Читать книгу Escape From Bridezillia - Jacqueline deMontravel - Страница 13

Next to the bed, a tall glass of milk and two Godiva chocolates were laid out for me like medication. I looked at the folded stationery. Henry had sketched a drawing of the two of us in the form of a plastic couple on top of a wedding cake made from containers of low-fat pints of Ben & Jerry’s.

“Hi, Em,” the note read.

I know you wanted to make s’mores tonight but had to go out with some people from FOX on the Upper East Side, where I’d just as soon head for suburbia and get some fresher air out of the meeting. Tried calling you but didn’t leave a message knowing how you are with etiquette on mobiles.

Unless I get lost coming home, hope to be back early but no need to wait up. Enjoy the sweet, my sweet.

Love, Henry

Not certain if the note had a hidden message about whether both the chocolates were for me or meant to be shared, I reread the note comprehensively and then popped a Godiva in my mouth. Yummy but too quick, very similar to an orgasm, but this way I get the calories.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, I realized this was not the first time Henry had avoided a plan with me. In fact it had become a regular pattern. Staring at the note, my eye kept wandering to the other chocolate. That turmoil didn’t last long. Essentially validating that my day consisted of Frosted Flakes, Jell-O, chocolate brownies, and now Godiva, I would be a little girl forever, albeit a fat little girl with a bad complexion as a result of this kind of diet—a prime subject for a Dr. Perricone “Before” picture—and I would have to eat organic food that needed to be weighed on a scale.

I stretched on the bed and began to draw our wedding portrait. Now that I had the image in my head, which was based on the pose of the Sargent portrait of the Stokeses, it was only a matter of putting the picture to paper.

Beginning with a long clean line to create the skirt of my dress, I then added the bodice, my arms, and head. Drawing Henry proved to be more difficult. I lost control of my artistic ability with a picture that started to resemble the alphabet of a dead language. Hoping that my efforts would evolve into something magnificent, like a tangled network of city grids that came into focus when viewed from above—such wishful thinking—I broke from my miserable attempt by collapsing back on the bed, drifting in and out of sleep.

I dreamt that I walked down an aisle, or I assumed it was me walking down an aisle, because it really resembled one of my yet-to-be-filled-in cartoon faces dressed in a wedding gown—a mix of animation and reality in an homage to Mary Poppins.

I walked toward the altar and Henry, who was also an incomplete drawing and just a faceless cartoon dressed in a tux. The closer I approached the altar, the greener my face turned. Suddenly a snout began to grow, reptilian scales popped from my skin—a transformation of Incredible Hulk proportions where I evolved into a green lizard on steroids. My clawed hands ripped from my duchess satin—the damage to the dress—I wondered about refunds.

As I opened my mouth to breath a torrent of fire, I heard a cell phone. Someone had their cell phone on in the church? How rude. Probably one of Henry’s guests. Perhaps this was why I had been turning into something that stomps on train sets in campy Japanese films, for fear that an ill-mannered person would have their cell phone turned on. But it kept ringing until I made myself wake up from this sweat-inducing nightmare, realizing that it had been my cell phone ringing from one of my shopping bags.

I answered the phone. “Emily?” said Daphne. “How odd. I was deliberately calling to leave a message on your mobile because it’s so late.”

Looking at the bedside clock, I saw it was after one in the morning.

“What are you doing up? And why do you have your phone on?”

Rubbing my eyes, trying to make out what had been happening, I started rambling.

“Have I been a monster?”

“Not too bad,” chirped Daphne. “Not as obsessive as most of us, but I do detect that you haven’t quite been yourself.”

I steered away from this direction. “I must have never turned my mobile off,” I said, filling in the pieces—notably the injured petite French lady who currently spent the night in Lenox Hill Hospital.

“Well, I’m glad I got you because I have some amazing news to share—you’re meeting with Daniel West. Tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” I said in a panic, running around the room to try and find my Polaroids. “Why for God’s sake so soon?”

“Don’t fret,” she commanded. “He has to go to Paris for a few weeks, maybe even a month, but Daniel really wants to meet with you. He loved your film, Combining Art Forms, and has always made comments on your talent, always admiring your Alice in Wonderland painting whenever he’s over. Now I got you the meeting, all you have to do is dance. Tomorrow, four PM, at West Galleries on Fifty-seventh.

“Listen, I have to run. Andy had too much to drink tonight, petrifying the nanny with stories about his days bumping into Robert Chambers at Dorian’s and the Mad Hatter.”

Robert Chambers, the Literal Bad Boy.

I took my sketchpad and headed the page “Literal Bad Boys,” drawing thumbprint faces as icons—Robert Chambers, Mark Bundy—but I quickly lost interest in Literal Bad Boys, as it became difficult to imagine lustful thoughts with men that looked at women’s heads as dandelions.

The next page I entitled “Bad Boys—Greatest Hits.” Steve McQueen, Marlon Brando before he got fat, JFK Junior and Senior, Paul Newman in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. After Paul Newman, I became depressed; the likelihood of meeting my Bad Boy would either take a Oujia board or just be unlikely, as they were dead or aged. On a fresh page, I wrote “Bad Boys Who Want Emily Briggs.” Michael Schoeffling/a.k.a. Sixteen Candles’ Jake Ryan, George Clooney, Jude Law, Johnny Depp.

Madly scribbling, ink bleeding through the page, I loved this exercise. Found it more arousing than a night cloaked in steamy air, moving to the effects of drinks with tequila, dressed in something Cavalli. There’s sultry music played by a rock star who can pull off wearing leather pants. I dance with hands stretched to the air, chin lobbing shoulder to shoulder and Henry looking like a Bad Boy who wants Emily Briggs. I bolted upright. Looked to Henry’s side of the bed and discovered he wasn’t home. I leaned back into my pillow, deflated for not having my wanton lusts realized with a blink of an eye, wiggle of my nose—sketch to my pad.

Feeling a tickly sensation to the side of my cheek, I began rubbing my face furiously, afraid that the effects of turning into a Bridezilla were returning. Awakened from another bout of sleep, I found Henry shielding himself from my pattering hands.

“Whoa there, Emily!”

I really have turned into a monster.

“Oh, Henry!” I cried.

“You’re always thinking of chocolate,” he said, giving a wicked glance to the empty plate. His hair was a relief of undulated peaks, like the top of a baked Alaska. I wondered if he went for the deliberate disheveled look where product is needed, like distressed designer jeans or, considering it was Henry, that he had no time to use a hairbrush.

“I can see you’ve enjoyed your Godivas?”

“Right. Sorry about that—eating both the chocolates, hitting you and all.”

He smiled and I pretended not to notice, returning my focus to Henry who appeared to be the end result of the Fab Five, dressed in Seven jeans, a suede blazer, and the long striped scarf I’d bought for him for Christmas, given to him with hopes he’d wear it to impress me, though I’d anticipated it would become a nesting ground for dust mites, curled up in a ball in the corner of our closet.

Giving him the once-over, I said, “You don’t look anything like that guy who opposes offshore drilling in Alaska.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, leaning toward me to kiss my cheek, smelling like George Hamilton. He wore cologne, which struck me as odd. I never was one for cologne.

“You smell,” I said, wiggling my nose like a distraught bunny. “You just smell,” was all that I could say.

“I actually have some news.” Henry said, avoiding the issue of his smelliness.

“Me too!” I yelled, Henry wiping his cheek from my speck of spit. “But you first. I need to brush my teeth while I listen. Okay?”

He nodded uncertainly, probably because he really knew I needed to brush my teeth, which I found somewhat embarrassing. So I raced into the bathroom, squeezed a strip of toothpaste onto my electric toothbrush, and ran back into the room cleaning quietly so the buzzing noise wouldn’t interfere with what Henry had to say, as I always had been extremely courteous and respectful.

I turned off my electric toothbrush, because Henry waited to talk the way you waited for traffic to pass when speaking on your mobile.

“Well, it’s official,” he announced.

I tilted my head confused, mildly panicked, dropping my arm holding the toothbrush. I knew I’ve been in a bit of a sleepwalk, but never remembered us getting married.

“So I’ve gotten the go. Duncantics will be a regular series on FOX. Sunday nights. Pencil it in.”

Sunday nights weren’t good for me. Always viewed them as a weekly New Year’s Eve, how you spent your New Year’s being the same as how you spend your Sundays. Thus I tried to do something intelligent and healthy—read, avoided sugary cereal, and chilled, or did something really crazy like honor the request of my imaginary publicist so I could be seen at a fabulous party, picking shrunken Bernadin entrées from a teepee of pebbled ice. Generally, I ordered sushi, finished reading the Times Style section and the captions in the magazine.

“Aren’t you excited? And I’d love it if you could contribute. Have Lily make a few appearances perhaps?”

Combining Art Forms had been the first time that our strip characters were ever featured together. Henry wanted a more regular venue for Duncan—his character’s alter ego who was a politician turned rock star—while FOX waited to see if they could still hire the same people along with getting the assured backing before giving Henry any commitment.

“Of course! Not everything has to be about the wedding.”

Now Henry looked confused.

“I mean. Just excellent.”

“And it looks like George Clooney will sign on again to do Duncan’s voiceover. He loves going to the office unshaven, lunching on burgers and shakes. But for some reason I can’t imagine George Clooney eating a burger.”

George Clooney!

“George Clooney! George Clooney!”

“Whoa there, Emily—when I say ‘George Clooney’ you have the same reaction as when you’re told ‘Private Chanel Sample Sale.’”

“But I never got to meet him when he worked on Combining Art Forms.”

As a matter of fact, the producers were rather evasive when making the film, noticeably vague whenever I asked about George and how it should be essential that he meet the creator behind his leading lady, albeit a cartoon one. It actually seemed rather suspect, how I’d make a few inquiries as to when I would be able to have that promised chat, but always got the runaround.

I also became agitated at their choice of Kate Hudson to be the voice behind Lily, my character. I saw myself as more of the Christy Turlington type. Even though she couldn’t act, it was only a matter of reading a script, being a cartoon and all. First I thought that Kate Hudson was a bit young for George—despite their being cartoon characters—but then I found myself strangely jealous of her, even though she and George rarely read their lines together.

“Hey?” I asked, pulling closer to him. “Does this mean there will be a Duncan/Henry doll/action figure in the works?”

“I don’t know about a doll, but they do intend on marketing this thing—videos, T-shirts, cards. And why do you ask?” he said, smoothing the wrinkles of the bedsheet.

“Well, it would be great to hammer its face in every time we have a tiff, a healthy way to take out the aggression. Don’t you think?”

Henry shook his head in that way of his.

“What’s even better,” he said excitedly, diverting the topic, “the Reade Street loft, though still a bit of a pinch to the funds…well, let’s just say we don’t have to entertain the idea of living with a Tasmanian Devil.”

“Oh,” I whimpered.

“You want to live with the Tasmanian Devil?” Henry then clenched my chin so tight he unlocked my jaw.

“No, of course not,” I said, getting up from the bed to return to the bathroom. Filling a glass with water, I rinsed my teeth. After spitting into the sink, I looked into the mirror, where Henry’s reflection watched me.

“My news,” I started. Henry followed me back to the bedroom, and we both began to undress. I slipped on Henry’s pajama top, and he changed into the bottoms. We were good that way, buying one pair of pajamas that we both got simultaneous use from. And here we thought we’d have financial woes.

“It’s just that part of my news was that I found a renter.”

“You did?”

“Yes, actually. J3 Hopper, as a matter of fact. I bumped into him today at the Met. He’s always traveling—based in L.A., having recently bought a home there—but said how he would love to have a place to stay when he’s in New York that doesn’t come with room service.”

“How curious.”

“I know. Exactly my reaction.”

But I think Henry was interested for a different reason. I loved hotel living for the punch-in-the-extension conveniences, blanketing your body within a plushy white bathrobe. I have told a number of people that I should be buried in a hotel robe, which would expedite my entry through the gates of heaven by already being in dress code. The heaven I envisioned is a sort of eternal stay at the Amandari in Bali. There were also rivers of chocolate and Oompa Loompas.

No Oompa Loompas.

Henry sat on his side of the bed, distressing the sheet he had made such a point to straighten earlier. He gave it a studied look before peeling back the layers. Propping his pillow, he shifted toward me.

“You know Em, Reade Street is bit of a pinch to our budget.”

Our budget? Did not like the sound of that at all.

“And, from the sound of it, J3 does fit the ideal renter composite. The idea of living with a guy who recently mugged for the cover of Wired…”

“Really? He was on the cover of Wired?” I said, sounding quite impressed. Not that I’d ever read Wired.

I then thought of J3 at the museum—his height, presence, and intellect. His looks became more absorbing the more times you see him, like an Ingmar Bergman film (or the one Bergman film I had to see for a film class). At first study, you question the meaning of significant elements and, after seeing it a few times, features become more prominent and interesting. You begin to dwell on images you quickly wrote off at the first, cursory glance.

“I really like this idea. And you know what the best part is?” said Henry, lifting up the blanket for me to slide in next to him.

“Aside from having someone to share all of our bridal registries with?”

“Free video games! But not only that,” Henry said like an excited little kid who just broke his score. He propped his head on his hand to look down on me, while I imagined what he’d look like if I magic-markered a Mike Tyson tattoo on his face.

“Early previews of his video games!”

“So you mean to tell me that you’re basing the person who will live with us, in our new home, on receiving early copies of video games?”

Henry seemed a bit dumbfounded.

“Uh, yeah!”

I thought about living with a designer for Chanel and getting early collection pieces.

“Okay then. So J3 will be our renter? We’re going to put a bid on Reade Street?”

“Absolutely!” said Henry, extending his hand up in the air for a high five, something I haven’t done since I played college sports, but I supposed it was appropriate, considering the momentous occasion, so I high-fived my fiancé in our bed, agreeing to take in a roommate.