My Fair Gentleman: A Rich Girl Played Pygmalion with Me

I can't reveal her family surname; that would mark me a cad of the lowest order. I will say her grandfather is an eightysomething English knight worth at least one billion dollars in stocks, property and other investments, and when he passes away, Kristen is going to be one wealthy kid.

I met her at a party on Riverside Dr. She was 23 and had recently moved to Manhattan from Paris, where she had spent a year curating an art gallery following her graduation from Dartmouth. I was a born-and-bred New Yorker, a musician who painted apartments on the side. In a good year I'd net $20,000. Instant electricity flowed between us, and we spent many subsequent days and nights together.

After we'd dated for three weeks, she turned to me across the pillow one evening and said, "I have something to tell you. I have $6 million." She'd recently inherited her trust fund. It was as though she'd told me she had a tail. I didn't know anyone who had $6 million; I didn't know anyone who had $10,000. I myself had $147.09.

After the shock wore off, though, I sort of forgot about her dough. I mean, she didn't carry her nose high in the air or anything. She was pretty, kind, generous and funny. We decided to move in together. We found a three-bedroom apartment on the 41st floor of a high-rise overlooking all of Central Park for $6000 a month. The second day we lived there I saw Mick Jagger in our elevator. In the ensuing months I would frequently glimpse other household-name celebrities and politicians as well as assorted European royalty fetching their mail.

The true might of Kristen's money now became apparent to me. I felt as though I'd won the lottery. Not only had I found a great relationship, but I'd been whisked from my rat-like artist existence, with three or more jammed into one tiny apartment for criminally high rents, into a world of fabulous wealth, luxury, doormen, concierges and maids.

My friends were agog. My family pretended not to be impressed. Her family was another matter.

Kristen's 82-year-old grandmother, who bore a strong resemblance to the Marx Brothers actress Margaret Dumont and was fond of such phrases as "Good heavens!", came to visit us. She subsequently reported her unfavorable impressions of me to The Patriarch. I was the wrong religion (Jewish father, atheist mother), the wrong background (their lineage could be traced back to President James Madison, mine went to my Great-Uncle Abe, Ellis Island 1919), the wrong education (high school) and had the wrong manner of speaking (a rapid mumble).

Kristen and I hadn't counted on her family's disapproval of me. We wanted our relationship to have a chance so we decided I should become a man of grace and polish. In two quick trips, she spent $15,000 at Barneys on a new wardrobe for me. I was tutored in eating, drinking, how to make introductions, how to propose a toast, how to write thank-you letters, to stand in the presence of ladies and all other manner of refinement. I took elocution lessons. We attended ballroom dancing classes. It was fun; I enjoyed playing aristocrat.

Two years after we'd met, Kristen and I announced our engagement. Like Eliza Doolittle, my official coming-out was to occur at a ball. Kristen's family would be there, as well as men and women who were worth collectively, I was told, more than $15 billion.

The great night arrived. I donned my tuxedo and removed my piercings. We were driven by limousine to the event. Kristen did not pass me off as a lord or a prince, but neither did she tell the complete truth about my background. At dinner I spoke only when spoken to and answered each question in my newly proper tones. I held chairs when the ladies sat. I left my silverware on my plate as my etiquette book had instructed. By the end of the evening I had a backache from sitting up straight for four hours.

Unlike Eliza Doolittle, however, I was not mistaken for royalty. Soon after the ball Kristen received a letter from her mother, which urged her in no uncertain terms not to marry me. "Josh can't go on the subway with his little bag of painter's tools forever!" her mom wrote. I seethed. What more did they want?

Though Kristen loved me, she ended up essentially taking her family's side. I told her I was moving out. She handed me her engagement ring and told me to sell it. She'd given me $5000 dollars to buy it, but she thought I could use the money. We'd been together three years.

I found a roommate situation in the Voice. My new digs were a small, dark bedroom, with a view of a brick wall about four feet away, on the Upper West Side.

But all was not lost, however acutely I felt the end of my relationship. I placed a personal ad in New York Press and found someone else to whom, five years later, I'm engaged. We live in a quiet working-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. I also changed jobs; I'm now an automotive journalist. I review new cars, everything from Porsches to Jaguars to BMWs, motorcycles and RVs. My fiancee and I get a new car with a full tank of gas delivered to us each week; the yellow Mustang convertible we got yesterday is our 77th car in 14 months.

Though I haven't seen or spoken to Kristen since the day I moved out of our apartment, I ran into her mom two weeks ago as I was getting out of a 2001 Mercedes SL600 convertible. I could tell she was shocked, and dying to know the source of my good fortune. I smiled, chatted and kept mum about my new job. After all, a gentleman never tells.