Читать книгу Slim Chance - Jackie Rose - Страница 9

First things first. I had to call Morgan—it was outrageous that I’d been engaged for almost 24 hours and she didn’t know.

In high school, Morgan Russell and I were the quintessential loser odd couple—she, tall and freckly and skinny; me, dumpy and short and dark. By the time she came back from Berkeley, though, she was a bombshell. I, on the other hand, have remained vaguely potato-shaped over the years, although my skin has cleared up some. But Morgan is the kind of person who makes you not hate beautiful people. She’s just like that—smart, bitchy, funny, but still with enough hang-ups that it just gives you faith. She’s definitely no fun to shop with, though, not just because everything looks good on her, but because she hates it. She lets salesgirls dress her, and says things like, “Just give me what that mannequin in the window is wearing, in a size four.”

“Hello?” her husky voice whispered on the other end.

“Morgan? Wake up. It’s me.”

“What time is it? Did I oversleep?”

“No, no. It’s almost eleven. I just wanted to talk to you,” I said. “What did you do last night?” I asked, not really caring.

“I’m going back to sleep,” she said, and hung up.

I called her back.

“What do you want, Evie? I didn’t get to bed till seven.”

“You’re already up, or else you wouldn’t have answered the phone.”

“Your logic astounds me,” she said. I could hear her lighting a cigarette.

“So what did you do?”

“I went out with Billy, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Did you have fun?” Billy is Morgan’s latest fling—thirty-seven years old, an architect, Ivy League, the whole deal. I get the sense that he’s a bit less uptight than her usual assortment of asshole Wall-Street types. She met him a few months ago at Lemon Bar, which to me sounds more like a dessert than a suitable place to meet men, but Morgan isn’t interested in finding Mr. Right. She gave up on that urban legend a long time ago.

“We met up with some of his college friends. Dreadful bunch. They’ve all got debating trophies stuck up their asses. It makes you wonder, you know? How a person you like can like people you hate?”

“I thought you didn’t like Billy, either,” I reminded her. Because of her bad instincts, Morgan had sworn off dating anyone she liked. After college, she had a string of bad luck with men she all thought were The One. The first guy, Tom, turned out to be gay, and was only dating her, he eventually realized, because something about her reminded him of Joan Crawford. Morgan didn’t find out her next boyfriend, Ryan, was married until after they’d been together for six months, and Matthew, the last guy, whom she was with for almost three years, was the most damaging of all of them—emotionally unavailable. After him, she decided it was best to stick with guys she was sure weren’t The One.

“I don’t like Billy. Not really, I guess. I mean, he’s okay. More fun than his friends, anyway. I think it’s because he’s from Detroit.”

“Detroit? How can being from Detroit make somebody fun?”

“He sort of has that sexy working man thing going on,” she said sulkily.

“Morgan, he’s not exactly blue-collar, he’s an architect for chrissake,” I said. “You’re talking like he wears overalls to work.”

“He actually did work at GM one summer,” she added.

“Oh, well there you go—you don’t like his personality or his friends, but he worked on an assembly line for one month and that makes him somehow more noble than the spoiled overachievers you usually date.”

“Now you get it!” she laughed. “Evie, it’s not that I don’t like him, I do—he’s just not someone I plan to get all crazy about.”

“Just because his friends aren’t your thing doesn’t mean he’s not a nice guy,” I said, trying to get back to the point. “I hate Bruce’s friends, and look at us.”

“I know, but I don’t really give a shit about Billy’s friends anyway. Come to think of it, I don’t really care if he’s a nice guy or not. If he can get me to forget about work and take me out for a few drinks and a good meal, and then not want to spend the whole night cuddling, that’s all I want. I don’t give a good goddamn about anything else right now.”

“Are we still talking about Billy?” I asked. “He’d want to cuddle with you if you had leprosy.” The guy is so bloody crazy about her that he turned down a better job in Philadelphia to wait around for her scraps of affection. And he is a nice guy, no matter how hard she tries to pretend he isn’t. I suddenly realized how much fun it would be if Morgan and I were engaged at the same time. If I could get her to see what a good idea marriage is, and if Billy didn’t scare her off too soon…

“He told me that he wants me to stop seeing other guys,” she sighed. So much for picking out wedding dresses together.

“Gee, what a surprise. What did you say?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“I told him to piss off and then let his best friend do body shots off my stomach.”

“Seriously, Morgan.”

“I said that he knew what I was all about when we got into this thing, and that I wasn’t really willing to date one guy exclusively—take it or leave it.”

“But you have been dating him exclusively. It’s not like you have someone else waiting in the wings,” I pointed out, pouring my third cup of coffee.

“I know, but he’s definitely not someone I want to get tied down to.”

“Why not?” Did she think getting tied down was a bad idea in general? Would she think I was making a bad choice?

Morgan sighed. “Evie, I’m sick of having this conversation with you. Why are you pushing me so hard about this?”

“Bruce asked me to marry him,” I blurted out.

Silence.

“And I threw up.”

More silence.

“Morgan?”

“We’ve been talking about Billy for ten minutes and now you tell me this? What the hell’s the matter with you?” she shrieked. “So old Brucie finally got around to it! I knew he would, you know. I knew it! I just had this feeling. I really did. Last week when you were talking about how you wanted to take a leave of absence in June as soon as Bruce finishes school and go trekking through South America for the summer and he just didn’t say anything. Aw, I knew it! It was either that or he was dumping you!”

I guess she realized then there might be a little more to the story. “You said yes, right?” she asked, in a much smaller voice.

“Of course I said yes. Why didn’t you tell me you suspected?” I snapped, relieved. It sounded like she thought it was a good idea. Morgan has always believed that I was meant for monogamy. She doesn’t think I have the emotional fortitude to handle dating more than one person. Know thyself, she says.

“Oh, come on. I can’t believe the thought hadn’t occurred to you. Tell me everything! Did you really throw up?”

“I did,” I said proudly, and told her the whole story. She particularly liked the part about me falling down on the train.

“It’s incredibly important to me that you think this is okay,” I admitted. The truth was, if she didn’t think it was a good idea, I’d almost be tempted to call the whole thing off, crazy as that might sound.

“Evie, you don’t need me to tell you that. It shouldn’t matter what I think, technically anyway. But I love Bruce, and I love you and I love the two of you together. You need each other. He wouldn’t know what to do without you. And you’re a much better person when you’re with him. And since you’re not breaking up anytime soon, you might as well tie the knot!”

“That’s exactly how I feel about it!” I knew she’d understand. “And I hope you know that this doesn’t mean things are going to change. We can still do all the things we planned, like our California road trip. Bruce doesn’t have to come.”

“You bitch!” Morgan laughed, impressed.

“Well, maybe we can all go together—you, me, Bruce and Billy.”

She snorted and said, “As long as they take a separate car.”

Morgan really is happy for me, which is good, since she’s the only one whose opinion counts. Whenever Bruce and I hit a rough spot, like when he wanted to get a cat, and I said I’d prefer to eat a cat, she knew just what to say to make me feel like I wasn’t being a bitch. There’s a very fine line between being right and being wrong, and Morgan helps me not to cross onto the wrong side. After all these years, she knows Bruce almost as well as I do, and isn’t afraid to point out what a jerk I can be, or how rare it is to find a guy you can trust.

Morgan’s a hell of a lot better at getting me to see the errors of my ways than my mom is, especially when Bruce and I are in a fight. Somehow, Mom has a way of getting Bruce to sound like medicine that’ll cure what’s wrong with me. It just makes me want to go home and flush him down the toilet.

Since I was still a little pissed off at her for last month’s whole therapy debacle (Cosmopolitan, August: “Does Your Mother Need Help? Tell It To Her Like It Is!”), and lest her reaction have the unanticipated side effect of me changing my mind, I thought I’d spare myself the trauma of a live scene and call her with the good news on speakerphone instead. I like secretly putting her on speaker. Bruce never used to believe me when she said something awful. At first he felt a bit guilty about it, but after he heard all the hideous things she says to me, he could no longer deny the pure entertainment value.

“Oh, Evelyn,” she sniffed, “I’m so happy for you.” Understatement of the century. She’s been dreaming about this moment for twenty-seven years. “I knew he’d get around to it eventually, but I was starting to wonder. It’s not like you’re getting any younger! Bruce are you there?”

She often has trouble choosing between the high road and the low road.

“Hi, Lilly. I’m here,” he said, stifling a laugh.

“Mom, wait till you hear how he proposed,” I said.

“Good, Bruce. You did good. So now you’ll officially be part of the family!” she said, ignoring me.

“That’s why I asked her.” Part of Bruce’s mission in life is to impress my mom.

“You got yourself a special girl, Bruce,” she continued. “You know that. Truth be told, though, she’s the lucky one. That’s what I’ve been telling her for years. But whether she’ll make a good wife or not, who knows?” They both cackled like hyenas.

“Ha, ha,” I said. “I’m still here, you know.”

“She’s going to make a great wife,” Bruce said, and squeezed my hand. “I have no doubt about that.”

“Well at least with Evie you can be sure there’s always gonna be enough to eat around the house!” she finished triumphantly. Bruce knew better than to laugh at this, although it looked like he wanted to.

“Aw, Lilly, you’re right. Evie is a great cook.”

Mom snorted. I don’t know which was more absurd to her—the fact that I might be a good cook (which I’m not) or the fact that her witless insult might accidentally have been misconstrued as a compliment.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what she meant,” I said. Bruce snickered, and I shot him my meanest “you’re gonna get it later” glance.

“I just can’t believe it—my Evelyn, a married woman,” she said sweetly, and sighed. “After all these years…I just…I just…”

“You just what?” Enough already.

She somehow managed to compose herself, and continued. “I just never thought I’d be around to witness it.” I could just see her there, sitting at the kitchen table in her tiny apartment, her bottom lip trembling for effect with each tearful breath even though there was nobody around to witness it. She was trying to win Bruce back to her side.

“You’re really something,” I exploded. “Bruce is NOT impressed with this and neither am I. This silliness has got to stop. I mean, do you actually expect me to believe you thought you’d be DEAD before anyone wanted to marry me? Thanks a lot, but I don’t believe you!”

Bruce shook his head. “Now you’ve done it,” he said under his breath.

“Oh, Evelyn,” she sobbed, “being alone in this world is an awful, awful thing, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. To go through life alone is a curse…a punishment. I’m just thankful that at least you won’t have to.” There was that pesky high road, with a healthy dollop of guilt thrown in for good measure.

I wasn’t going to let her see that I felt bad. “Well you don’t have to worry about me anymore, Mom. I finally tricked some poor unsuspecting slob into marrying me.”

“I’d resent that if it weren’t true,” Bruce said. I laughed silently.

“Evelyn, dear, please don’t joke,” she sniffed. “Marriage is a holy institution.” So now she was pious.

It just wasn’t worth the aggravation. “Jeez, Mom, I never said you should be in an institution, I just thought maybe you should go and see someone. I think I’ve heard more than enough about this whole therapy thing. God, I wish I’d never brought it up.” It was either tease her or lose it completely.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she sighed, exasperated. “Bruce loves you so much, Evelyn. And you love him so much.” Was that a direct order?

“So?”

“Marriage is a blessed union,” she continued. “Your whole lives are opening up before you. And it all starts with a wedding. A wedding! Oh, your grandmother will be so delighted. She’ll just flip out. Bruce, you’ll be making an old woman very, very happy.”

“C’mon, Mom, you’re not that old,” I said.

“Acch, you know what I mean, Evelyn. She really will be so happy to hear the news. Bruce, call her right away. Right now.”

Claire, my father’s mother, is pretty much the only family I have, aside from Auntie Lucy, Mom’s twin sister, who lives in England with her lame husband Roderick. After my dad died, Claire took Mom in for a few years, to help out with me and to get her back on her feet. If she hadn’t been around, I don’t know how Mom would have survived, especially since her own parents wouldn’t have anything to do with her. It’s not that I don’t understand the impulse to reject my mother; I do, but what a bunch of assholes they must have been to leave a grieving widow out in the cold just because my dad wasn’t Catholic. I know she tried to make peace with them a few times; after her mother died, when I was eight, she even brought me over to meet her dad, but he wouldn’t open the door. So Claire just kind of became her surrogate parent, united in grief and all that, I guess.

She’s the quintessential cool old lady, painting and taking classes and teaching self-defense to other rich old bags on the Upper East Side. My grandmother has also always been the arbiter between Mom and me. If it wasn’t for Claire, I probably would have killed her by now, especially after she wouldn’t let me go out West to school.

“We’ll call her right now,” I said.

“A wedding, at last! It’s going to be a real celebration,” Mom went on, her voice rising. I could hear ice cubes clinking in a glass. “Just like a fairy tale!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Bruce interjected, sensing danger. We’d already decided that we wanted something very low-key, very elegant. I could just picture the big church wedding of my mother’s dreams—our worst nightmare.

“Well, whatever you want. As long as it actually happens, I don’t care,” she lied. “That you love each other, that you’re together, that you’ve opened your hearts to love—that’s the most important thing.” This from a woman who’s refused to go on a date in almost fifteen years.

Pruscilla worked me to the bone all week, to the point where all I wanted to do when I got home was eat dinner and go to bed. Okay—so that’s what I do every night. But this week I’d really planned to go for a jog every day after work and take at least three yoga classes at the Y (In Style, May: “Why the Stars Choose Yoga To Stay Fit”).

All this to say that I’d been engaged for over a week and had hardly told anybody yet. Not that I have a ton of friends; I prefer to limit my circle to a select few. Aside from Morgan, the only people I ever really hang around with are my roommates from college. Morgan doesn’t really like any of them too much. She thinks they’re all about getting ahead and giving it. I’d long ago given up on trying to integrate her into the group. Besides, they didn’t like her much, either.

When I did finally get around to sharing the good news, not everyone was as enthusiastic as Mom and Morgan. When I told Nicole, who might more aptly be called my arch rival than my friend, all she could manage after a weak “OhmygodI’msohappyforyou” was, “Didn’t you just tell me last week that you were ready to move to L.A. with or without him?” It was true, I had said that. But it was only because I’d just found out that day that I didn’t get that internship with The Tonight Show. It was a load of crap, frankly, because I knew I could write funnier stuff than the drivel they churn out every night. I didn’t even tell Bruce about it, but I assumed he’d move out there with me if I did manage to get a job like that.

After letting me know in her own subtle way that she knew that Bruce and I have our problems, all Nicole really wanted was to be reassured that she was going to be a bridesmaid. “Of course you will!” I assured her. She’s heavier than I am. Not a lot, but enough.

Annie couldn’t get off on Sunday afternoon, so we all agreed to meet her at work. The girl has the voice of an angel but the nose of a toucan, so getting work on Broadway (or even far, far off Broadway) was proving to be a little more of a challenge than her drama teacher had let on. Now she was waitressing at Grinds, an unpopular little café in the East Village. Over coffee and cheesecake (saboteurs, all of them!) the consensus seemed to be that I am a fabulously lucky girl to have found Mr. Right in New York City before the age of thirty.

“You really look different,” breathed Annie, almost dropping my slice of Double Chocolate Oreo onto my lap. “You’re positively glowing.”

“Oh, come on,” Nicole said, rolling her big brown eyes. “It’s not like she lost her virginity—she’s just getting married.”

“Well, I do feel different. Like all the work we’ve put into our relationship has finally paid off. My whole life seems clearer now,” I said matter-of-factly. “Everything’s changed. For the first time ever, I can see the years stretching out in front of me and I’m not completely terrified, because I know that Bruce and I will be together forever.” Annie’s eyes widened at the romance of it all.

Okay, so I may have been laying it on a little thick. But it was hard not to when Nicole was so obviously jealous.

“The only thing different about you will be your ass if you keep eating cheesecake like that. And you’re talking like you just won an Oscar. ‘And I’d like to thank the Academy for helping me accept the proposal, and to Bruce, for the ring, and to…’”

“Knock it off, Nic,” Kimby snapped. “This is a big deal.”

“Yes, please. If you girls are going to get into a catfight, at least let me get my camera,” said Theo with a wave of his hand. Kimby and Theo are from the same sad little town in Iowa. They’ve been virtually inseparable since senior year of high school, when they tied for Homecoming Queen. They still live together, unable to deal with New York alone, even though Theo is making it big as a photographer and Kimby’s tours of the Museum of the Modern Art have garnered much acclaim.

“I don’t see you turning any cake down,” I pointed out.

“Maybe not,” Nicole said with a grin. “But I’m not the one who has to look better than I ever have in my entire life by next summer.”

“Meow,” whispered Theo.

“Well then you can just give me back my Thigh Master, then, since it’s just obviously collecting dust at your place,” I said. That might have been a bit mean. She’d had it for about two and half years, and very little progress had been made, although this probably wasn’t the right moment for pointing that out. I’d already decided that I was going to have to be extra nice to everyone for the next little while (Martha Stewart Weddings, Fall: “How To Be a Gracious Bride-To-Be”).

Yes, sensitivity to my friends’ feelings would be crucial, now more than ever, especially since none of them had ever really managed to hang on to a boyfriend for more than thirty seconds, and in Theo’s case, maybe twenty. Nicole, most of all, would be the hardest hit, I predicted, since she hadn’t even had a boyfriend, yet alone been laid, since that brief (four-and-a-half-day) dalliance with her anthropology T.A. almost three years ago. And even though Nicole and I usually enjoy trading insults, this certainly wasn’t the time to rub my prenuptial bliss in her face.

“Oh, I’m just teasing you, Nic,” I said. “Everyone knows that thing doesn’t work for shit and that Suzanne Somers had liposuction anyway. Nobody has thighs like that naturally.” Nicole smiled wanly and had another bite of pie.

Even if I was the only one with a long-term prospect at this point, I’d spent five years watching them (except Nicole) flit more or less happily from man to man. On occasion, I’d even envied them their freedom. But now it was easy to see how they might be envying me. I was really going to have to try and be more compassionate.

Kimby took a sip of her grande skinny hazelnut-pumpkin latte and cleared her throat. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Yes, let’s,” Theo said, obviously disappointed that things weren’t going to get any uglier.

Annie returned from the kitchen with another round. “Fill us in about the plans. I need details!”

“Well, as Nicole so indelicately pointed out, we don’t really have that much time to pull this thing together if I want to be a June bride,” I said. “And things are already getting dicey.”

“You mean with Bruce?” Nicole perked up, hopeful.

“No,” I said, glaring at her. “Just with the plans. First off, the date we wanted was Saturday the tenth of June, but it’s booked everywhere….”

“Hotels? Churches? What are we talking about?” asked Kimby impatiently.

“My mom wanted a church…”

“Of course,” said Annie, a lapsed Catholic herself.

“…but Bruce and I insisted on a hotel or an inn. Thank God Bertie agreed, because they’ll pretty much be paying for the whole thing….”

“Uh-oh,” said Kimby softly.

“World War Three, anyone?” Theo said. Kimby bowed her blond head and looked at her lap, her narrow shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Yeah well, whatever, but she’s been on the phone all week trying to find a place. I don’t think it’s going to be all that bad, you know. Bertie may be a lot of things, but cheap isn’t one of them,” I finished defensively.

“Did she know Bruce was going to propose?” Annie asked.

“No…”

“Did she freak?” Nicole always wanted the gory details.

“It wasn’t as bad as we thought, really. When we told her she seemed totally confused at first, but then she made a big show of it. I think she was in shock, completely overwhelmed. Who could blame her? I’m stealing away her only son.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Annie said. “But hopefully she sees it as gaining another daughter.”

“Not this bitch,” said Theo. “But your optimism is refreshing, Annie.”

“Well, she did force herself to hug me,” I continued. “Bruce doesn’t believe me, but I swear it was the first time the woman’s ever actually touched me. Can you believe that? I didn’t realize it till I felt her bony ribs. She was even crying a bit. I wouldn’t say it was exactly nice, because I was uncomfortable as all hell, I won’t lie to you, but it was…I don’t know…almost normal.”

I was censoring, but just a bit. The first thing Bertie did when we told her we were getting married was give Bruce’s dad The Look, and then she excused herself politely to go see to the roast. I was immediately pissed off for Bruce’s sake, but he seemed more amused by it than hurt, thank God. When she came back out of the kitchen a few minutes later, she was crying—that was when she hugged me—but she smelled like onions, and her finger was bleeding.

“I don’t think she was really all that surprised,” I lied. “Bruce’s dad knew about it the whole time, so he was probably acting like a freak for weeks beforehand. I’m sure she knew something was up.”

“Yes, but could she really have expected this?” Theo sighed. “Her precious Bruce, heir to the Fulbright Jam and Jelly empire, marrying a sloppy Italian wench from Brooklyn. Your mother got the prize in this scenario, my dear. Bruce is like your mother’s knight in shining armour—he fixes her toilet, he does her taxes, and he saved you from the shame of spinsterhood. This wedding is the answer to all her prayers. But what do you do for Bertie?”

“What?”

“I mean, what does she get out of you? Out of your relationship with Bruce? Nothing but a headache, I bet. You spare the maid from doing Bruce’s laundry, that’s about it.”

“That’s not true,” I pointed out. “Bruce does his own laundry. And mine.”

“How silly of me. Of course he does. Just remember though, Bertie’s got plenty of daughters already, so it’s not like she needs our young Martha Stewart over here to accompany her on afternoon shopping dates or to take care of her when she gets old. This is probably a living nightmare for the woman.”

I was incensed. “For your information, Theo, Bruce likes doing laundry. And Bertie called me the next night and we talked about what kind of wedding we want. So she’s obviously accepting this.”

“Don’t be naive. She’s got a few tricks up her sleeve, yet,” he said.

“What about his sisters?” asked Kimby. Bruce’s sisters were a source of endless amusement for all who knew of them. Even Morgan listened with bated breath to tales of their tantrums and addictions.

“His sisters were okay about it, I guess. They just sort of nodded and smiled. Except for Brooke…”

“Is that the oldest one?”

“Yes. She’s the one who wanted to go to help free Tibet until she found out that it was in Asia.”

Everyone nodded, remembering.

“Well, Brooke kind of seemed like she was about to cry at any moment, and she kept staring at The Ring!”

Annie slapped the table. “That jealous bitch!” she said, with an uncharacteristic touch of venom. “She thinks it should be hers.”

“Bruce’s dad, though—he’s the best. He’s just so happy for us about this. It’s like he has a new reason to live or something….”

Annie just wanted more details. “And what about the dress, and flowers, and…”

“She’s only been engaged for a week, for chrissake,” Nicole interrupted.

“Actually, I do have a few ideas,” I said, reaching into my bag. Thankfully, there’s an excellent magazine store in the lobby of the Kendra White building, so I’d already amassed quite a stack of reference materials. “Martha Stewart Weddings, Bridal Guide, In Style Weddings, Bride—I can’t get enough! I swear, I’m going to keep them all in business this year!” I said, and put the stack on the table.

Nicole rolled her eyes, but grabbed Martha Stewart Weddings before anyone else could. “What a hideous cake,” she said of the picture on the cover.

“Oh, please!” shrieked Theo. “It’s fabulous! Marzipan is so hard to work with. You just don’t get it—it’s supposed to look like Wedgewood china. You know, you could do something like this, Evie.”

“Let’s worry about the cake later,” I said wisely. “For now, let’s turn to the pages I’ve marked for bridesmaids’ dresses. Oh, you’re all going to be so gorgeous, I can’t wait!”

“Do I get to be a bridesmaid?” Theo clapped his hands. “I’d look precious in that one—I have a flatter stomach than all of you!”

“No, you idiot, you’re a groomsman,” said Kimby. “And don’t kid yourself, dear. My stomach is flatter than yours.”