The scrap of paper in Alistair Finch’s hand was becoming translucent with sweat.
It contained a single name, “Chloe,” and a phone number, scribbled in the hasty, almost illegible hand of his colleague, Dr. Abernathy from the Classics department.
“Discreet, professional, and an absolute miracle worker,” Abernathy had said with a wink that Alistair found deeply unsettling.
“She can find a suitable match for any occasion. Very high-end.”
Alistair had taken this to mean a bespoke, clandestine matchmaking service for the intellectually and socially challenged elite. It was, he reasoned, the only logical solution.
A transaction. A service rendered.
Far more civilized than the humiliating pageant of modern dating, with its cryptic text messages and emotionally ambiguous coffee meetings.
He sat at his desk, the familiar scent of aging paper and leather bindings doing little to soothe the frantic thrumming in his chest. The phone on his desk looked less like a communication device and more like a venomous reptile coiled to strike.
This was absurd. He had presented theses to rooms full of hostile academics, debated the semiotics of forgotten dialects, and once spent three days trapped in a Vatican archive with nothing but a stale water biscuit and a thirst for knowledge.
Yet, the prospect of this phone call made his palms slick and his collar feel three sizes too small.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath that did absolutely nothing, he meticulously punched in the numbers. He would be clear, concise, and professional.
This was a business arrangement, a negotiation for a “socio-romantic partnership.” He had even outlined a few key talking points on a fresh sheet of foolscap.
The phone rang twice before a voice answered, smooth and warm as honeyed tea. “Plus-One, this is Chloe speaking.
How can I make your day special?”
Alistair blinked. Plus-One?
An odd name for an exclusive agency. Perhaps it was a coded pleasantry.
He cleared his throat, gripping his notes.
“Good afternoon. My name is Dr. Alistair Finch.
I was referred by a Dr. Abernathy in regards to procuring the services of your… establishment.”
There was a brief pause on the other end. “Dr. Abernathy?
Oh! From the university? The lovely man whose niece got married last spring.
Of course! We love repeat referrals.
So, Dr. Finch, what’s the occasion? Wedding? Gala?
Awkward office party you can’t get out of?”
Alistair’s brow furrowed. This was a far less formal screening process than he had anticipated.
“The occasion is… ongoing,” he said stiffly. “It is not a singular event, but rather a sustained undertaking.”
“Okay,” Chloe said, her voice still bright, though a note of confusion crept in. On her end, she was picturing a tweed-clad academic, probably needing a buffer for a whole weekend-long faculty retreat.
She doodled a mortarboard on her notepad. “A weekend gig, then.
We can absolutely do that. Do you have dates in mind?”
“The primary engagement is this coming weekend, yes, but the parameters of the partnership are more complex. I require a candidate who can convincingly portray a role over an indeterminate period.”
Chloe stopped doodling. Indeterminate period?
This was new. “I’m not sure I follow, Dr. Finch.
All our contracts are for specific events. We don’t really do… open-ended.”
Alistair’s anxiety began to curdle into frustration. Was this woman deliberately being obtuse?
“Perhaps I have been unclear,” he said, his tone growing more professorial. “I am not seeking a temporary escort.
I am seeking a partner—for a contractual, non-physical, mutually beneficial arrangement—to satisfy a specific familial stipulation.”
The line went quiet. Chloe put her pen down, her entire body language shifting from relaxed professionalism to laser-focused curiosity.
Her business partner’s voice echoed in her head, complaining about their dwindling cash flow. We need a whale, Chloe. One big client.
This guy didn’t sound like a whale. He sounded like a very strange, very articulate guppy.
“A… familial stipulation?” she prompted carefully, her mind racing through a Rolodex of client pathologies.
“Precisely,” Alistair said, relieved to finally be making progress. “The matter pertains to an inheritance clause.
A rather archaic one, but legally binding nonetheless. It requires me to be in a stable, committed relationship.
Therefore, I need to engage a professional to simulate said relationship for the purpose of satisfying the executor of the estate, my grandmother.”
Chloe’s jaw went slack. She mouthed the word “Wow” at the empty wall of her tiny office.
This went far, far beyond pretending to be someone’s adoring girlfriend over lukewarm champagne and bad wedding DJing. This was… method acting.
This was long-form improv with a fortune at stake.
“Dr. Finch,” she began slowly, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My company, Plus-One, provides professional companions for events.
I’m a bridesmaid-for-hire. I help people get through weddings, not wills.”
It was Alistair’s turn to be stunned into silence. A bridesmaid.
A… for hire bridesmaid. He felt a hot, mortifying blush creep up his neck.
Abernathy’s unsettling wink suddenly made a horrible kind of sense. He had called a party-goer.
An actress. He was about to stammer out an apology and hang up, consigning himself to a future of losing the Blackwood Library and becoming a cautionary tale in the faculty lounge, when Chloe spoke again.
Her voice had changed. The perky customer service tone was gone, replaced by something sharper, more direct.
More interested.
“However,” she said, and the word hung in the air between them, shimmering with possibility. “You said this was to convince your grandmother.”
“Yes,” Alistair mumbled, his mind still reeling from the humiliation. “Matilda Finch.
She is… formidable. And in failing health.”
“So the deception would need to be perfect,” Chloe mused, almost to herself. The numbers were already starting to click in her head.
The buyout figure for her partner’s share of the business. The deposit on a new office space, one that didn’t smell faintly of desperation and microwaved popcorn.
A client this desperate, with this much on the line… he wasn’t a guppy. He might just be the whale she’d been praying for.
“It would have to be flawlessly executed, yes,” Alistair confirmed, catching a sliver of hope in her tone.
“And what is the… financial scope of this inheritance?” Chloe asked, trying to sound professional and not like a gold-digger, though at that moment, she felt a certain kinship with the profession.
Alistair hesitated. It was gauche to discuss money, but this was, at its core, a financial transaction.
“The sum is… substantial. It is designated for the restoration of a historically significant private library.”
Substantial. Chloe liked the sound of that word.
It sounded solid. It sounded like solvency.
It sounded like telling her partner exactly where she could shove her glitter-dusted bachelorette party proposals.
“Dr. Finch—Alistair,” she said, her voice now a reassuring blend of empathy and competence. “What you’re asking for is highly unorthodox.
It’s well outside my company’s standard service agreement. It would require immense discretion, preparation, and emotional labor.”
“I am prepared to offer generous compensation for such professional services,” he said quickly, the hope growing stronger. This woman, this… Chloe… she might be an actress, but she sounded organized.
She understood the transactional nature of the request.
“This isn’t something we can negotiate over the phone,” she stated. “We would need to meet.
Discuss the full scope of the project, the risks, the backstory we’d need to create. And my fee.”
“Of course. A preliminary consultation.”
Alistair felt a wave of relief so profound it nearly buckled him. He had a consultation.
He had a potential solution. He had navigated the treacherous waters of a social telephone call and emerged with a tangible result.
He felt almost heroic.
“Let’s meet tomorrow,” Chloe said, already pulling up her calendar. “Someplace neutral.
Public, but quiet.”
“A coffee shop near the university, perhaps? The Daily Grind?”
“Perfect,” she said. “Ten a.m. I’ll be the one not looking like a tenured professor.”
Alistair wasn’t sure if that was a joke, but he managed a faint, “Very well.”
“And Alistair?” she added, just before hanging up.
“Yes?”
“Come prepared to tell me everything. If I’m going to be your fiancée, I need to know every last boring, academic detail about you.”
The line clicked dead.
Alistair slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle. Fiancée.
He hadn’t even dared to frame it that way in his own mind. The word felt foreign, theatrical, and utterly terrifying.
He looked at his neat list of talking points, with its sterile phrases like “romantic partnership” and “behavioral stipulations.” They seemed laughably inadequate now.
He had called a bridesmaid-for-hire to pose as his betrothed to fool his dying grandmother for a multi-million-dollar inheritance.
He slumped back in his chair, the scent of old books suddenly smelling not of comfort, but of the monumental folly he was about to embark upon.
It was illogical. It was insane.
And for the first time in weeks, it felt like a plan.