“Romance of the Sea,” Lauren, my best friend, says.
I cringe involuntarily, like I do every time she says the name of the boat out loud.
“Stop that,” she says. “The name is cute. And oh my stars, look! There she is!” She gestures at the boat towering above us, its side emblazoned with a crest of two dolphins facing each other in the shape of a heart.
“Adorable,” I say.
Lauren proceeds to whip out her phone and take a video of herself oohing and aahing over the ship—B-roll, I assume, for the fawning TikToks she’s contractually obligated to make in exchange for our passage.
I paste a smile on my face and try not to think of theTitanic.
The cab stops at a sign for passenger check-in and a porter swoops in to help with our bags before we’ve even gotten out of the car.
“Thank you so much,” I say, as he effortlessly lifts my beat-up suitcase and Lauren’s three enormous Louis Vuitton trunks onto a cart.
“What did you pack in there?” I ask Lauren under my breath. “Your couch?”
“Mostly caftans and ball gowns,” she says. “And, of course, camera equipment. Can’t go anywhere without my ring light!”
“Naturally,” I say.
“Is that an arch tone I detect, Miss Lanover? I thought we agreed you were going to impersonate a basic ass bitch and have fun drinking margs and rotting in the sun with your boobs out.”
“Sorry,” I say. “You’re right. I am hereby excited and bubbly.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.”
We make our way through security and are greeted by a man with a European accent and mannerisms so gracious you’d think he was greeting members of the royal family rather than a social media influencer and her plus-one. He inspects our documents and tells us what a fabulous time we will have, and how happy he and the rest of the crew are to host us for what he hopes will be the first of many trips.
Unlikely.
We are then escorted to a seating area to await our turn to board the ship. I gaze out at a sea of silver.
Hair, that is.
“Everyone here is like minimum sixty years old,” I whisper to Lauren.
“Yes, darling. That’s the point.”
Lauren is here for a tactical reason. TheRomance of the Seahas a new solo package for singles and she’s doing a sponsored series on it. “Think about it,” she explained to me when she pitched the idea of us going. “You’re trapped on a ship for two weeks with eligible men. It’s so smart. I’ll probably meet my husband.”
“Won’t that put you out of business?” I ask.
Attempting to meet a husband—a rich husband—is, after all, her entire career.
Lauren Rose Mathison, @LaurenLuvRose to her fans, got her start starring inMan of My Dreams, a reality TV dating show in which female contestants submit a list of criteria for their ideal husbands, and are then marooned on an island with “matches” handpicked by producers. The catch? None of the girls know who among the corresponding suitors is their supposed soul mate.
Lauren did not choose correctly, but she did become the breakout star of the first season, after attesting in her charming Texas accent that her soul mate must be “hung like a horse and rich as hell.” She parlayed her notoriety into influencer fame, posting tutorials on how to flirt and dress for maximum seductiveness and going on elaborate “missions” to find and fall in love with a wealthy bachelor. Her schemes have included taking lessons at luxury golf courses, moonlighting as a private jet flight attendant, attending crypto-currency conferences, and infiltrating a high-stakes poker ring.
Before you call Gloria Steinem to complain about the death of feminism, please note that Lauren’s schtick is tongue in cheek. Her videos have the breathless style of a reporter embedding herself into a high-stakes investigation and are performed with a wink.
“Oh stop,” Lauren says to me. “I do want a husband, and anyway, noteveryoneis old.” She subtly nods at a thirtyish Black couple in expensive-looking resort wear who radiate the glow of honeymoon bliss, and then at a pair of stylish white gay men who look about forty and have a toddler in a stroller.
“Token millennials,” I say. “The exception that proves the rule.”
“Oh look,” she says. “Incoming, ten o’clock.”
I follow her gaze to a group of four trim men in their fifties or sixties.
