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I’d tried to get my father to pay. But when I’d called him with the news, what did I get? No “congratulations, darling.” No “when’s the date?” Not even an “it’s about time.”
I got: “I hope you don’t expect me to pay, Eleanor. I’ve spent enough on marriage. Why don’t you elope?”
Dad’s had five wives, and is never so generous as during divorce proceedings.
Louis, on the other hand, is always cheap. But he’s almost an associate partner, so paying for my perfect wedding wouldn’t financially wound him—just sting a bit.
I was watching the shitakes sizzle when the maitre d’ showed Louis to our table.
“Allo, Lou-ee.” I always pronounced his name the French way when at Citronelle. I kissed him with a bit more oomph than usual. “I missed you,” I said.
He’d been in Iowa for two weeks on business, and I’d been lonely. Worth the sacrifice though—I knew nothing about the deal, but his bonus was meant to be significant. Maybe enough to cover the wedding.
“Hi, Ellie.” He hugged me, sans oomph.
It was good to see him. Tired and rumpled, his presence was an immediate comfort. He was my personal grounding rod: solid and true. He made me want to be a good wife, like, say Barbara Bush. Though, obviously, not so conservative, curly white-haired, or, well…old.
“Ellie. Are you listening?”
“What?” Oops, good wives pay attention. “Yes! I’ll have the chicken.”
“I said I’ve been trying to call you for a week. You never answer.”
“They have scallops today,” I said—his favorite. I didn’t want to tell him I’d been avoiding the phone because a credit card company or two might be wondering about payments. But his face clouded, and I knew he wouldn’t let me change the subject that easily. “Sorry I didn’t call back,” I said. “I’ve been so busy planning.”
“Planning?”
“Helloooo.” I laughed. “Our wedding.”
“Oh. Right. Um, listen—”
“Will you come to Mr. Whistle’s after lunch? We need to finalize the menu, and I want your opinion.” And your wallet.
“No. I can’t go to the caterer.”
Nuts. “Have to get back to work so soon?” Maybe I could slip his Visa from his wallet when he went to the bathroom. The scallops are spicy, and he always visited the men’s room to blow his nose after eating them. But how could I get him to leave the wallet?
“Ellie,” he said. “I’ve met someone else.”
Should I ask him to leave his wallet, so I could pay the bill? Maybe I should pretend I wanted to check he still had my picture—what?
“You what?”
“In Iowa. I met someone.”
“In Iowa you did what?”
He flushed. “I—I met someone else.”
“A woman? You met a woman?”
“We can’t get married, Elle. I’m sorry.”
A deep breath. Calm, calm. Six years is a long time, it was only natural he’d be getting cold feet. We’d laugh about this in a month. After he paid dearly.
“Of course we can still get married. Don’t be silly. It’s only one last flirtation.” The word flirtation stuck in my throat, but I refused to let the groom ruin my wedding.
Louis shook his head and mumbled.
“I understand, marriage is scary.” I patted his hand. “No matter how committed or in love two people are. So you met another woman on your trip. It’s nerves, of course, you—”
“I didn’t just meet her, Ellie.”
Something cold dripped down my spine, but I ignored it. The wedding dress had been purchased. The Wedgwood pattern (Classic Garden) chosen. “So, you slept with another woman.” I gulped my iced tea, feigning calm. “I’m extremely disappointed in you. But our time together means more than some one-night stand.”
“No. Ellie, I’m sorry, but—”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll sleep with another woman.” A joke to lighten the mood, despite the anger I felt simmering.
“Elle. Listen to me. We didn’t just sleep together. We got married.”
“Married?!” I slammed my glass on the table. “What about Mr. Whistle?”
“And that’s when I grabbed the crème brûlée,” I tell Maya and Perfect Brad. “It was passing by on a dessert tray.”
I drain a third bourbon before Brad takes my glass and returns the bottle to the kitchen. I slobber shamelessly and tell Maya how much I love her. I yell to Brad that I love him, too.
“Is she gonna be all right?” he calls to Maya.
She tells him she’s seen me like this before, tucks me into my bed on the living room couch and follows Brad to the bedroom. I wonder if they’re going to have sex. I wonder how long it will be before anyone wants to sleep with me again.
I stare at the two towers of suitcases stacked next to me in the dark. Why don’t they make skyscrapers out of nylon, Velcro and wheels? Lightweight and durable. Suitcase apartments with zipper closets…
An hour later, I abruptly wake and lurch to the bathroom. Careful of my hair, I retch two gallons of Bloody Mary mix and Maker’s Mark, and seven little bags of honeyed peanuts. I flush as Maya knocks on the door.
“Elle? Are you okay?”
I open the door. “Better now.”
“Still a puker? Some things never change.”
Which is exactly what I’m afraid of.
Chapter 3
I wake with the Sunday edition of the Santa Barbara News-Press on my belly. I’m depressed and hungover, and unsure how to take the newspaper delivery. Helpful encouragement, or a hint that I’m not welcome for long?
The headline of the Lifestyle section is about Oprah buying a fifty-million-dollar house in Montecito, the über-rich suburb of Santa Barbara. Eager to jump into the job and apartment hunt, I make a list to evaluate my present situation:
Oprah: Recently moved to S.B.
Me: Recently moved to S.B.
Even Steven.
Oprah: Between forty-five and fifty.
Me: Twenty-six.
I’m ahead!
Oprah: Famous and beloved.
Me: Not so famous. And even my lovers don’t belove me.
Back to even?
Oprah: Offers wisdom, advice and companionship on nationally syndicated hugely successful talk show.
Me: Interviewed once on the street. Local news-woman asked what Christmas gift I’d give the world. I said, “Miatas.”
Oprah slightly ahead.
Oprah: Owns her own magazine: O. Graces cover each month in cheerful, feel-good outfit.
Me: Own many outfits.
Gap widening.
Oprah: Never lost fiancé to Iowan Floozy.
Me: Lost fiancé to Iowan Floozy.
Oprah shoots forward.
Oprah: Billionaire. Driven, smart, self-made.
Me: Credit risk. Coasting, smart, self-conscious.
Can taste Oprah’s dust in my mouth.
Oprah: On the chubbier side.
Me: The less chubby side.
Cold comfort.
Maya enters, bearing fresh coffee. “Did you see Oprah’s moving to town?”
“Is she?” I take a life-giving sip. “Where’s Brad?”
“Working.”
At SoftNoodle, a post-dot-com dot-com. They wanted a name that evoked both software and brains. Instead, they got impotence. “He works Sundays?”
“All the geeks do.”
“He’s not geeky. He’s perfect.”
“He’s not perfect!”
“He looks, talks, tastes and is Perfect Brad.”
“Tastes?”
“You know what I mean. Name one way he’s not perfect.”
“He’s not Jewish.”
“Oh,” I say. “That.”
Maya and I have been friends since we were twelve. She always celebrated the major Jewish holidays, unless she had other plans, but that was the extent of it. Maya’s mother, on the other hand, was really observant. She died of breast cancer last year—her funeral was the one time I’d been back since college. Since then, Maya has taken religion more seriously. Not that she’s started attending synagogue or anything, but she knows her mother wanted her to marry someone Jewish.
“So no wedding bells?” I say.
Her face clouds. “The wedding bells were supposed to be for you and Louis.” She sits next to me. “Did he really hurt you, Elle?”
I’d been thinking about that, between bouts of obsessive eating. “Other than my pride? No. C’mon. Of course not.” I take another sip of coffee, wishing it were a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby. The name of the ice cream makes my heart hurt. “Yeah. I guess he did. I miss him. I liked him. I really—he was solid. We really knew each other—little things, you know? The stuff that doesn’t matter, but that’s all that matters. And he was…well, he was there. That’s important in a fiancé.”
“He was there.” Her tone says, you don’t sound like a woman in love.
“Do you remember in high school, when we wanted to be mistresses?”
“No.”
“Maybe that was just me.” I’d seen a special on 20/20 about Kept Women. It had made an impression. Your own house, designer clothes and an allowance. All you had to do was have sex whenever he wanted. I liked sex—it didn’t seem like a hardship. “That’s pretty much what I had going.”
“You were his mistress?”
“Well, we didn’t have sex whenever he wanted. But I lived in an apartment he paid for, I didn’t work, he bought me clothes.” I look at her. “I should’ve asked for an allowance.”
“Do you love him?”
“Sure. That’s what kept it from being tawdry.” I finish my coffee. “I know you must’ve thought I led this exciting, sophisticated, romantic life…”
“Not really.”
“But to tell the truth it was kind of—” I look at her. “What do you mean, not really?”
