Читать книгу Escape From Bridezillia - Jacqueline deMontravel - Страница 10

We walked to no particular destination in silence. I had been preoccupied with the decorating of our new apartment—hanging my canvases, pointing to big strong men where to situate the retro furniture that I’d be purchasing from nearby SoHo shops and a basketball hoop with a basketball. (Though there would be no basketball playing allowed, they must be included for the effect—it was all about the effect. I mean no one really uses the pool boy who comes with the Palm Beach estate, unless you’re…er…I started imagining a very young Antonio Banderas. Again, it was all about the fantasy.)

Henry asked if we could stop at the bookstore on Astor, knowing that I’d agree without protest. I loved bookstores the way I loved diners. How hours could slip from the mental travel spurred by pictures and words.

He consulted the floor plan and we went to the Home and Architecture section, where Henry began stacking all of the Idiot and Dummy guides to buying a home on his arms, while I preoccupied myself with a coffee-table book celebrating the works of I.M. Pei, choosing the homes that I could live in.

“Tonight we’ll divide the reading—bone up on how to negotiate, apply for a mortgage, select inspectors, contractors, et cetera,” Henry said, wrenching me from my fantasy state.

Was Henry asking me to intentionally read boring stuff? Perhaps he should just read everything and give me the abridged version from what he learned. Or maybe he could just handle this part of the home-buying process, letting me focus on the decorating and spending needs. But I wasn’t about to share this with him, not wanting to start something. I excused myself to check out the magazine racks and selected every home décor publication without “Country” in its name, as those seemed to mandate a basket, something dried, or quilted on their covers.

Finding Henry dog-earing one of the recyclable books we now had to buy, I moved us toward the checkout before he added another breeding ground for dust mites to an already alarming pile. The line appeared to be tediously long, but moved quickly. Henry handed the cashier two hundred-dollar bills after she gave the final total. I didn’t notice Henry carrying hundreds the last time I checked his wallet, wondered how one acquires bills not dealt from the slot of an ATM and why Henry would be part of this group.

Outside the store, I noticed the grayish tint to the air, which seemed inherent to downtown with the buildings’ inconsistent sizes and style, like mismatched china. Henry stopped to scratch the hair out of his head, studied the store receipt, and flicked it away with a snap of his wrist. He watched me cautiously as my eyes widened, lips pursed.

“Trash receptacle?”

Henry looked from side to side.

“I haven’t seen any trash receptacles.”

“How can you just shamelessly add to the filth of these city streets and have the nerve to gripe about how dirty New York has become? It starts with you, Henry. You are the problem.”

“You can’t hold me responsible for the city’s pollution because of one slip of paper.”

“Oh, yes, I can. Just watch me.”

I realized that, during our contretemps, Henry’s piece of paper had fluttered away like a moth finding no light to singe his wings on. I became occupied by hunger, but didn’t have a specific craving. Reaching Jerry’s on Prince Street, we settled on the restaurant by giving one another affirmative nods. Henry intuitively opened the door, where I ducked under his arm and followed our friendly waitress to a side booth. (Anyone was friendly after spending an afternoon with Barracuda Barb.)

After giving my order, I opened my wedding planner as a distraction from the rumbles of my stomach while not giving in to the empty calories of a breadbasket probably pinched from an earlier, carb-averse table. Having no interest in the crispy peasant bread as well, Henry became enthused by my task, excited when he saw “Church?” alone on its page.

“So you want to have a religious service?” he asked.

This thought had been sliding about my brain noodles, considering a church near St. Mark’s Place if we decided to get married in the city.

Henry asked what denomination the church was, and I answered somewhere in the lower eastside.

“Religion,” he said gruffly. “Catholic, Presbyterian, Protestant?”

“I don’t know,” I said, annoyed. “Something that believes in God.”

We both turned away from each other to diffuse the annoyance factor fueled by this particular subject. A Neil Young classic played from above, and I wondered if Young had been fading away rather than the preferable intention to burn out.

Returning to my original mission, I opened my planner, faintly alarmed by the sheets of whiteness, and pulled a blank page seam by seam from its hand-sewn binding where I would rewrite my notes into a new planner bought specifically for the move. I looked to another table as a way to stir my thoughts and began to write.

READE STREET LOFT

Basic Necessities:

Basketball (Google Nerf?)

Basketball net

Kidney-shaped coffee table (ask Barracuda Barb if we could buy the one from the people who lived in the Grand Street apartment)

Picasso drawing from the Blue Period

Henry scooted in closer to me, eyeing my entry. Apparently amused by my list, he pulled it toward him right as my pen was about to hit the paper, only to be left hanging in the air.

“Basketball? A Picasso! Forget our concerns about how we can afford the loft, we’re in debt till our twilight years from your ‘Basic Necessities.’ So, Emily, does this mean what I think it means? I gather you’re taken with the Reade Street place?”

Taken? Try completely infatuated. I felt the way I did when I found a dalmatian-spotted shirt I loved at Roberto Cavalli that I had to have. If I didn’t buy it, I considered my wardrobe unacceptable, that I wasn’t well dressed unless I had that shirt.

“I loved it too,” smiled Henry. “But the pragmatics of this, Emily, is we just can’t afford Reade Street right now.”

Can’t afford!

“Are you okay, Emily?” Henry looked frantic.

“Um, I guess so. But you were talking about my car. Right?”

I have a Ford Mustang.

“Your car?”

“Right. There’s no garage at the Reade Street place.”

“Emily, you’re completely losing me. Now let’s get to the pragmatics.”

Pragmatics were meant for people that aimed to fix governmental problems. Henry pinched my chin before it free-fell into my lap.

“Unless!” he perked.

“Unless?” I asked slyly.

“I have an idea. Just excuse me for a second.”

And Henry got up from the table, leaving in a flurry of his dust.

I turned back to my Reade Street Basic Necessities list, closing the book, becoming depressed by this hopeless fantasy.

Staring about the restaurant alone. Bored. I reopened the book and tore out another piece of paper, outlining tomorrow’s agenda. I had to get my career on track and earn millions so I could buy the apartment for us based on my insanely successful career as an artist. I wrote:

Morning workout at gym (endorphins good for the spirit and inspiration)

Met to view collections (inspiration)

Light shopping (for high profile meetings with galleries—on budget, so only Barney’s, no Bergdorf’s)

While I was crossing out the “no Bergdorf’s” part, Henry returned to the table with that wide grin of his covering his face.

“I have an idea!”

Well, I have thousands, but look where that gets me, I thought, sifting through my scribbled wedding planner pages.

“We may be able to pull off the Reade Street loft.”

I closed the book, practically jumping into Henry’s mouth.

“My first idea was to economize, do some quick budgeting based on all of our expenses and income coming in. Since you aren’t bringing in as much with your new career direction as an artist.”

And why didn’t he just say “since you are a waste of life sapping me of every penny”?

“Henry,” I interrupted cheerfully. “You’re right. The wedding! Let’s blow off the wedding and use the money for the loft!”

“No, no,” he insisted. “That’s not what I was getting at.”

“Oh.” After a slight pause, I again interrupted him. “Well, I could ask Mom and Dad for some money, which may be weird. I already feel the burden of being under her employment from painting this wedding portrait of us.”

“Emily, can you just clam it for a second!”

I clammed up.

“When you were fluttering about the loft, I did some interesting crunching with Barb.”

Did he just say crunching? What kind of sexual position was that?

“Numbers, Emily,” he said firmly. “And you really could try to control your smirks when around Barb. It’s noticeable when you have a ‘thing’ with certain people.”

Thing?

“Henry. People who are afraid of clowns, clapping monkeys, or albinos have a ‘thing.’ I do not have a ‘thing.’ I mean a ‘thing’ with Barb.”

Henry looked to me suspiciously. I did have a ‘thing’ with Barb.

“Anyway,” he continued, “as you know, 4,000 square feet is a ridiculous amount of space—almost obscene. With three bedrooms and baths, we could easily let out a room and we’d still have to make an appointment if we wanted to meet up with our renter. Once your career gets on track—and you’ll become this famous and successful artist that your husband will live off of—we will by then have our own place. Never have to give up our lifestyles—move to the burbs, consider landscaping, zoning, and the malaise of a community from the arrival of an Olive Garden.”

Renter? Olive Garden? I didn’t like the reality aspect of this conversation. (Though I did love reality TV.)

“Renting out a room? In our newlywed year?”

“Just for a short while,” he said hopefully.

“Okay,” I said. Then, shedding some pragmatic insight of my own. “But where would we find a renter? Surely it would have to be someone we know and trust.”

“Good point, Emily,” he said, as if I’d made an interesting observation while he taught me about the Peloponnesian War (something, for whatever reason unknown to me, he’s been known to do in the past). “It so happens that I just called a friend of mine, Taz Derning, who needs to move to New York from London.”

“Taz Derning? His name is Taz?”

What the hell kind of name was Taz?

“And what does he do, adapt Puccini operas into movies?”

“Well, his name is actually abbreviated,” Henry trailed off, and then there was a funny silence.

“Abbreviated from what?”

“It’s pretty amusing—quite hysterical actually. His real name is Tasmanian Devil, but of course that’s quite a mouthful. So he just goes by Taz.”

Hysterical.

“You’re expecting a girl who uses five economy-sized bottles of Windex a week to live with a guy named Taz? After the Tasmanian Devil!”

Henry nodded in affirmation.

“Me? Who, to use your description, does a Navajo rain dance outside our apartment before removing my shoes so no grain of dirt will get into our home? Live with a beast that leaves crushed tin cans and fish bones in the wake of his dusty trail?”

“Emily, just picture Reade Street.”

The staircase, the columns, and those glorious windows—the loft was better than a chichi downtown art gallery that held openings where Carmen Kass and Lenny Kravitz made appearances. Hmm. Perhaps I could moonlight our home as an art gallery for my collections? As I was becoming disturbed by the idea of cigarette stubs and muddy shoes soiling the floors, Henry chimed in.

“At least think this through, Emily. He’ll pay whatever we ask.”

“Fine,” I said, somewhat taken aback by my voice’s preadolescent tone. Becoming more composed, I said softly, “I will think it over. Can we just forget about all these pragmatics now, I’ve had quite a day.”

“Well, then I have just the thing for you.”

Henry reached into his satchel and displayed a sapphire blue velvet box on the table, the Formica diner table of Jerry’s. A high-end diner that was essentially the same as any other diner, except they had chromed coat racks at the sides of the booths and added warm mesclun salad to their menu to justify the more expensive prices.

He flicked the box across the table with a snap of his fingers, where I was expected to open it. Frozen, I reminded myself of my original hope where we would buy a ring together, considered ways of saying how I’d rather not see what was inside the box.

“Well? You really aren’t quite yourself. I assumed you’d open that box quicker than a carton of Ben & Jerry’s.”

Paying him with a polite smile, I did as I was told.

Snapping open the box, I should have been wearing my reading glasses, as it was easier to read the fine print on not-meant-to-be-read electronic warranties than see this excuse for a diamond. Imagine dropping a glass, sweeping up the broken pieces onto a chopping block, and further smashing them with a hammer. One of those shards would be about the same size as my diamond that I would have to happily cherish, wear as a testimony of love to my husband till he passes on, which will probably be before me, as I am going to make his life miserable for presenting me with such a ring.

“It was my grandmother’s,” said Henry, happily doing the honor of prodding the ring from its cushioned insert and sliding it onto my finger, where it lopped to the side. And not because of the weight of the diamond. It didn’t fit. Henry’s grandmother must have been a big woman.

“Look at your elegant little finger. You do have gorgeous hands.” He pulled my hand to him to give it a closer look. “Hmm. Looks as if you may have something to add to your To Do list.”

What? You mean pawn this off and get a new one with your credit card!

“It’s a bit big for you. You’ll have to get it resized. Otherwise, what do you think?”

“It’s. Nice,” I said with extreme care and great force.

Our waitress approached the table, and I noticed she took the same fashion direction as Barracuda Barb, wearing the ubiquitous tight V-necked sweater to accentuate her cleavage. They probably sold them three to a pack. I then watched Henry watching her.

I then had the courage to ask Henry the loaded question, but had to pause while he took a bite from his fried zucchini. He didn’t seem to be prepared for its degree of difficulty, as the piece of slimy vegetable slipped from its fried battered duvet. He bobbed his head as a gesture that he’d be able to attend to my incoming question once he took care of this renegade food.

Henry was completely irresistible. You couldn’t help but love him, no matter how small my ring or pathetic my proposal.

“So, Henry,” I started. “I was wondering if you were breast-fed.”

He dropped his fried zucchini.

“Emily! So I gather we’ve now moved from butts to breasts? Makes sense, I suppose.”

“Really, Henry. I’ve noticed you. How you have a tendency to stare at other women’s breasts. Blatantly.”

I then peered down to evaluate my own rack, which wasn’t all that bad, as well as rather buxom in proportion to my body. And it also would not receive a check in the “Real or Fake” game. Henry wasn’t losing out with my chest, though my wearing crew necks as opposed to more flattering cuts should be reconsidered if I wanted my fiancé’s eyes to stop scanning the globes.

He then took my hands and gave them a slight squeeze. Henry looked into my eyes with such sincerity, I saw the boy that made my insides swoop and swish like a fish riding in its tank in the back of a taxi.

“Emily, I love you. Are you even aware of how beautiful you are?”

Naturally, this would be a rhetorical question. I’ve always been hard on myself when it came to evaluating my own looks—avoided mirrors like a vampire. People would categorize me as being pretty, as easy-to-look-at in that catalogue model kind of way, whereas I’ve always been more interested in being considered a natural to appear in Italian Vogue.

Henry was still speaking. I believe I even missed a few of his adulations.

“I don’t know anyone as beautiful, passionate, talented, creative, funny, and smart as you.”

Well, that was a start.

“And, no, I wasn’t breast-fed.”

“You weren’t!”

“It was the late sixties. My mom was into that feminist thing at the time.”

He then looked at my breasts and I, too, gave them a closer inspection.

“I’ll just have to make up for that lack of breast-feeding tonight.”

Leaving the restaurant, Henry reached into his pocket for his Tic Tacs. Spilling the last four into his palm, he looked momentarily stumped, possibly because they appeared so enormous in comparison to that diamond he recently had been inspecting.

I fingered two of the sea mist green pellets before he’d realized that those missing mints were lost from my habit of munching on them lately.

We both tilted our heads to the sky so they were perfectly positioned to sip in the air. It felt warm for March. If it were a more seasonable month, we probably would have cabbed it as it was still too cool to walk, but considering the unexpected temperature we decided to take advantage of the time outdoors.

I had an ugly engagement ring.

Arriving home exhausted, Henry went right to bed. So much for his urge to breast-feed. Completely awake with my eyes closed, I could have either spent the rest of the night in this state of wakefulness or used the alert time to do something more productive. Getting out of bed, I slipped on a pair of sweats that said “Kick Ass” on the rear. Moving to the couch, I kept staring at my newly ringed finger, pinching the tiny diamond. There was something unique and quaint about it. Perhaps I would grow into it—meaning grow to love it, not become obese and thick-fingered—the ring was getting resized the day after tomorrow, as that was the next Wedding Planning Day.

Turning on the light, I gazed about the apartment, which was all about Henry’s stereo equipment. His speakers were worth more than my entire savings. I imagined that Henry pictured these speakers, hearing the concert hall sounds that pounded from their black cushioned padding, right as we entered the main room of the Reade Street loft.

Shifting my gaze to the floors, there appeared to be a layer of that cottony New York City dust. This town was absolutely filthy. I went into the kitchen to get a dishcloth, making a mental note to find a more effective dust cleaning method and log on to Restoration Hardware. Returning to the room, I knelt down and began swiping the floors. Crawling to the edge of the couch, I flickered the towel in lightning motions under the lining in an attempt to capture the dust beneath. Allergy season approached and I needed to remove unhealthy trappings.

Feeling a light kick on my butt, annoyed, I tilted my head to find Henry wearing that annoying smirk of his.

“I am just doing what I’m told,” he laughed, keying me in to my “Kick Ass” pants by pointing to my butt. “And you do have a kick-ass ass. Though I may be more turned on if you substitute the dishtowel for a whip and swap the adorable yet unflattering sweats for those panties of yours with the purple fur trim.”

I rewound my mind to a few years back. To a time when I used my obsessive-compulsive cleaning of places unseen to the eye but seen in my head with High Definition accuracy. When I Windexed and dusted out of angst about my single status. Telling myself that when I was in a relationship, I wouldn’t squander it on frivolous arguments and unnecessary drama. Now experiencing the very moment I’ve always dreamed of.