larger parts. We’re embarking on a European tour after our in-town premier, including three nights dancing at my dream theater: Mérida’s Roman Theatre in Spain, a magical space surrounded by ancient marble columns and statues.

  Rosemary’s desk, like her office door, has that film noir feel, but Rosemary herself is very contemporary, one of the many hip and worldly fifty-somethings who work behind the scenes in the New York dance world. She was a dancer herself in the ’80s. If I didn’t know it from talking to her, I’d know it from looking at her—I can always tell an ex-dancer by the way they move.

  “Mr. Sevigny said to come back and see you?” I say.

  Her face turns grim and she sighs. “Right. Take a seat. We’ve got an issue. It’s…” She shakes her head, tapping away on her keyboard. “It’s…not good. Visa stuff.”

  “Visa stuff?” I ask, wracking my brains for what it could be. My passport is valid for another year almost, so it couldn’t be that. “What visa stuff?”

  She holds up a finger. I’m to wait while she hits more keys.

  I look down at the black screen of my phone, not bothering to tap it to life. Not like I’d be able to comprehend anything with my pulse whooshing in my ears. What’s going on? It has to be serious if I was asked to duck out of rehearsal. Every hour of practice is critical and precious right now.

  “Here we go.” Rosemary peers at me above stern reading glasses. “Your visa applications have been rejected by three out of the fifteen countries we’ll be touring in.”

  “Rejected?” My heart pounds. “Why?”

  She eyes me full-on now. “An EU visa requires you to state your correct civil status. You told us on the forms that you were single. Never married.”

  I nod. “That’s right. That’s correct.”

  She’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course.”

  She glances back to the screen. “According to Social Security records, your marital status is married.”

  “Excuse me?” I say. “There must be some mistake. I’m not married. I never was.”

  “According to Social Security you’ve been married for nine years, and the discrepancy is getting you flagged and rejected. The powers that be are very picky about that sort of thing these days. Terrorism and so forth.”

  “There has to be some kind of mix-up. Maybe somebody is using my Social Security number or something.” I try a smile. “I mean, I’d know if I were married, right?”

  She reads off my Social Security number and I confirm that that is, indeed, my correct Social Security number. She frowns at her screen.

  “Who am I supposedly married to?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “It just shows your status here. As married.”

  “They can’t straighten it out?” I ask. The company’s tour office usually handles this sort of thing.

  Rosemary informs me that only I can straighten out a matter this personal. I’m going to need a notarized marital status affidavit which I’m to get in person from the New York county clerk at the New York County Supreme Court.

  “I’ll head over first thing tomorrow morning,” I say, eager to get to rehearsal.

  “No, look,” Rosemary says, voice softening. “Mix-up or not, if we can’t get this worked out, we can’t bring you along. Right now, you’re not somebody we can bring to three of our host countries.”

  “But I’m not married! Obviously it’s a typo or whatever.”

  “I know, I get that, but we need this nailed down. Daneen will be dancing in your place today.”

  “What?” I gust out.

  “You need to make this your top priority. You have a month to get t
hat affidavit. I’ve spoken with my contacts, and that will give me enough time to get those visas in order. They’re holding it open; they just need to see the affidavit and then they’ll clear you.”

  I can barely feel my face. I might not go? After all this, I might not go? “Well, can we just change it to married and then deal with the problem when I get back?”

  “Too late,” Rosemary says. “It’s a big deal when you sign your name to false information on that type of official document. At this point, you need to prove that the information is correct.” She gives me the address for the New York County Supreme Court. It closes at 4:30.

  “I’m on it,” I say.

  “Report back right away. We need to know that you can do this. If you can’t get it straightened out, there’s no sense…”

  No sense in even rehearsing with the company. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. “I will get you that affidavit. I will do what it takes. And I’ll let you know how it goes every step of the way. This is getting fixed. You can tell Mr. Sevigny that, too.”

  Thirty minutes ago, the worst problem in my life was my knee injury, whether to ice-heat-ice it or heat-ice-heat it.

  And now all of my most cherished dreams are threatening to crumble.

  Two

  Francine

  * * *

  Not an hour later I’m riding illegally in the passenger side of Noelle’s mail truck as we buzz down Canal Street. She insisted on coming and picking me up when I called. She wants to go with me to the county clerk.

  “You really feel like you have pull with the county clerk?” I ask. “Just from being a letter carrier?”

  “I wouldn’t say I have pull,” she says. “More like a kinship. These are my people. And I’m good at cutting to the chase.”

  I hold on tightly as she rounds a corner. “Are you saying I don’t cut to the chase?”

  She gives me a quick grin, navigating efficiently around an obstacle course of delivery trucks, and double-parked vehicles, honking fiercely. “You can sometimes have a dramatic presentation, Francine, whereas a government employee is going to want the when what where and why presented simply and without fanfare.”

  “Are you calling me fanfare-ish?” I ask.

  She shrugs and rounds another corner. “Court’s on the next block.”

  I nod, and there’s this silence where all I can think about is the devastating possibility of me not going on this tour.

  “We’re gonna fix this,” she says.

  “I’ve been literally floating on cloud nine for months,” I say. “And being so careful. No just-for-the-hell-of-it cartwheels. No leaping puddles. Every time I so much as step into a crosswalk I’m obsessively scanning for speeding bikers and peds on phones. Who knew it would be some bizarre bureaucratic blunder? As if I’m married!”

  “You are definitely the last person that I would ever imagine getting married. You would be like, screw this piece of paper!” she says.

  “When and if I fall in love, I will not need a piece of paper to cement the deal,” I declare. “No offense to our married gal pals of course. Even if they are married to billionaires,” I say, trying not to let the word drip with all the derision in the world.

  Noelle snorts. “Tell me how you really feel about billionaires.”

  I laugh. “You know how I feel about billionaires.”

  “Yeah, but I want to hear you say it,” Noelle teases.

  I beam at her, grateful for her teasing me and getting my mind off my problems. Whatever happens, I’ll have my gal pals at 341 West 45th Street. “You are such a good friend.”

  She reaches out and grabs my coat sleeve. “Backatcha,” she says.

  It turns out to be amazing having Noelle along. She gets a front-and-center parking place reserved for official vehicles. She gets me to the exact right floor without so much as glancing at the building directory whereas I would have had to study it for an hour. She’s cheerful in line.

  When we get up to the front, I really do have the feeling that there’s a kinship between her and the county clerk, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and thick glasses.

  “Pinoy?” I ask him.

  He gives me a questioning look.

  “Never mind,” I say. Noelle gives me a stick-to-the-topic look and launches into explaining things, casting the situation as if it’s all of our puzzle to solve together, like we’re on the same team, like it’s not anyone’s fault.

  “They have you as married…” he says, tapping keys.

  “You can imagine how shocked I was to hear such crazy news!” I tell him, rooting through my purse. “I’m not even sure how I feel about marriage in general. I haven’t decided. I can see some advantages, of course—”

  Noelle clears her throat and I hand over my many forms of identification. The clerk types some commands into the keyboard.

  “Did you travel to or reside in Las Vegas nine years ago?” he asks.

  I stiffen. “I lived there for a summer,” I say. “I guess that would be nine years ago.”

  He swivels around, grabs a sheet of paper from a printer, and slides it across the desk. “Does this look familiar? Is that your signature?”

  I blink as my mind interprets the words. It’s a Nevada marriage license. It has my name on it. And yes, my signature.

  My eyes scan to the other column.

  To the name of my husband.

  Benjamin Stearnes.

  I stare at the letters, heart racing. Benny.

  I can see him in my mind’s eye like it was yesterday. His sandy, wavy hair puffed up on one side from frenetically running his fingers through it. His intense gaze through too-huge-for-his-face glasses—said intensity coming, more often than not, from his high level of annoyance at me. I imagine him grabbing a sheaf of papers off the pit table with his angular, uncoordinated movements, more gangly than graceful. And those lips—so expressive and beautiful, even if they were usually in a frown.

  “What do you think?” the clerk asks.

  “There’s gotta be some mistake,” I say.

  “Does that look like your signature?” he asks.

  “It looks like my signature,” I say.

  “Do you know Benjamin Stearnes?”

  I can feel my cheeks heat with shame like they always do when I think about Benny. I can feel Noelle’s gaze boring into the side of my face.

  “Do you know who that is, Francine?” she asks.

  “Well, I knew him,” I say. “But I don’t remember marrying him. I think I would have remembered. There would have been a wedding. Flowers. A dress, preferably a decent gown—”

  “Did you two date or anything like that?” she asks before I elaborate further.

  “No, not really.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Not really?”

  She wants more but I don’t know if I can give it. I have no idea how to characterize what Benny and I were. “We worked together. We were more like work frenemies than anything.”

  “Look,” the clerk says. “I can’t give you a notarized affidavit of single status until I have proof that this marriage is invalid. And I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t see anything that suggests to me that this is not a currently valid legal document.”

  “I need my affidavit of single status for some overseas travel ASAP,” I plead.

  “Then you’ll need proof that this document is invalid,” the clerk says. “My suggestion would be divorce papers. Download some divorce papers and track this guy down to sign ’em. You show me that and I’ll give you your affidavit.”

  “How long will that take?” I ask.

  “It’s something I can turn around right here, but getting a judge to sign off on your divorce decree, if that’s the way you go, it could be a few weeks. Assuming there are no disputes.”

  “Benny…probably isn’t my biggest fan,” I whisper as I watch my world crumble.

  “Don’t be crazy. Everyone loves you.” Noelle pulls on my sleeve. “Come on.”

  “Not that
I would even know where to find him…” I continue.

  Somebody grumbles behind us. I’m aware of Noelle and the clerk exchanging glances.

  “Come on, let’s figure this out while he takes the next person.” She pulls me out of the large, now stuffy-feeling room. We sit in plastic molded chairs out in the hallway. I’m staring at the paper, mystified.

  “Look, this still works,” Noelle says. “We know how to fix this. You have to find him right away and get that signature, and then we hope for a judge who can clear it right away. It can happen!”

  “I only have a month,” I say, “or they’ll use another second soloist!”

  “There’s no reason it can’t happen,” she says. “Right?” She gives me a little hug. I’m sure it feels like hugging a large mummy from her end.

  Benjamin Stearnes?

  “This is doable!” she says. Sweet Noelle. Always so positive. It was her positive thinking that completely saved our building from demolition.

  But she doesn’t know Benny.

  “He will not be thrilled to see me,” I mumble.

  “Who could not be thrilled to see you?” Noelle asks.

  “Benny could.”

  “So he was your co-worker?”

  “He was the backend tech guy for the show I danced in, completely nerdy and scowly and antisocial, and I was this out-of-control social butterfly at the time and…it was weird between us.”

  “You didn’t get along?” Noelle asks.

  I think about this for a while, watching all the people go up and down the hallway to all their various courthouse appointments. “I actually had a crush on him. It was one of those weird sorts of crushes. I mean, he so wasn’t my type at the time. And he definitely didn’t return my affections. I really, really annoyed him. I guess I didn’t know what to do with that, so I would kind of turn it up to eleven with him. Sort of like poking at a beehive. It was a kind of compulsion. I was a little bit fascinated with him.”