Chapter 1

Jacob R. Donaldson looked approvingly in the mirror. It always returned the same verdict – success, confidence and enviable wealth. He wondered if one-day, circumstances might force the mirror’s re-appraisal, but this was clearly unthinkable he decided. Jacob was a senior partner of the law firm, Krantz, Dwyer & Kolchak operating from premises mid Montgomery Street in the city, just six minutes from his palatial seven million dollar home on Vallejo Street in nearby Pacific Heights. It was barely long enough to warm up the engine of his DBS Aston Martin Superleggera Volante convertible which had very recently set him back a mind-disorienting $335,780. “You get what you pay for,” Jacob would tell you. He invariably applied the same logic to his business suits, thinking nothing of splurging $47,500 on a Desmond Merrion Supreme Bespoke outfit. “It’s comfortable,” he says. Others might say it’s Desmond Merrion who might be more confortable still!

Added to all these little perks, one might include a thirty-seven year old diamond encrusted wife, two young teenage girls slightly less encrusted, both of whom attend the Bay School in San Francisco, which extracts $48,000 in fees for each girl annually, from Jacob’s auto-fill bank account ... one of them at least.

Three full time/live-in staff, made life even more bearable.

They’re doing OK you might say.

Joelene Cassidy, 34 now, had her hands in the sink. Mechanically she washed and rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the plastic holder alongside the sink itself, where the fake marble top was badly worn and beginning to crack along the edges. She wondered how many times she had done this and stopping to figure it out, came up with a figure of well over three thousand times – in the twelve years they had lived here at the small condo on Valencia Street at least. Her thirteen-year old son and eleven year old daughter attended Mission High on eighteenth street, just a five minute walk. Tom Cassidy, her husband of fourteen years, worked as an orderly at Sutter Pacific General Hospital, further along Valencia Street. By Joelene’s reckoning, they hadn’t had sex for two months or more. Neither of them though were realistically counting down the days to the next encounter let it be said.

Bills were piling up, home repairs at a crucial point and their ancient Toyota Previa not far short of Boot Hill. It was a toss up between the differential or the transmission, as to which would ‘die” first! Neither of course being worth fixing on a battered vehicle of that antiquity.

Joelene picked up a plate from the water and flung it full force against the wall behind her.

“I’m so fucking sick of living like this she sobbed,”

If Tom had been there, he would probably have echoed her sentiments.

Caroline Webster had worked at Governor’s Financial in Seattle for sixteen years. Starting as a junior clerk, she had risen through the ranks and was now assistant to the VP Major Accounts. She was supremely efficient, utterly bored, excessively lonely and on the verge of ending it all. As she sat – alone as ususal – in the staff cafeteria, with just her pre-made sandwiches and luke-warm cup of coffee keeping her company, she scanned the Seattle Times looking for what? she could not say.

It just so happened that right that moment she had the paper open at the “Personal ads.” Not something she usually would have concerned herself with. Glancing at the columns she happened to notice an ad:

“Some people do care you know!”

Are you one of the many lost females in our community that feels no-one cares about you? Your friends? husband? children? work-mates? Are you feeling un-loved, un-appreciated, unhappy? We care – and we can do something about it!

Call “The Society.” A single 1-800 number followed.

It was at the same moment Joelene Cassidy read the identical advertisement in the San Francisco Chronicle.

Not to mention, Patsy Menzies quizzical expression as she read the ad in the Omaha World-Herald.

Natalie McGovern, as she sipped her cappuccino, reading the Sydney Morning Herald in Baulkham Hills.

Louise Henderson, travelling to work in London reading The Sun as she pulled into Charing Cross.station.

Sky Logan of Auckland, her eyes firmly buried in the personal columns of The New Zealand Herald.

Romilly Toussaint, perched on her stool in a coffee shop on the Left Bank reading Le Parisien, only the advertisement now read:

“Certaines personnes s’en soucient, tu sais!”

Faites-vous partie des nombreuses femmes perdues de notre communtauté qui sentent que personne ne se soucie de vous? Tes amis? mari? enfants? collégues de travail? Es tu sentez mal aimé, mal apprecié et malheureux? Nous soucions – et nous pouvons faire quelque chose à ce sujet!

Appelez La Société

Iminathi Petersen, High school teacher in Cape Town, reading that morning’s copy of The Cape Times.

Georgia Wallis, parked in her driveway in Alberta, glancing through the ads in The Calgary Herald.

Petra Stewart, young abused housewife in Aberdeen, Scotland, scanning her copy of The Evening Express.

No shortage of a potentially interested demographic you might think.

As she read, Caroline Webster laughed out loud...”Husband huh? ... I wish!” There had been opportunities she reflected, but her inner profiler had ruled out pretty much anything with a penis. Too self-centered, too chauvanistic, too uninteresting, too crude, under-educated, too educated, no clothes sense, can’t dance, hates cats, drives an antique, drives a truck, laughs at his own jokes, no sense of togetherness, no sense of adventure – no sense! Smokes like a chimney, incessant talker, useless at Scrabble, self opinionated ... basically boring as all hell! etc, etc.

Oh, but what would she give to be loved by someone now? – even if they drove a 2004 Camry.

She input the 1-800 number into her cell ... and canceled it. Three times she did this before reality set in and she let it ring on the fourth attempt.

“Yes, can I help you?” Incredibly, the voice sounded caring. She had half expected an Indian telemarketer to ask how often she used a specific brand of detergent.

“Is ... is that The Society?” she weakly enunciated.

“We are thus known, yes ... May I know your name please? “ something in that voice instilled confidence in her and she had no hesitation in replying,

“Caroline.”

“Well Caroline, my name is Phillip and I’m pleased to meet you. I’m sure you have good reason to have called us. Would you like to talk about it?”

“I’m not sure I know where to start Phillip, this is quite difficult for me you know.”

“I understand Caroline – all I can say is that we’re here to listen and we want to help you in any way we can.”

“You must get so many calls,” she said, “I feel like a child asking for some candy.”

“Yes, well we have that too if that’s what it takes,” he answered. “M & M’s, Kit-Kat, Cadbury’s Caramello, Toblerone, Twix, Tootsie Rolls, Hershey Bars, Gummi Bears, Snickers, Smarties, Rolos...

She cut him off, laughing hysterically. “Are you reading that off a cue card Phillip?” she asked, trying to remember the last time she even laughed ... let alone hysterically.