Slim Chance (13 page)

“Get a new one?” That was interesting.

“…provided Bruce doesn’t kill you.”

“Oh.” He would. What a jerk. “So what do I do? It’s crucial that I have the buying power I need. Things come up, you know, and I deserve it, don’t I? But I’m almost maxed out.”

“Ahh,” she said quietly. “Therein lies the paradox.”

Morgan was no fool.

“Evie, you’re my best friend, so I’m going to tell it to you like it is. You can either stop spending money, which sounds like
it’s not really an option for you, since your sense of entitlement is obviously more powerful than your sense of fiscal responsibility, or…” she paused for dramatic effect.

“Or what?”

“…or you can increase your income.”

“Get a…a second job?” I stammered, aghast. Was she mad?

“No, you idiot—a raise. Get a raise.”

“I don’t know…” I said. “I’m not due for one until the fall, and even then…”

“Look, if they haven’t already fired you by now, then chances are they want to keep you. So march right in there and ask. Now I gotta go—I have a lunch date with Billy. He’s been waiting at the restaurant for over an hour.”

It was actually a pretty good idea, provided I could catch Pruscilla in the right mood. Although the three-month mark of my probation had come and gone without a pink slip, I still got the sense she was suspicious of me, like she knew I was slacking off but just hadn’t figured out how yet. It might be better to wait until she was once again ready to see me as a valuable asset to the company before I broached the topic of raises. But since I needed the money so desperately, I resolved to stay on the lookout for the perfect moment to bring it up. It’s not like I’d be asking for a promotion, which I had definitely given up on, since my professional performance had been less than exemplary. I was willing to admit at least that. On the other hand, though, my extraordinary willpower had surely saved the insurance company the cost of a future gastric bypass, so I figured the least Kendra White could do was raise me a measly few thousand bucks. And aren’t employee salaries tax-deductable anyway?

With this in mind, I popped into Barneys on my way to the gym. Call me a hypocrite, if you like, but being aware of the fashion industry’s duplicity doesn’t make me immune to its considerable charms. I was a victim in all this, too, remember. And Barneys was my new favorite place to succumb to the urges
(
Elle,
January: “Department-Store Psychology: NYC’s Best Retail Therapy”).

As I pored through the racks, it occurred to me how I was beginning to enjoy shopping by myself. Instead of dragging someone along with me to tell what made me look fat and what didn’t, I found that lately I needed the peace and quiet that only comes from being alone with your thoughts in a retail environment. I no longer needed the constant reassuring of others—I could now trust the salesgirls to tell me the truth. Even if they were lying, I figured, how bad could I look? I was a perfect size ten, and things were looking brighter every day.

A now-familiar wave of exhilaration washed over me as I selected a few things to try on. The humiliation of the almost-plus sizes was behind me forever. Since most decent designers shy away from being associated with any item larger than a twelve, the pleasure of shopping freely in a place like Barneys is a high unlike any other. Best of all, I was free to experiment with styles and fabrics which were previously atrocious on me.

Until I got my raise, I reasoned that it would be best not to get too carried away, so I left with only a pair of baby-blue pleather pants (
Jane,
March: “Fabrics of the Future: This Ain’t Your Grandmother’s Vinyl!”) and a sexy Ralph Lauren bra that was on sale for $19.99.

As grave as my personal financials were at the time, at least the wedding details were coming along nicely. I’d been trying my best to stay out of things, which was working quite well. Unfortunately for Bruce, though, the brunt of dealing with Bertie was falling to him most of the time. It was either that or I’d have to do it, which meant things would get ugly, and he knew it.

To give him proper credit, he handled the money end like a pro when we first got engaged, delicately telling his mother that our families would be splitting the cost of The Wedding proportionately according to number of guests. Bertie didn’t like
that. She thought my mom should pay for half, no matter what—“What happened to the days when the bride’s family paid for everything? Do you think your Granny Fulbright dished out one red cent for
my
wedding?”—but I gently reminded him to tell her that it was my grandmother who’d be paying, not my mom, and that Claire was an old woman who lived on a fixed income.

“Fixed my ass!” I could hear her tinny voice coming through the receiver. “The only thing that’s fixed about her income is the interest rate she gets on that pile of cash her husband left her.” It was true, but Claire would never agree to pay for half of Bertie’s friends at $250 a head. Especially since Claire’s idea of the perfect wedding would be something more akin to
Barefoot in the Park (In Style Weddings,
Fall: “The Most Romantic Movie Weddings of All Time”). But it still gave me great satisfaction when Bruce told me, in the strictest confidence, that his dad had secretly called my grandmother at the outset of the negotiations and offered to pay for the entire thing, but Claire wouldn’t hear of it. Bertie would have an aneurysm if she knew about that one.

By the end of March, everything was right on schedule. The appropriate deposits had been sent off to the inn, the photographer, the florist, the band, the video guy and the limo company. I’d settled on a fabric for the bridesmaids—a lovely satin-backed crepe in just the right shade of champagne—and all six girls were already scheduled for their first fittings. Bertie had even retained the second-hottest calligrapher in Connecticut to address the invitations.

All that remained to be done was booking the honeymoon. I had my heart set on Maui, but Bruce preferred Ireland.

“You’re the one who’s always complaining about how expensive everything is, and you want to go all the way to Ireland?” I asked.

“Ireland is closer
and
cheaper than Hawaii, Evie. We’d even
have a place to stay for part of the time. My mom’s cousins offered to let us use their place in Galway, remember?”

“Don’t be absurd.” What was he thinking? Maui was definitely the best place to honeymoon right now (
Modern Bride,
Spring: “This Year’s Honeymoon Hot Spots”). And where the hell was Galway? “I refuse to spend my honeymoon wading through shit on some sheep farm,” I explained.

Bruce picked a handful of bras up off the floor and whipped them into the laundry basket. “How about you go to Maui and I’ll go to Ireland?” He snapped.

“How about you go to Ireland with your mother and I’ll stay here alone with the lights out so we can save some cash.”

“I have a better idea,” he said. “How about you return your blue plastic pants and everything else you’ve bought lately and we’ll go to Bali for a month or two and stay at the Four Seasons. We’d still have money left over for first-class tickets.”

“I’ll ignore that,” I said, and followed him into the kitchen.

“Good, because I don’t want to talk about this again,” he barked.

“Don’t be mad at me. It’s not really my fault. I know I’ve spent a lot lately, but I think I deserve it. It’s been years since I actually felt this good about myself, you know, so what’s the harm in treating myself now and then? Not to mention the fact that I really, truly don’t fit into any of my old clothes.”

Silence.

“I owe some money—I know that. But I’m working on a plan. Not just to cut back on spending, which I already have, but to get a raise as well. And work pays for the gym, or at least some of it, remember? Even if we don’t get it back till the end of the year. So you can’t count the gym with all the other stuff, right?” Although Bruce might have been peeved with my spending habits, he couldn’t fault me for that. “Right?”

He glared at me as if to say he could indeed fault me for that.

My patience was wearing thin. “It’s an investment in my
health, Bruce. My
health.
Isn’t that supposed to be the most important thing? If you can’t accept at least that, then I don’t know why I’d want to marry a person like you anyway.”

With an angry scowl, he took his dinner out of the microwave and stomped off into the living room to watch the news.

T
he only respite I found from the storm swirling all around me were the few short hours a day I spent with Jade. Which was a good thing, because I was sorely lacking in male companionship.

I barely saw Bruce at all throughout most of April. Although we’d settled the whole honeymoon thing—we both agreed on Las Vegas, a subtle blend of sun and fun at a reasonable price, provided nobody goes overboard at the tables—I was pissed off at him for leaving me alone on Easter weekend. It was the third recruiting trip he’d taken in the last month, trying to reel in as many little nerds as possible before the summer registration deadline, I suppose. Since Claire was on some Eldertour of Spain and Portugal, I ended up spending the holiday alone with Mom, which was about as much fun as having my teeth pulled. All she did was nag me about losing too much weight (“I can tell already that you’re going to look sallow in the wedding pictures;” “Your hair! Your hair! What’s happening to your hair?”). And I was a little angry at Bruce’s parents, too. The least they could have done, knowing we were alone, was invite us over for Easter Sunday. Not that we would have gone.

Jade, on the other hand, was my rock and support. Despite what Morgan said, our friendship was getting stronger with each passing day. One night, after an incredibly strenuous and emotional session during which I finally sustained a level ten on the stepmaster for forty-five minutes, Jade was obviously impressed.

“Nice job, Evie. That’s about it for now, though. Tomorrow’s abs and arms, so you better save your strength.”

“I’ll be…here…at six,” I gasped, scooping up my towel and water bottle.

“Hey—you in any rush? Right now, I mean?” he asked.

“No, not really,” I said. He probably wants to go over my chart with me, I thought. It had been a while since we added anything new to my routine, and I’d been noticing lately that we’d been neglecting my glutes.

“You feel like getting a drink?” he asked. He said it just like that. As if it were no big deal.

My heart leapt up into my throat. “With me?”

“Of course, with you.”

“Sure,” I giggled adorably. “Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll slip into something a little more comfortable.”

He wants to have a drink with me. The hottest, sexiest, most popular trainer in the entire gym, and possibly all of Manhattan, wants to have a drink with me!
I sauntered off to the locker room and showered and dressed as quickly as possible. While blow-drying my hair, it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t be as excited as I was. But at the same time, I was wishing I had something sexier to wear than my boring gray work suit.

A little décolleté wouldn’t hurt, I figured, so I took off my blouse entirely and put the jacket back on. I stared at my reflection. Surprisingly good. If I leaned forward, he’d be able to see my bra, since the suit was a touch big, but that was fine. After all, this nice little Calvin Klein number in black lace was meant to be seen, and I didn’t want to look like a frumpy old schoolmarm. He’d probably take me to some fantastically trendy actors’ bar that most dull normals don’t even know exists. I
imagined walking in on Jade’s arm…heads would turn…oh, the possibilities were endless. A little red lipstick, and voilà—from day to night in no time flat! One last look—I was actually sexy. There was no denying it.

I found Jade still in his sweats at the juice bar, chatting up the silicone-infected man trap who works behind the counter.

“What’ll ya have, Evie?” he asked when he saw me standing there.

I am such an idiot.

Defeated, I slid onto the stool beside him. “The wheat germ and carrot special. No parsley.”

“Sure thing,” Juice Wench said. “The usual for you, Jade?”

“Yup,” he smiled at her. “Thanks, Kirsten.” She winked at him and jiggled off.

“You sure do get a lot of winks,” I said.

“You noticed?” He turned and looked right into my eyes.

God, I hope I didn’t sound jealous. Because I was.

Better divert the question. “Can I ask you something? Is Jade your real name?”

“What, you think I made it up?”

“Not to state the obvious, but I could think of worse names for a green-eyed actor,” I said.

“Cute. Very cute. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Jade is my real name. My parents were living in Hong Kong when I was conceived, if that’s any explanation.”

“My, my, quite the world traveler,” I said. “Did you live there long?”

“Alas,” he sighed. “I was nothing more than a well-traveled fetus. We came back home to Staten Island before I was born. Lived in New York ever since. How about you?”

“Brooklyn, born and raised. When I was eighteen, I wanted to move out to California for school, UCLA, but it…didn’t work out.” Morgan says it’s always best to be a little bit enigmatic when you’re talking to a man you’re trying to seduce—so I’d leave him wondering about what motivates the
mysterious Evelyn Mays. Not that I was trying to seduce Jade. That would be ridiculous. I was just having a little fun.

“Why not?”

“It just didn’t. I’m an only child.”

“Ah, so your parents couldn’t bear the thought of their precious little girl all alone on the other side of the country.”

“Something like that. But my dad lives in L.A.,” I heard myself saying. “My parents divorced when I was really young.” What the hell was I thinking? So much for Morgan’s air of intrigue—I had completely obliterated any hint of mystery and moved on to tell-all fiction.

“Are you close with your dad?” Jade asked.

“Not really. I mean, I speak to him every couple of months or so. I guess that’s why I wanted to go out there, to get to know him a little better. Find out what he’s like.”

“What does he do?”

Jade opened the door; I couldn’t resist walking through.

“He’s a…casting director, actually. Funny you should ask. He works for some big production company.” My tongue was not my own, and my heart was racing. Could he tell that I was lying? I didn’t even know if casting directors work for production companies. And did I actually think he’d like me more if my dad could get him a job?

Yes I did. And I hoped he would.

But Jade didn’t so much as flinch. “So the dutiful daughter stayed home with her mother instead.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I was dutiful,” I said cheerily, glad to steer the conversation away from my evil delusions. I couldn’t trust myself not to lie, and desperately wanted to avoid promising Jade the lead role in some movie that didn’t exist. “It was more like laziness, among other things,” I told him.

“No money?”

“No money,” I sighed.

“Yeah, I know what that’s like. I wanted to move to L.A., too. Try the whole acting thing out there for a while, you
know? But cash was tight. And I figured I was better off staying here anyway, pay my dues, maybe do some theater. You know? Then break into TV or movies.”

“How’s it going?” I asked. With his looks, I found it hard to believe that he couldn’t get anything. He must be a dreadful actor.

“Not so good. Problem is, I refuse to do anything that involves nudity. For now anyway. I’ve had a lot of offers from…let’s see, how should I put this…less mainstream productions.”

“You mean porn?” I asked, almost choking on my juice. He’d be
fantastic
in porn.

“Yeah, I guess you could call it that. It’s tempting, with the money they throw at you, but it can ruin your career if you’re not careful.”

“I bet. But I’m sure plenty of girls would pay money to see you naked.” I’d be the first in line.

“But why compromise my artistic integrity when plenty of girls pay money to see me fully clothed?” he grinned. He was so cute I could almost die.

“I wouldn’t call what you wear fully clothed, dear. Spandex doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

“Have you been imagining, Evie?”

God, I was definitely in trouble. A
lot
of trouble.

I cleared my throat. “Have you thought about modeling?”

“I model on occasion,” he smiled. “Catalogue stuff, mostly. But I just do it for a little extra cash.”

“Anything I might have seen?”

“Probably not.”

“Did you do the Abercrombie and Fitch catalog for spring? I think I might have noticed you in that,” I said hopefully. He was just the type—prep-school good looks, tousled hair hanging down into his eyes, teeth as white as Chiclets and abs you could wash clothes on.

“Wasn’t me,” he laughed, shaking his head. What a laugh. A laugh so unselfconscious and so utterly sexy that it made me
suck in my breath and look around to make sure nobody else heard. Juice Wench did, and shot me a knowing glance.

“And you never wanted to pursue it?” I asked, flustered. This guy could have been in his underwear on a giant billboard in Times Square. Instead, he was here talking to me.

“Nah, it’s not for me. I know a lot of models, girls mostly, and it’s a pretty dreadful business. Besides, I’m twenty-seven. I’m too old for all that shit.”

I nodded understandingly. The whole modeling thing could be a real bitch.

“What about you, Evie? You’re a woman transformed. You might consider it now that you’ve dropped—what is it?—forty pounds?”

Thirty-eight, but who’s counting. “Ha, ha. Very funny. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with me.”

“What makes you think you know better?” he said softly.

There was an uncomfortable pause for a second. Before I could figure out what to say, Juice Wench was back with the bill. Jade grabbed it. “I got it,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it.” And he was chivalrous, too. God, was there
anything
about him that wasn’t absolutely perfect?

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll get the next one.”

“Sure. Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he said.

“Keep me?”

“You’re all dressed up. I assume you’re going out.”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m having drinks with a few friends.”
I dressed up for you, you idiot.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek.

I didn’t know what to do, so I just said ’bye and left.

Yes, love was in the air. Maybe it was because springtime was just around the corner, or maybe the stars were conspiring in the heavens, or maybe it was all just coincidence, but it seemed
like everybody was getting a piece. Claire had a new boyfriend, some guy she met on the Internet. Morgan and Peter were preparing for a romantic weekend tryst at her mother’s summer house on the beach, and she’d penciled Billy in for the weekend after that. Even that hag Andrea from Fragrances had finally harangued her boyfriend into proposing. The only notable exception was Bruce, who walked around the house in a constant snit, brooding silently over God knows what.

The real proof came at Mom’s one Saturday afternoon. I’d gone over to try on the dress. In what can only be described as a feat of near-impossible restraint on my part, it had been a month since I’d even looked at it. Not that I hadn’t thought about it almost constantly during that time, imagining how perfectly it would fit, and how wonderful it would make my wedding day. I knew that if I tried it on every forty-eight hours like I wanted to, it would only make my progress less dramatic, so I held back. Now, with four weeks gone, I was anticipating great things.

“I hope it fits, Evelyn. It’s too late to find another one.” She gave me crap about losing too much weight, but secretly, she was ecstatic about it.

“I’m 132 pounds, Mom. It better fit.”

She spread a sheet out onto the floor (
Martha Stewart Weddings,
Spring: “Avoiding Dress Disasters”) and gently removed the dress from its bag. I stepped into the gown and pulled it up smoothly. No snagging on the hips, this time.

“Do it up! Do it up!” I said. This was it, I could feel it.

“Hold on a second,” she said, fluffing out the skirt. “Are your boobs properly adjusted?”

“Come
on
already!”

“Okay, sweetie. Here goes…” And just like that, she zipped it up and stepped back.

“Oh my,” she gasped. “
Evelyn
—you’re breathtaking.”

I turned to face the full-length mirror.

It didn’t look at all like me. Was that little waist mine? And
those collarbones? Where had my breasts gone? Instead of pride and relief, I felt the vague stirrings of panic and fear.

Mom was getting a little teary-eyed. “I can’t believe you actually did it, dear. I didn’t think you could, but you did,” she said. “When I saw it in the bag, it didn’t look like much, to be honest with you. Very plain. But you were right—it’s much prettier than the one at Sternfeld’s. Much more elegant. You look like a princess. And that’s how a girl should feel on her wedding day.”

How would she know?

“Are you sure it looks okay?” I asked shakily. Maybe it was because I was having a bad-hair day, but I didn’t feel much like a bride. It felt more like Halloween. I looked good, thin; the mirror told me at least that. But I felt strange.

“Don’t fish for compliments, Evelyn. It’s not attractive. You know it looks more than just okay. You look like a model. Try on the shoes and the veil.”

I put the shoes on. They were a little higher than what I normally wear—okay, a lot higher.

“Try walking,” she said. “I’ll call the seamstress and tell her we’re ready to come for the alterations now. It’s just the right size, so don’t you dare lose a single pound more…”

The phone rang and she darted off into the kitchen. I strayed off the sheet and tried walking around the room a little. My feet were already killing me. I suddenly just wanted The Dress back in the closet where it belonged. I took it off and lay down on the bed and tried to imagine how Bruce would react when he saw me in it for the first time. Then I imagined what Jade would say if he saw me in it. Then I realized that was just plain wrong, so I went back to thinking about Bruce. Maybe he would be so overcome by emotion that he’d fall to his knees right then and there. Or maybe he wouldn’t even notice. I could wear a potato sack, he’d still think I looked beautiful. I knew that was a good thing. No, a
great
thing—but for some reason, it still annoyed me at that moment.