Читать книгу Slim Chance - Jackie Rose - Страница 10

The scale doesn’t lie—three bloody weeks and not a single pound gone. I stared down in horror at the number between my big toes. Even if I held my boobs up—nothing. I’ve almost completely cut out chocolate, and for what? Damn. But I suppose just not gaining any weight could be seen as a relative success. It’s been hell at work, after all. Hell. And we’ve had so many dinners out, with everyone wanting to celebrate and all that. So just getting on the scale right now was pretty brave in the first place, I think.

But now I cannot hide from the painful truth any longer: I officially had forty pounds to lose by August 18, our wedding day. Make that June 18—two months before the wedding, if I wanted to have my alterations done in time. I glanced down at the scale again. So let’s see, that gives me…about nine months. Plenty of time. But what about The Dress? How can I buy The Dress anytime soon in this state? They’ll be able to take it in, thank God for that, but I’ve at least got to be able to go dress shopping without feeling like a cow. That settles it. Starting today, I’ve got to get serious….

“Evie?” Bruce was knocking on the door. “I need the bathroom.”

“Get away!” I barked, and jumped down off the scale.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m not ready yet.”

“Are you on that damn scale again? You’ve been in there for forty-five minutes. I’ve got to take a shower. I’m gonna be late.”

I hid the scale back behind the cabinet. He’d kill me if he saw it out again. I put on my bathrobe, opened the door and swept past him in a fury. “You know, you could give me some privacy once in a while,” I yelled back at him. But he just slammed the door.

Later, when I was blow-drying my hair, he sat down on the bed beside me. “What?” I asked.

“I’m throwing it out.”

“No you’re not,” I informed him, and turned the dryer back on.

He pulled the plug out of the wall. “Yes I am. I can’t go through this again.”

“You can’t? What about me? I’m the pork chop…”

“Evie, you’re not fat and I’m throwing that scale out. I can see it in your eyes. You’re going to get crazy again.”

“But what if I promise not to?” I asked sweetly, and plugged the dryer back in. But he grabbed it out of my hand.

“You can’t promise something like that. You know what happens to you…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I knew exactly what he meant, but I kind of like teasing him.

“Have you forgotten the intervention already? You almost lost all of your friends and I seriously considered tossing you into the East River.”

Bruce and apparently everyone else in my life labor under the impression that I have some sort of Dr. Jeckyl and Mrs. Hyde thing going on when I’m on a diet. I admit that I might get a little moody (and possibly even abrasive) when deprived of chocolate for too long, but who the hell doesn’t?

“If you’re referring to that day when you all managed to force me to eat half a cheesecake, of course I haven’t forgotten. And my third chin remembers it too, so thanks for nothing.”

“But you were so much better after that….” Bruce said wistfully.

“Because I fell off the wagon and my personality’s been dulled by a perpetual sugar high ever since.”

Bruce shook his head. “I’m not kidding, Evie.”

“I know. And I really do promise not to get bitchy this time, but you have to understand—I need to lose some weight. As soon as I do, I’ll feel better about myself, and that’ll counteract any nastiness you may experience. But I will try to be good. I promise. Just have a little faith in me, okay?”

“It’s not you I don’t have faith in, it’s the evil Mrs. Hyde who worries me.”

I threw a pillow at his head and returned to my blow-drying. I knew Bruce was only trying to make sure that things stay under control, but his attitude was starting to grate on my nerves a bit. His stress was contagious, and I wanted no part of it.

It’s all to do with his mother, no doubt. Bertie has officially gone into overdrive, and it has been getting progressively uglier with each passing day. The first crisis was finding the perfect location for the wedding. Every hotel, every inn she considers good enough has, of course, been booked solid for decades. After the banquet manager at one upscale hotel in the city (which I hesitate to name because of a pending lawsuit), actually laughed out loud and then hung up on her after she politely inquired about the possibility of reserving a Saturday night this coming June, Bertie called me in near hysterics. “If you were more sensible,” she’d spat, “you’d agree to a longer engagement. Everyone knows that you need at least a year and a half to be able to be able to plan a proper wedding. You can just forget about any getting a decent caterer or photographer. Why? WHY? It’s ridiculous—it’s not like you’re pregnant.”

I remained silent just long enough to let the possibility creep into her consciousness. After a moment or two, I could feel her panic. Poor thing. Better put her out of her misery.

“No, of course I’m not pregnant, but—”

“Well!” she shrieked. “Guess what? You can do it yourselves. Or tell your mother she can do it. I just can’t take it for another second.”

“All right. I’ll tell her. I’m sure her church up in Bensonhurst is available. I mean, it’s not like anyone in the old neighborhood actually gets married anymore. Her priest will be delighted. You know, he mostly does funerals these days. With a few streamers and balloons, the party room downstairs will look almost as nice as the ballroom at the Waldorf. We might have to clean it up a bit, though, because I think they still hold that doggie obedience school there every Tuesday….”

“Evelyn, that’s not funny,” she interjected.

“I’m serious. We don’t want a three-year engagement. Bruce doesn’t care about the best of this or that. He’d be happy if we ran off to Vegas and got married there.”

She knew I was right. Bruce probably would go for that type of thing. Of course, I would never agree to anything that tacky. But she doesn’t know that.

“Why can’t you just do it a bit later, like next fall? It’ll give us more time,” she pleaded.

“I suppose, if we absolutely have to,” I sighed. “But I hope Bruce doesn’t get impatient. He almost flipped out when I told him we were looking at well over two hundred people. And they’re mostly from your side. My side is less than forty. I just don’t want him getting cold feet about a big wedding. Do you?”

She’d already had three arguments with Bruce about various wedding details, and she could tell his patience was wearing thin. Even worse, how could she tell her friends from the gardening club and the children’s hospital foundation that her only son had eloped to some Elvis-themed wedding chapel on the Strip? My God, what would Mona Davenport think? Her daughter’s wedding last July was at the Plaza….

“Fine, I’ll keep trying,” she said. “I just want you to appreciate how difficult it’s going to be.”

“I know you’ll find something,” I assured her.

At least things would be calming down at work. Friday was Pruscilla’s last day, and Thelma Thorpe, her temporary replacement, was rumored to have the spine of a jellyfish. How these people work their way up is anyone’s guess. Monday morning, the woman could barely make eye contact, let alone tell me what to do.

“Er, um, just go ahead with what Pruscilla has planned, and I’ll check in with you later,” she said quietly, avoiding my steely gaze. If you ask me, Thelma’s wild shock of yellowy hair certainly doesn’t present the right image for the company, especially considering she heads up the Haircare division. She managed a weak smile, and looked down at the floor. Her skin was red and angry, as if she’d just been scrubbed with a nail brush.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I have a copy of Pruscilla’s Action Plan. Just call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks. And…oh dear…um…you have something in your…your face,” she said quickly, backing away.

I pulled out my compact. Oh God—a booger! Plain as day. It had probably been there all morning. That hag Andrea from Fragrances stared me right in the eye and told me it looked like I’d lost weight. No wonder there was so much snickering at the coffee cart. Before I could plan my revenge, Mom called.

“Evie, I have the most wonderful idea. Let’s go to Sternfeld’s tonight and try on wedding dresses,” she said immediately.

Crap, crap, crap! I’m not ready for this yet.

“I don’t know, Mom. Isn’t it a bit soon?”

“Oh, don’t worry about your tummy,” she said excitedly. “There’s still plenty of time to lose a few pounds before the wedding.”

“No, I mean why now? I didn’t plan to start looking for another couple of months. The wedding’s not until August, and we’re only in October. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?” I hadn’t even had lunch yet and already my waistband was beginning to cut off all circulation to my legs.

“Absolutely not! I’ve been doing a little research on my own, and I’ll have you know that all the new bridal fashions for the summer are out right now, to give enough time for alterations.”

“Well, I guess.” I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Martha Stewart says that the mother-daughter wedding-dress-shopping experience is a memory every woman will look back on fondly over the years, remembering it as one of the most cherished moments of her pre-married life (Martha Stewart Weddings, Fall: “12 Timeless Bridal Traditions”).

“And Sternfeld’s is the biggest bridal store in Brooklyn—maybe even the world!” She sounded like a commercial, so excited she could barely contain herself. “I just know we’ll find something for you there. I called—they come in all sizes.”

I undid the top button of my pants and breathed out deeply. If she had been beside me right then, it would have been hard not to smack her. “Mom, could you lay off about that, please? It’s hard enough knowing I have to lose so much in so little time,” I hissed into the phone. “I sure as hell don’t need you telling me I need a plus-size wedding dress.” Laetitia Farkle peeped over the wall of my cubicle.

“Curiosity killed the cat, dear,” I smiled, my hand over the receiver, and shot her one of my nastiest glares.

“Satisfaction brought him back,” she whispered, and sunk back down behind the divider.

Idiot. What passes for wit around here would make Oscar Wilde turn over in his grave.

“Evie, I know you’ll lose the weight,” Mom continued. “And the lady at the store said they can do alterations as you lose. And even if you don’t—”

“Mom. Please!” I was trying hard to keep my voice down.

“Let me finish. The lady said they have styles that are flattering for every figure.”

“I know that already. God! I refuse to do this with you if you’re going to be mean about it. That means no ganging up on me with the saleslady, no insisting I try on something I don’t like, no embarrassing me whatsoever. Can you do that?”

“I can’t promise anything. All I know is that shopping with you for a wedding dress is like a dream come true for me. Who’d have thought? It’s actually happening for you. I wasn’t sure it would—” She was starting to sniffle, so I cut it short with a promise to meet her there at five.

Thankfully, Thelma had elected to remain in her own office across the floor instead of moving into Pruscilla’s, which meant my cubicle would be free from prying eyes for the next six weeks. So my first order of business on this Pruscilla-free Monday morn was to announce our engagement on seven different wedding Web sites, two of which offered free presents—one bar set and one wine-and-cheese backpack—to any couple who signed up for their online gift registries.

After lunch, I organized my dress folder, which was already overstuffed with pictures ripped out from magazines. I divided them into two piles: Dream Dresses and Just Okay. The Dream pile consisted mostly of Vera Wang ads (Vogue, September: “Gown Goddess: Why Society Brides Love Vera Wang”), along with a few runway shots of gaunt models draped in impossibly narrow but undeniably fabulous couture dresses. But I would definitely settle for anything from the Okay stack—delicate little spaghetti-strapped numbers with antique lace trains, strapless corsets encrusted with glittering Austrian crystals and fairy-princess gowns surrounded in yards of billowing white tulle. I’d been doing my research, and knew the importance of giving the saleslady an idea of my taste in order for her to help serve me best (Bridal Guide, October: “The Do’s and Don’ts of Dress Shopping”).

The afternoon flew by, and I snuck out early. On my way past the switchboard, I told the girls to transfer all of Andrea’s calls tomorrow to her boss’s extension. “She’ll be out all day at the Scents and Sensibility trade show, so send everything through to Teresa,” I told them. “She’s waiting for some important calls, so she didn’t want them getting routed to voice mail.” Andrea, whose cubicle is tucked away in a back corner, spends at least four hours a day on the phone gossiping with her friends. Once Teresa fields seventeen calls for her by noon, she should start to get the idea. It was a little mean, but so was making fun of a girl’s booger. And if it ever came out, well…who am I kidding? I’d be hailed as a hero—everyone hates Andrea.

By the time I met Mom outside Sternfeld’s, it had started to rain. We rushed inside and were met by a spindly old saleslady with a lazy eye and thinning hair. She introduced herself as Greta, and looked me up and down as best she could. “Let’s take our shoes off, ladies. We wouldn’t want to get the carpets dirty with all these white dresses everywhere!”

“Can she see anything?” I whispered to Mom as we chased Greta up a sweeping, pink-carpeted staircase with gold bannisters.

“She was the only one available tonight. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“I have a gift for helping brides find their dream dress,” Greta shouted back, as if she’d heard us. “It’s like what they call ESPN. I can tell just by looking at a girl which one she’s going to buy! Been working here near fifty years, you know!”

Mom grinned, pleased that we’d stumbled onto such a quaint character. At the top of the stairs, Greta directed us toward some ratty old slippers and a couple of overstuffed but thread-bare French-provincial-style chairs.

“Evelyn is very particular about fashion,” Mom offered loudly. “She’s brought some clippings from magazines so that you can see what she likes.”

“I may have a wonky eye, Mrs. Mays, but I can hear you just fine. No need to yell. And I think it’s best if we leave the pictures aside, for now. If fifty years has taught me anything, it’s that what we like isn’t necessarily what looks good on us. Now just you wait here while I see which room’s available,” she said and darted across the vast expanse of pink carpet and disappeared behind a maze of mirrored dressing rooms.

“Smooth, Mom,” I said as we sat down.

“Was I talking loudly?”

“You were yelling. I want to show her my pictures. I don’t trust her to choose something for me.”

“Be patient, Evelyn. Let’s give her a chance. I’m sure she knows her stuff,” she said, picking up an alarmingly old copy of something called Brooklyn Brides.

I slumped down in my chair and took it all in. All around the room, other pairs of mothers and daughters waited in chairs, whispering to each other and nodding. Some pored through the rows of plastic-wrapped gowns, under the watchful eyes of Gretas of their own. Everyone seemed perfectly coiffed, in their pastel twin sets and pearls. I looked over at Mom. Her damp black hair, dramatically streaked with gray for as long as I can remember, was plastered to her forehead, and she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. She was slouching, and her beige cotton blouse—with an I Heart NY embroidered on the front pocket—was missing a button. I could see the elastic waistband of her pants. Why the hell does she need an elastic waistband? She weighs about 103 pounds. She looked like she’d made her own clothes. But I have to admit, even I felt a bit out of place in my bright tangerine pantsuit (Cosmopolitan, November: “Orange: The New Neutral”). Not only that, but I was definitely the fattest bride-to-be in the whole joint.

Greta interrupted my reverie with a hurried wave. “Come on, let’s get you undressed,” she said as we walked across the floor into one of the large dressing rooms. “Did you bring a foundation garment or are we going to build something into the dress?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Do I really need something like that? I mean, I plan to lose some weight and—”

“Oh, no! You’re not one of them, are you? If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times,” Greta sighed. “We’ll get you a smart dress that fits you NOW. Most girls don’t lose half the weight they plan to, and end up with gowns that need to be taken out later, at quite an expense I might add.”

I glared at my mom, who was nodding treasonously in agreement.

“And I’m sure your fiancé thinks you’re quite beautiful as you are, or else we wouldn’t be here!” she continued. “So now, all I need to know from you is whether you prefer something traditional or a little more modern?”

“Traditional. She likes traditional,” Mom said.

“I do not,” I snapped. “Something modern, please.”

“So you have a seat Mrs. Mays, and Evelyn, you get undressed, and I’ll be right back with a girdle and a few dresses.”

I don’t know which was worse—the fact that my mother had completely betrayed me, that a blind woman was going to choose my wedding gown, or that I was about to put on a public girdle.

“I’m leaving,” I said simply, and made for the door.

“Evelyn, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I gave birth to you, for heaven’s sake. I know every part of you. And I’m sorry if you feel that I’ve put pressure on you to lose weight. You know I don’t mean it, it’s just that you have to learn how to control yourself. Besides, God made us in his own image, and He loves each of us, no matter what we may look like on the outside.”

Scratch that. The worst part about this was getting naked in front of my mother under fluorescent lights.

“Forget this,” I hissed at her. “This is a living nightmare, and you’re not helping. You said you wouldn’t do this to me. I refuse to even touch anything she brings back. All I wanted was to try on a few dresses that I like. But you won’t even let me do that! And I didn’t come here to be insulted, either.”

“Oh, lighten up. You’re getting hysterical. Greta didn’t mean to insult you.” So now it was Greta. “This is supposed to be fun, Evelyn. And who knows? Maybe she knows what she’s doing. Did you ever think of that?”

“Mom, please,” I whined.

“Nobody’s saying we have to buy a dress here. But we did make an appointment, and Greta hasn’t done anything but try to help. I’m sorry, but it never hurts to try. If you don’t like anything, we’ll leave.”

Before I could insist we do just that, Greta returned with another old woman in tow, both of them carrying as many dresses as their osteoporotic arms could handle. They hung them up on a rack.

“Thank you, Ingrid. That will be all. Now Evelyn, let’s get you into this foundation garment,” she said, extending something gray.

“I will not wear that.”

“It’ll help with your tummy,” Greta said, shaking it at me.

“Can’t she try the dresses on without it?” my mother asked. Finally.

“Well, I suppose so. But with your bust you’re definitely going to need something. I figured you’re around a size fourteen or sixteen.”

“I am definitely NOT a size sixteen! I’m not even a fourteen!”

“Hush, Evelyn, people will hear you,” Mom whispered loudly. I could hear muffled laughter coming from the dressing rooms on either side of us. Poor twin-setters. They were probably having trouble finding dresses small enough.

“Let’s not get bogged down by a number. Wedding dresses are made small. Most brides have to buy a size larger than they normally wear. That’s why they make most samples in a size eight,” Greta reassured me.

“How horrible. Imagine how all those poor size sixes must feel.”

“How ’bout we try this one, first,” she said, freeing a dress from its plastic bag. “I thought this one would suit you because of the sweetheart neckline—it will draw attention up to your face. And you have such a pretty face.”

It was hideous. The exact antithesis of every wedding gown I’d clipped out, dreamed about. Instead of thin, elegant spaghetti straps there were puffy, stiff sleeves dotted with rhinestone-studded rosettes. Instead of a smooth, sleek bodice there was a wide trunk covered in the tackiest sort of lace-and-pearl appliqués. Instead of an elegant A-line skirt, there was a shiny satin tablecloth covering so many crinolines that it stuck out at right angles from the waist. And it was stark white, almost fluorescent (Bridal Guide, Fall: “Why Off-White Is Right-On”).

Perfect. I’d show them. “Mom, I’d like to surprise you, if you don’t mind. Let me try it on, and then we’ll call you in.”

She seemed to like that idea, and obligingly trotted out of the room. Alone with Greta, I took off my clothes and let her help me into the dress.

The first time you see yourself in a wedding gown is supposed to be an experience you never forget. We’ve all heard those stories about the brides who buy the first dress they try on because they can’t get that heavenly, haunting first image of themselves out of their minds, and nothing else can compare. You’re supposed to feel like a goddess, a virgin and a model all rolled into one. But what I saw in the mirror was beyond horrible, beyond my wildest nightmare—a blur of bulges and rhinestones and flounces and fabric. A pregnant white hippopotamus, with sausage links for arms and shiny balloons for breasts. In the mirror, I could see Greta’s pointy face light up in a twisted yellow smile. She clasped her hands together and sucked in her breath.

“You see? I told you! I do have a knack for this!” she shrieked. “Mrs. Mays, Mrs. Mays! Come in and see!”

Mom pushed the door open and froze. Now she would see how wrong she was to make me do this, how evil Greta was, how horrid I looked, how ashamed I was.

“Oh, Evelyn,” she breathed, her bottom lip trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

At that moment, I made three very serious vows—to never go wedding dress shopping with my mother again, to lose more than forty pounds, and to go home and smack Bruce for making me go through all of this. If he hadn’t proposed, I would never have been publicly humiliated in so many different ways in so little time.

A few days after her little tantrum, Bertie finally got over her selfishness and came through with the wedding plans. Through a grand concession of my own—agreeing to give up my dream of a June wedding—we were booked in for August 18 at the posh Fairfield Inn on the Connecticut shore. It was absolutely perfect—a grand, white, colonial-style mansion with an elegant ballroom and a newly renovated Bridal Suite (Bridal Guide, Winter: “Finding the Perfect Venue: Five Features You Can’t Live Without”). Bertie’s friend Cookie had two of her daughters’ weddings there, so it passed the snob test, too. It had been reserved, of course, but by a brilliant stroke of luck, Bertie popped in on the very day when one Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe called to cancel her daughter Sukey’s wedding, due to the unfortunate suicide of the groom-to-be.

Even Bruce liked the place when we popped in for a look, and whistled when he saw the four-poster bed.

“So this is where it’s all gonna happen,” he whispered into my ear while Bertie discussed the merits of veal versus roast beef with the event manager. “After all these years, you’ll finally be unable to resist my charms.”

“Yeah right,” I snorted. “I don’t know how we’ve waited so long. Oh, wait—weren’t those your charms I succumbed to on our first date?”

He snickered, and Bertie shot me a mean look. “Yes, Brucie dear,” I said loudly. “This is where we’ll spend the most romantic night of our lives. The only thing that could possibly make it any more perfect would be knowing that our guests had thoroughly enjoyed the milk-fed veal in the mushroom-cream sauce.”

The event manager raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement.

Despite a few minor glitches, Bertie and I were getting on remarkably well. Thanks to her years on the Palm Beach charity ball circuit, she’s the type of person you really want on your side if you’re planning something big—she acts fast, she has good taste and she won’t take no for an answer (unlike Mom, whom I was very happy to leave out of the entire process). Bruce, on the other hand, wasn’t dealing well with his mother at all—and we’d barely been engaged three weeks. He almost lost it when he heard she wanted to have 150 people at the engagement party (tentatively scheduled for January 20), and threatened not to show if she invited more than ninety.

Mercifully, Bruce and I were to be spared most of the remaining meetings with florists and photographers, although we felt it was important to step in and approve any final decision, in case we wanted to veto something. But I have to hand it to Bertie; she knows how to get things done. She indiscreetly prodded the event manager at the inn into telling her exactly who else Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe had hired for her daughter’s ill-fated nuptials, and then booked them immediately.

Although it was shaping up to be the event of the season, I have a feeling poor Sukey Pimbleton-Smythe would not have wanted to be a guest at our wedding. By all rights, it should have been hers, were it not for a few handfuls of Xanax and a very fine bottle of cognac.