Читать книгу Escape From Bridezillia - Jacqueline deMontravel - Страница 8

A rising a few hours earlier than usual, I headed straight for my newly purchased box of Frosted Flakes. I was very excited about this, getting up a few times last night hoping it would be morning so I could have breakfast, only to notice that, while it was still dark outside and not because we were still in March, there were hours to go before I’d break open that new box.

I’ve been going through a sugary cereal phase, with kid-tested mother-approved choices so that my breakfast would not be completely deficient of the essential vitamins and nutrients I needed for a balanced day. Choosing cereals like Kix and Frosted Flakes over Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms. (I am also an avid reader of cereal boxes.)

As a kid, my mother had acted as Lady Capulet to my love affair with Cap’n Crunch, not allowing me to have him because she put this in the “junk” category. Now that I’ve broken through the bondage of eating based on parental consent, perhaps I’d reacquaint myself with this unrequited love. Do they still even make Cap’n Crunch? Panic. Could it be—Cap’n Crunch was no more? Completely tragic. Considering that I’d most likely be seen in the comedy section of a video store over tragedy, I quickly laid to rest any remorse over Cap’n Crunch’s untimely demise and reminded myself how lucky I was to have Tony.

Tony the Tiger had always been in such good spirits—possibly from all of those fortified vitamins and minerals. And after all these years, he hasn’t gone through the protean transformations as other noted spokespersons. He must have had the same fitness trainer as Dick Clark. Tony was the kind of cover model that I found especially welcoming in my current mood.

I poured myself a bowl, sliced up some bananas, added the milk, and began inhaling my breakfast. Twirling the box around for something to read besides another bridal magazine that would only underline how unprepared and ineffective I was in my wedding duties, I became thrilled upon finding a game of logic—promoted as an intelligence test used from the days of Mesopotamia.

The questions were written in grape over a golden pyramid with two sphinxes bordering the edges; the geometric puzzles gave it a hieroglyphic feel. Now this was why I really loved kid cereal, for the fun games that I could ace, giving me a strong dose of self-confidence before I began my day. Clever marketing from the team at Kellogg’s. I should really send them a note.

My preoccupation with the game eclipsed my former bliss of eating my cereal. The first question showed numbers that clung to the sides of differently colored triangular peaks like clouds to a mountain. I had to figure the missing number on the last one. Moving to the next problem, as these games always began with a harder question to show it involved some mental exercise, this question had a few boxes with various lines crossed in them where I needed to choose the shape that didn’t belong. Figuring that they were all in the same color, I picked the one with too many lines, as that did not appear to be as symmetrical and harmonious in that Mondrian way. Mondrian would have chosen box “D.” The next question, I had to apply the same logic but with triangles—very simple, almost too easy, as it had the same properties as the earlier question. Lazy people, these Mesopotamians, the messy one naturally got my nix.

Then I read the answers and tallied my score so I could be reminded of how brilliant I was.

Okay. But perhaps if I just retook the exam now that I understood the questions. I mean they really weren’t written all that clearly.

This game was purely ridiculous.

Okay. I am stupid and have a giant butt.

Hearing the phone, I glanced at the microwave clock illuminated in neon—8:36 AM. The caller was my mother, as warned by the brilliant invention of caller ID, ranking right below the electric toothbrush and Dustbuster. Considering that calls this early have familial latitude, I resolved to remove all bad karma at once and picked up the phone rather than have the machine be victimized by the rant of her voice-mail therapy.

“Emily, darling,” she said, her tone more in sync with an alpha wife than a submissive homemaker, which caused me to fumble the phone out of nervousness until the droop of Henry’s pajama sleeve skimmed my coffee, the stain creeping up the cotton fibers igniting an alternate anxiety.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” I shrieked, turning on the faucet to soak the sleeve under the running water.

“Emily, you really should control your anger. Here I am, calling you in the most cheerful manner with the most divine news. Perhaps I should just catch up with you at another time after you’ve dealt with your repressed issues.”

“Sorry, Mom. It’s just that I spilled coffee on Henry’s pajamas.”

“My goodness, is he all right? You know about that woman who sued McDonald’s because the coffee was so hot it burned her. She should be embarrassed for herself.”

“McDonald’s coffee? Lawsuits? What are you talking about?”

“Well, Emily, dear, it really isn’t polite to spill coffee on your fiancé.”

As opposed to someone else?

“Mom, I’m wearing Henry’s pajamas.”

“Excuse me!”

I could just picture her horrified expression—think eyes popping out of their sockets on bouncy coils, tongue sticking out, and flecks of sweat popping from her head—after imagining that Henry and I do indeed sleep together.

“And you really should attend to the stain before it sets in. There was this program on that home and garden channel with this crafty lady who used vinegar water. A Portuguese woman, from…” She paused, and I heard the snap of her fingers so she could jog her memory.

“From Portugal?”

“Precisely!

“And you should check out the Intimates Section at Barney’s. They have the most lovely nightgowns. Proper sleepwear. Especially important now that you will be a married woman. No more pajamas. Lingerie, darling. That’s how you keep your man from straying. And if he does stray, at least you’ll find out from the relationships you will cultivate with the lingerie shops. That’s how Mrs. Coleman found out Charles was cheating. The sales help at LaPerla ratted on him after selling him a thong that wasn’t in her size. Mrs. Coleman would never wear a thong—that’s an under-40 piece.”

If you ever sat in on one of my mother’s lunches, these were the kind of topics getting the heavy play, even during a national crisis of sending U.S. troops proportions.

“Didn’t you mention you had some news to share? I believe you even said ‘most divine news’?”

“Oh, right! I am giving you and Henry an early wedding present.”

Present! The most divine word.

“Mom, that’s really unnecessary, with all of your help in the planning,” I said, lying.

“Don’t be preposterous, take everything that you can get—from me and everyone, darling. Now, as you know it’s been a sort of family tradition to have our wedding portraits done. Your great-grandparents on my side, both your grandparents, and your father and I have all had our wedding portraits painted. As you know, your granny even sat for Sargent.”

That had been a striking mark on my mother’s docket, that her mother was painted by John Singer Sargent. No matter how badly Oliver or I screwed up, at least we had lineage, and this painting secured evidence to prove the impressive bloodline.

These wedding portraits all hung in the Traditional Room, the one room in the house that had never undergone a make-over from one of my mother’s decorating whims. From Hampton to Hagan, she had about as many renovation incarnations as Britney had publicity stunts. But in the Traditional Room, you experience the sort of time travel one would have when visiting Graceland, without the kitsch and with more chintz. There are hand-me-down works of art, porcelain knickknacks of fooffy dogs, and a pincushioned couch upholstered in my mother’s family plaid, which has the misfortune of hues in an appalling brown, green, and yellow (though she did look into changing the pattern, apparently forbidden by the plaid people).

Really she should just will those things to Oliver, as I’d auction them off and use the cash toward one blowout year of living the rock-star life. Travel, hotels, and fun restaurants for 365 days of carefree existing that no descendant would ever be able to match with all of their maintenance of a respectable, genteel life. Collecting inanimate luxuries with curatorial discernment only so they could be passed down and remembered through some silver teapot whose only use was holding a bundle of calla lilies for that John Pawson meets Shabby Chic effect.

Mother added, clearly impressed with herself, “I found a wonderful discovery. He lives in Brooklyn, but apparently has a studio in SoHo.”

The SoHo studio legitimized the Brooklyn part, I gathered.

“This Linus Heller,” she continued, “he painted the Lowell sisters and is just finishing up Autumn Benson’s portrait, having time to fit you and Henry in!”

“Okay. Let’s slow down here. First off, you know how uncomfortable I feel when having to pose, even for getting my passport picture taken. I’m reduced to a gerbil being stared down by a python. And as sure as I am that this Linus guy is quite talented, his painting Summer and all, I just don’t think Henry and I have the time right now. With his work, finding a new place—the wedding! Sitting around to have some foppish artist who gets his gigs because his mother plays bridge with women who have a day of beauty every day, it just seems an indulgent expenditure of our time.”

“Oh, Emily, you’re being quite the prima donna. ‘Indulgent expenditure of time’? You go for one sitting. He takes a snapshot of the two of you and finishes the rest on his time. How hard can that be? And now that you’re not working anymore.”

And so it began. After making the declaration that I would follow my calling as an artist, Mother interpreted this as “she’s seen our side.” Will never earn the income to match her lifestyle, ready to start a family, and mingle with Chapin moms so her daughters will be invited to all the right birthday parties. Being an artist was just some label to a nebulous career, like her vocation: “Catherine Briggs—Not For Profit Fundraiser.” She has the business cards.

Tic-tac-toe, I said to myself, which is what I do when I didn’t want to become entangled in a conversation with my mother that no one would win.

“Why can’t you at least meet with Linus? Or perhaps just find an artist of your choosing?”

Hmm. I walked over to the kitchen junk drawer to retrieve my Smythson business planner, which I had bought especially for organizing all my meetings with gallery owners, clients who wanted to commission pieces from me, etc. The only entry: a lunch with Daphne, my best friend, to discuss painting her children, who happened to be named Henry and Emily.

Here this Linus character received all of the profile work from being on Harrison and Shriftman’s PR list, one of those boys that could wear jeans bought from Scoop.

My face began to boil with irritation.

“Here’s my proposal,” I commanded. “I will paint the picture. You don’t have to pay me unless you have some kind of deadline, and then we can work out a fair price.”

Silence. Phone-line-dead silence.

“Mother?” I shook the phone to jiggle the battery.

“Yes, Emily. I don’t know about this. I feel it’s sort of like using floral arrangements made with flowers from your garden.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, darling, do I need to pontificate this awkward fact to you? What’s the point of having a painting done by a member of the family—not showing the expense we put into it?”

I could hear her tap-tap-tap to the counter with her expertly painted nail.

“I believe it’s done all the time. Even by your distinguished John Singer Sargent. Perhaps it has something to do with family believing in the gifts of their family. Preferring to patronize them over some random stranger.”

“Oh, all right,” she relented. “And of course I will pay you.”

Relieved. I did like the idea of being paid for my work, as I had not been entirely comfortable with the concept of having Henry give me an allowance. Perhaps I wasn’t entirely uncomfortable in having an allowance. I mean, I do need to maintain my looking pretty for him, the purchasing of pretty things for our home that we will both appreciate.

“Also, I do get a bit worried about your business sensibilities. Perhaps you should consider getting one of those business managers?” she said.

“But I have one. A very good and high-end one I found on Fifty-seventh Street,” I said, looking at my Smythson business planner, impressed with myself in not having to lie.

“Very well then. I expect to see a sketch two weeks from today. That’s April second, love.”

And with the frightening realization that I was under the Queen Mother’s employment, she hung up the phone. Oh, for God’s sake, the woman would always find a way to have a hold on me.

I opened up my satchel, leaned against the kitchen table, and pulled out my sketchbook. Furiously drawing images that had no hope, based on the fury of a windstorm pushing ideas along the slippery coils in my brain.

Henry walked into the kitchen, rubbing one of his eyes with his knuckle like a little boy in drop-seat footsie pajamas with a blankie. A shadow crept over my face as he loomed over me, locking me into my seated position with his arms and peering over my pad.

“Whatcha doing there, Emily? Drawing two figures who are about to duel? Or is it fencing?”

He was right. The figurines were embroiled in some sort of face-off, about to have it out. Perhaps their combative poses were made because Henry was still in the doghouse.

“Just working on a commission.”

“Really,” he mused. “And this is all before 9:00 AM,” he added, looking to the microwave clock that flashed 8:44 AM. “I must say that I’m impressed.”

I tore off a sheet and added it to my pile of rejects with an attempt at another sketch, but became annoyed with the mess I kept adding to. Neatly stacking up the scraps of my work, I gathered the papers and walked over to the trash, which was burping up garbage. Lining the top of the bin with the heavy vellum paper, I pushed down the garbage like a compressor.

Feeling Henry’s gaze, I turned to him, only to be under the scrutiny of his bemused smirk, which was exhilarating in a sexual context but now just added to my annoyance.

“You know, Em. A new place will be ideal for your painting. This realtor at the Gallagher Group described to me this promising loft on Grand Street. ‘Stunning! Duplex! Balcony! Sun-flooded!’” he exploded. “Sounds ideal. And enough room for a studio so you can paint properly. With a real disposal system,” he laughed, right as my head was about to free-fall into our garbage.

I stood up, wiping a strand of hair behind my ear. The idea of a “sun-flooded” loft did have considerable appeal. I pictured myself with an eight-foot canvas and little brush stemming from my hand like a wand. Wearing black capris and ballet shoes in that Lee Krasner fifties artist chic sort of style. Always picturing my outfits with the setting.

Henry seated himself at the table, lifting up the box of cereal to give Tony’s mug a closer inspection. I situated a bowl and spoon on his place mat, vaguely registering how our habits resembled that of an old married couple with battery-operated ears.

“Frosted Flakes?”

Henry preferred the kind of bird-feed cereal you found at a store where the tattoo-fingered cashiers have medical degrees, assuming he’d start his day off sensibly, when really the nutrition facts were almost identical to Frosted Flakes unless you had a need for fiber, low sugar, and iron (something I’ve already researched). Essentially, you needed about ten bowls of either cereal to get all of the vitamins and nutrients you need, and Henry wasn’t that hungry in the morning, but I could eat ten bowls of cereal any time of the day (something I’ve been known to do). We also rarely shopped at grocery stores, preferring the charm and unprocessed foods of specialty markets.

“Since when did we start eating Frosted Flakes, Em?”

“I must have made a mistake at the store,” I said without meeting his eye. Not that I was ashamed of my sugary eating habit, I just couldn’t have him think that I’ve fallen for commercial marketing.

Pouring his bowl, Henry discovered the damn IQ test on the back of the box. The wrinkle of his brow and affected looks of pondering into the air indicated that he had found something redeemable in the kid-brand food.

Repositioning the box so he could read the answers on the side panel, I paid particular attention while he tallied up his answers. Henry then applauded to himself while reading the box.

“This stuff is a joke!”

Oh, please.

“Now how can we expect to further advance the intelligence of this country’s youth and, to use Kellogg’s words, ‘Jump-Start Your Brain’ when this is about as simple and useless as a game of tic-tac-toe!”

Good thing I didn’t circle my answers on the box.

“Tic-tac-toe!” he echoed.

“Yes, tic-tac-toe. Speaking of which, the painting I’m working on is for my mother.”

I broke Henry’s interest from that demoralizing cereal box.

“Your mother?”

“Yes. Quite amusing, really. You see, she wants me to paint a portrait. Of us! A wedding portrait to maintain some family tradition that keeps the divorce rate down because it would depreciate the value of some expensively commissioned pieces.”

“You and me? A wedding portrait? Commissioned by your mother?”

For a boy who just scored in the leading percentile of our nation’s population, he appeared to be a bit of an imbecile.

“I promise not to inconvenience you in any way—your time—and we only have to hang the picture whenever my mom comes to visit. Which I promise will be infrequently.”

Infrequently for certain, otherwise Henry and I will break a long-standing family tradition where I’ll be the first (but not necessarily the first deserved) Briggs member to have a divorce.

“No. Of course I don’t see this as an inconvenience. It’s just so incredibly Edith Wharton of your mother to come up with such an idea.”

Henry laughed, spooning some soggy flakes into his mouth that, I acutely observed, seemed to be giving him energy despite the fact that they weren’t as smart as his regular flakes. They’re all just flakes, I again assumed.

Henry looked to the microwave clock, which set him to frantic mode as he dashed from the table to take a shower, mumbling something about a godforsaken meeting that had to be scheduled for the absurd time of 10:00 AM. Henry was not a good performer in the morning, despite his high IQ as evidenced by the Frosted Flakes intelligence test. Not that I was particularly hung up on my poor score. I mean, what did the Mesopotamians know about art, color, or the fall collections? And look what happened to Mesopotamia—you don’t see us driving cars or warming our homes from discoveries made by their society. Hmm. Then again? Oh, forget it.

I cleared away Henry’s breakfast, washed up the dishes, and gave the counters their sixth coat of Windex for the morning. Tying the strings of the garbage, Henry gave me his departing words from the doorway, reminding me that we’d meet up with the realtor at the apartment on Grand Street and that he’d e-mail me the list of our afternoon appointments.

Seeing Henry off with an incomplete wave as he already left a miasma of dust in his hasty exit, I looked at the kitchen and then lifted my hands to inspect them. I had just cleaned up after my fiancé, and I couldn’t say that I liked it.