Читать книгу Escape From Bridezillia - Jacqueline deMontravel - Страница 11

New Yorkers must travel for the privilege of soaking their bare feet in morning grass. They cannot detect the weather by opening a window when opposing buildings manipulate the natural light and air—more privileges. With their need for convenience and fix for all things cutting edge, urbanites are considered the most modern of earth dwellers.

New Yorkers do not own toolboxes, unless used to store cotton balls and eyelash curlers. They have numbers for maintenance people who drive vans with company names painted on the doors. I will avoid modern conveniences in the same way that I am suspicious of the talents of a screenwriter who writes his work on an iBook at a Starbucks.

With my oversized ring with its undersized diamond, the toolbox became my brand of convenience, preventing me from having to travel to a jeweler, as it contained duct tape. Use #127 to pad rings the size of a baby’s bracelet.

My day was already under siege by the rumblings of a possible Bridezilla attack, a day strictly devoted to my career. I would not even glance at a bridal magazine. I would make a trip to the Met to be inspired. Even though I would be in the general vicinity of Vera Wang, I would not go in. Just, perhaps, walk past it.

I dressed in haste, forewent my walk to take a cab, and justified the saved time for a quick peruse in Vera Wang. I froze outside the boutique, watching the stick figures in their new season’s purchases, fantasy brides that had the kind of unattainable qualities I put to paper, as they shushed in and out of the glass entrance, looking more like a casting call for a Jackie O biopic. Did I have the right place? Was this one of those excursions that you needed to dress for? Vera Wang was painted in gold on the window; the doors were trimmed in coordinating 24-karat. This was the place where girls were made into princesses.

And here I stood outside Vera Wang in my Pumas and cargo pants. I imagined trying to enter the doors only to be rejected and spit out in the same nifty effect as a children’s book with spells and witches, where inanimate objects took on nasty human characteristics, the Vera Wang door taking the form of a very belligerent bouncer.

And my Pumas? Since Mom did say that I couldn’t possibly go to the museum dressed in sneakers, never one to rebel against dress codes, I walked north a few blocks to Theory and bought a fitted jean jacket. At Searle, I found a pair of white low-cut denim pants, feeling very Back to School circa 1985 by asking the salesgirl if I could wear my purchase out of the store. She gave a haughty giggle and then a once-over, showing the fangs of a slobbering jackal as if I had never bought clothes before, a small-town girl new to the city and completely overcome by my first New York shopping experience.

Surveying the store one last time to see if I had missed any merchandise, I found a selection of Pumas in the far corner under a row of headless mannequins. Securing a salesperson that didn’t appear to have vampire marks on the side of her neck, I added a pair of navy Pumas with a turquoise stripe to the mix, quickly changing into them a few blocks away from the store in a courtyard of a private townhouse.

And, in case I thought I wasn’t paying attention to the mission of this small spree, I was in complete control. I couldn’t possibly justify spending money on a new pair of throwaway shoes just to go to the museum, considering that there were no quality shoe stores in the area. And, since I had to stick to a budget so I could move into the Reade Street loft, I needed to economize. A new pair of Pumas bought just for an outing to the Met had been a perfectly justifiable expense.

I started my museum visit by showing support to the Met’s curators in viewing the current DaVinci exhibition that focused on his journals. Leo and I had a great deal in common, as I am also an avid journal keeper. Perhaps my own journals would someday be marveled at beneath the glass of climate-controlled displays.

I eschewed the headsets to avoid the burden of following the exhibition in a controlled time, along with possibly being trailed by foreigners with different hygiene habits than mine. And, regardless of my not wearing a headset, an Italian, or perhaps he was Spanish—a man who wore his short-sleeved gingham shirt tucked into his pulled-too-high jeans, who either used too much hair gel or proved my theory that some foreigners were on a different wash cycle—approached me.

“Vu vike DaVinci?” he asked in some Franco-Italian-Anglaise, which was either a really Euro come-on or he knew very little English.

“Leonardo? He seems very nice, though I never did meet him.”

Euro laughed at me, adding to the oily wetness of him with his flecks of spit that shot from the wide front gap of his cigarette-stained teeth.

I was quite impressed with myself. If Euro had made the moves on me pre-Henry proposal, he would have certainly been the recipient of an Emily smirk. But now, feeling more mature and perhaps a bit forlorn for the attention, I felt quite charitable.

“Vy vont vu join me?” he said, to my breasts.

Just then I remembered my ring, feeling as if I had just been given extraordinary superpowers. Drunk with this control, I lifted up my hand, which looked like I took the Mayor’s recommendation to be armed with duct tape with the city on red alert to neurotic extremes.

“Thanks. Real enticing offer. Real sweet with you being from out of town and all. Checking out the sites, getting in a little culture, taking in Leonardo—and not in the ninja turtle or the Hollywood heartthrob way! Very well then, I really should be off, working. Off to work. And I do need to meet someone.”

I bolted, hoping that he really didn’t know how to speak the language, otherwise I had just added to his impression of the dumb dizzy American blonde without having the excuse of being a blonde.

In the next room, I was pulled to Leo’s sketches of aqueducts like a magnet to a fridge. Feeling smart and interesting, learning—getting the culture in—perhaps I should retake the IQ test on the cereal box when I returned home.

In the main room of the exhibition, DaVinci’s pages of notes were pulled from the Leicester Codex, rolled out like ancient scrolls (selling for over $15 million at Sotheby’s—almost four Reade Street lofts, not that I had been particularly obsessing over its price). Interesting, these scribbled notes on handmade paper with no fun doodles that one would see in one of my journals. For the man who stretched the beauty of a smile to century-endured marketing, he did have scribbly handwriting.

Having learning enough, I eschewed the last room and went to the reason for my visit, the portrait galleries. I always began with Francois Boucher’s The Toilet of Venus, to be reminded that in 1751 men found women who didn’t skimp on their carbs to have the ideal body type. The model was portrayed as being so beautiful that pudgy winged cherubs dressed her, a trend that should be brought back.

Feeling that late-afternoon pinch of drowsiness, all of the condensed culture and antique incensed air began to tire me. Before I had a turn-of-the-century-corseted collapse, I cut to the room with the Sargents.

While his portrait of Madame Gautreau had been the number-one-selling postcard from visitors who wore cameras around their necks, I always preferred Sargent’s Mr. and Mrs. I.N. Phelps Stokes.

In many ways, Sargent reminded me of Henry James. They both had an appreciation of the new American woman and celebrated her spirit, strength, and independence. Sargent’s depiction of Mrs. Stokes established that. In his painting of her, she is the one prominently featured. Her stance is proud and confident, while her husband looks on, slightly shadowed in the background. She asserts herself, shown from her hands firmly planted on her hips and that great grosgrain-banded straw hat.

I also loved what she wore—very Ralph Lauren his early years, with a dark coat nipped at the waist, crisp white shirt with a dark bow tied at the collar, and that wonderful elegant skirt, probably linen as this was more of a spring outfit, which cascades down in an avalanche of white. She has a soft, pretty face with dark hair, rosy cheeks, and blue eyes—the kind of girl I would have shared a thermos of peach schnapps mixed with orange juice in the back of a wood-paneled station wagon.

What I found most intriguing, considering my current occupation, were her knuckled hands clasped at her waist. The gold wedding band nestled with the engagement ring like stuck-together pasta. The diamond was emerald cut. Classic, simple, large—I’d gather four carats—very much in the mode of the Fairfield County ladies. The rings stood out, and Mrs. Stokes showed no shame in having them notably pictured.

Mr. Stokes’s hands are folded in a manner that shows he is not the spineless husband that plays to the demands of a bossy wife. Quite attractive, also wearing white linen, he has a trim beard and angular face, and I felt somehow drawn to him even though he’s just a figure in a portrait. But this was incredibly immoral of me, considering that his wife and I had a bond, that I was engaged even if my ring finger may not prove so.

“Emily?”

Startled, shaken from a mental zone similar to the one I get from running, I turned to face the source of my interruption, and was greeted by J3 Hopper. J3, a friend and business relation of Henry’s and mine who we knew from L.A., was largely responsible for the financing of our film, Combining Art Forms, based on the coming together of our cartoon strip’s alter egos. A project I had no longer been involved with, due to that slimy way I felt, the way you needed to cleanse yourself after a day of commercial flight travel.

J3 was my unusual acquaintance who I could get the tab on if I read Forbes. He ran an electronics company, specializing in computer games. His success never seemed to be mentioned when we met up, as there always seemed to be other, more important things to cover.

J3 was assured, confident, and today, looked quite attractive—similar to Mr. Stokes, with the chiseled cheekbones you could roll a marble down, dark hair, and rugged good looks. His deep blue eyes, gleaming under a thicket of dark brows, struck me as mysterious—intense and sparkling. I hadn’t recalled how handsome he was. It may have been the distinctive brows, which I never really took to, considering he wore sunglasses a lot—though never indoors.

“J3!” I beamed, kissing him on the cheek. I noticed a slight flush of red to his cheeks.

“I was afraid to approach you. Honestly, I’ve never seen you so absorbed.”

“Right,” I said, embarrassed from being noticed. “It’s just that this portrait gets me every time. I always see something different when I come to visit.”

Both J3 and I looked at Mr. and Mrs. Stokes.

“It really is something,” he said. “Sargent said that, when he painted, he was most interested in uncovering the personality of the sitter. With this particular couple, you can tell that he was impressed by them, how Mr. Stokes truly respected and admired his wife.”

“That’s exactly it!” I said too loudly, so the entire room looked in my direction. I became nervous from the security guard’s sudden approach toward me, but was saved by a kid who appeared to be more of a liability by humming loudly from tunes that filtered into his ears from an iPod.

“Sorry,” I said, considerably lower. “But there is this confidence about him that I’m completely drawn to, an intelligence, really. I’m sure he could be quite prickly, as shown by his quiet male authoritative stance, but he has no problems if his wife asserts her character. Again, that takes an admirable bit of security.”

“Apparently they were expats,” J3 added. “I believe he was studying medicine in Paris.”

“Architecture, really. But you were probably thinking of Sargent’s own parents. Expats themselves, Sargent’s father was a doctor in Florence.”

“Right. Of course. And most of Sargent’s portraits were of Americans. He loved Americans. His paintings captured his sitters in a simple refinement, signifying the vitality of a new nation.”

“And then we have Madame Gautreau. Madame X, rather.”

J3 and I walked over to Madame X, where I allowed him to pontificate, interested to hear his opinions.

“Of course, I don’t have to fill you in on the scandal this painting created, as you are up on your Sargent, with her sexy gown that has nothing on today’s dresses that make me wonder if these girls would save money by not having to buy couture and just go out in their expensive lingerie.”

I knew exactly what he meant! Something I’ve often fumed about.

“Sargent even retitled the painting from Madame Gautreau to Madame X,” he continued. “I think he did that because he was less impressed with her. It was his favorite painting, as he did achieve this dramatic quality—her tense elegance—but I think that Madame X could be any woman, the idea of a woman with a predatory sensuality.

“Apparently she was American, quite a social climber in the Parisian circles. Whereas, back to your Stokes friends, they were probably just in Paris to have a good time, not overly concerned with the whole ‘do we fit in being Americans’ and all. Confident.”

Right. My words exactly.

“And,” I said, “I know with you being a boy and all.”

J3 looked down at himself, as if making sure that he was indeed a boy.

“While her dress is undeniably sexy—the low cut, jeweled straps—I just find it ostentatious. The little tiara on her head pretending to be some huntress,” I paused. She really had a great deal in common with every other husband hunter striving for the Saturday morning Grace’s Market Place to Gracious Home walk.

“She is predatory in a sensual way,” I continued. “But it’s too easy. Sure. Show some cleavage, wear obscenely expensive items—quite materialistic really,” I said, as if speaking for Madame Gautreau. “But if you were to remove these inanimate symbols of wealth, she loses her power.”

I pointed to her hand, not too close to the painting, as I seemed to be under the security guard’s surveillance from my earlier blurts.

“Look at how she’s holding down that hardwood table, practically making a Hulk-impressed dent. She needs the support to show herself truly. She needs the material goods. She asserts yet also retreats, not quite complete, certainly not at one with herself.”

“So I take it you two wouldn’t be meeting up at Pastis later?”

“No!” I laughed. “I’d be much happier taking in a morning run with Mrs. Stokes over there.”

While he glanced back to the other painting, I noticed J3’s build. Strong, he was also taller than I had remembered. Perhaps he just looked better because I’d only been with him a few times. And the first time we met was at a pool, where no one really looks the way they normally do under a haze of sun and through the tint of glasses. In fact, I’m almost fearful to imagine what I must have looked like. I panicked. I really needed to make more of an effort lounging poolside.

Stealing a peak at J3’s watch, I saw the time was just after 3:00 PM. I had to start wearing a watch, but anything other than Cartier would be unacceptable.

“Oh, jeez!”

“Emily? What is it?”

J3 looked concerned. I needed to calm down more. Perhaps take yoga. But I really didn’t like yoga.

“It’s just that I am supposed to meet my best friend—new client actually—but it is Daphne. She has two kids, a catering company, and a kitchen to renovate, so my being a bit late won’t really matter.”

Was this too much information? But J3 just smiled. He even appeared amused.

“Oh, well, I was hoping that I could take you to lunch.”

Really? Lunch! Hmm. Well, I could just blow off Daphne, she wouldn’t care, but then again today was career day, and the only thing marked in my Smythson business planner was this appointment, so it would be in poor favor to skip my one confirmed meeting for a friendly lunch—the hardship that came with ambition.

J3 led me in the direction of the room’s exit. We walked in a comfortable silence.

“Do you know what amazes me?” he asked.

I responded with a curious smile.

“Here I am in the business of interactive, cutting edge computers—noise, novelty, and annihilating your opponent in the most entertaining fashion. And here we are, looking at pictures, sculptures, created from very simple mediums, and yet they have the power to move. You can see more, learn more, and never tire of a painting. There is always something curious and new to be discovered. And, again, all created from very simple mediums.”

“Exactly,” I said, not understanding my response. “Then again, can you get to the level where you find the missing terrorist? Or whatever your best-selling game is that’s ripped off from the latest world crisis.”

Outside the museum we both looked at each other. I began to feel saddened by our coming departure.

“So?” he asked cautiously. “How’s Henry?”

“Yes, well. Henry.” I mumbled, looking down to my hand and then lifted up my engagement ring. “We’re engaged!”

J3 directed his gaze to my hand.

“Wow. Congratulations,” he said, sounding surprised.

“Thanks.”

“Your ring, it’s—” J3 made a sudden pause. “Nice.”

I looked to him amazed.

“That’s exactly how I said it, right after Henry gave it to me! Not that I’m materialistic or anything, but it just took me a minute to find the ring. Not that I’m a big diamond person. Working with my hands, I need to keep my hands free,” I mumbled in my insecure rant. “But it is rather small in diamond standards.”

“It looks like you have it properly safeguarded with all that tape.”

“Right,” I said, putting my hand back down. “It’s a bit big. The ring, not the diamond. So I need to get it resized.”

J3 took my hand, giving my fingers a thorough examination.

“And I see that you’re not one of those girls who goes for the picketed fingernail look.”

I forgot about the appearance of my nails, splotched with paint, my cuticles sanded down from work and packing.

“No. You know, considering that it’s difficult to maintain with my profession and all.”

“Of course!” he said in that “duh” way. “Your illustrating.”

“Painting, really. I’ve decided to focus on my art. That’s actually why I came here. I’ve been commissioned to do a few portraits and am curious about Sargent, using his career as a model for my own. You know, aim high!”

“Sargent,” he pondered to no one in particular. “Interesting choice. Most appropriate.”

“Well, then,” I leaned in awkwardly to give J3 another friendly kiss to the cheek, but this time his face did not warm with a blush. “So great seeing you. How funny that we bumped into one another? At the museum.”

Hello—of course at the museum.

I began to walk away, thinking about my dreaded cell phone that I’d have to use to call Daphne so I could apologize for my lateness.

“Hey, Emily,” called J3, running to my side. “I’m in the city for a few days before returning to L.A.”

“Gosh, you must think I’m such a Madame X, I haven’t even asked you what you were up to in the city.”

“Working, as always. Perhaps I can take you and Henry out for a celebratory engagement evening.”

“That would be great! It’s just that we’re a bit occupied right now.”

“Oh, right. Of course, with the wedding.”

J3 kept my pace, walking with me in the direction of Daphne’s.

“Well, actually we’re in the middle of a move. Or trying to be in the middle of a move. You see, there’s this great loft on Reade Street, but it’s so big and a bit out of our price range. But I so want for us to live there, as it’s now hard to imagine living somewhere less impressive, not that I am materialistic or anything,” I took a moment to remind myself that I wasn’t materialistic. “But we have to think unconventionally if we really want it. And here I am giving serious consideration to letting a fraternity brother of Henry’s named after the Tasmanian Devil move in with us.”

Did J3 have any clue how to interpret my language?

“Tasmanian Devil?”

“Taz, for short.”

J3 watched a couple as they pushed a canopied baby carriage past us, but I gathered he used them as a distraction so he could gather his thoughts.

“You know, Emily, I’ve basically made the Four Seasons my permanent New York address. I mean, they accept packages for me even when I’m not registered, plus the whole ‘Will you be having your freshly squeezed grapefruit and Frosted Flakes served to you at 6:00 AM?’”

“Frosted Flakes?”

“My livelihood comes from video games. Have to start my morning like a kid.”

“Love Frosted Flakes, especially the games. Except not my box’s current game.”

“The IQ test of the great Mesopotamians?” he said with a curious smile.

I nodded, somewhat astounded.

“That one was ridiculous. I felt so inadequate after basically being told that I was stupid,” he said.

“Me too!” I blurted for the eighteen-thousandth time this afternoon.

“So, considering we eat the same breakfast food, perhaps I could be your renter. I mean I’d hardly ever be there, with my life in L.A. and traveling. I’ll pay full price.”

“J3, what a fantastic idea. But, really? I mean I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Obligated? Emily, I live in homes that come with room service and toiletries wrapped with hotel signage.”

And this was bad why?

“Aside from my place in L.A., essentially a locker, I have no place to put my bag down and stay for a while. This would be ideal for me.”

“But wouldn’t you at least want to see the place? Though it really is quite amazing—three floors, terrace, these vapors with therapeutic properties that shoot from the bathroom. Excellent for your pores. The windows and space—I mean it really is fabulous.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have thought otherwise. Considering that you are Emily Briggs.”

Feeling embarrassed.

“Soon to be Philips,” I said, wiggling my taped finger. “And, speaking of which, I just need to clear it with Henry, but I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

At the corner of Seventy-ninth, the WALK sign blinked its warning to hurry it on up unless you wanted to suck in exhaust fumes for a few useless seconds. I began to step from the curb when J3 pulled on the back of my sweater lightly, not enough to stretch its shape, saving me from a renegade Chinese food delivery man. I would have been part of the one-out-of-ten-million statistics to make it on the local news for being rammed by the wire basket hood of a bicycle. Had I renewed my health insurance?

“Thanks,” I said in a trembling voice.

He smiled.

“No problem, just watching your back.”

“I’ll say.”

“So I’ll be at the Four Seasons till next Thursday, and hopefully I can get you two out to celebrate more than your engagement, considering that we all may be living together. You can just reach me there. And you? Are you at the same number?”

“Not really. And I’d give you my cell number, but I don’t give anyone that number. I never use it.”

“Of course, how could I forget, you find them to be very rude and discourteous. How John Singer Sargent of you. A fine correlation, as I know you will be this century’s answer to portraiture and then some.”

Smiling, completely reddened from all of this excitement and humility, I just spoke to conceal my discomfort.

“Okay. Right, then. I’ll be calling you.”

I straightened my pose, not because I had just been viewing Sargents and felt particularly self-conscious about my posture, but rather from feeling quite exhilarated. My shoulder blades went to places they’ve never been to before. I believe I appeared to be an exclamation point.