Slim Chance (9 page)

“We could see if Chad and Mimi wouldn’t mind us coming to their annual shindig,” he suggested ignorantly.

“Or, we could just kill ourselves now.” Did he really think I’d say yes to that?

If I’ve neglected to mention Bruce’s friends thus far, it’s because I hate them. A dinner party with private-school boys from Greenwich, Connecticut, and their twin-setted wives does not a wild New Year’s make. The first and as it turned out final time I agreed to socialize with them was at Bruce’s five-year high-school reunion. If you’re wondering who the hell bothers with a five-year high-school reunion, the answer is people who are such overachievers that they can’t wait ten years to shove their accomplishments in each other’s faces. If I sound bitter, it’s because Bruce went off with his football friends and left me stuck trying to make small talk for four hours with sorority types named Charity and ’Lizbeth, not to mention that I was the only fat girl there (and I wasn’t even that fat five years ago). At least his college buddies are a little better, but most of them are pretty boring, too, albeit in a completely different way.

So with few options remaining and the clock ticking, we finally decided to hook up with Nicole, Kimby and Theo, who were on their way to a drag-queen party at some bar in the Village. Annie couldn’t come because she was committed to a ridiculously small understudy part in an ABBA-themed musical production of
The Nutcracker Suite.
If I didn’t know for a fact that it existed, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. But it does, I assure, you, and good luck getting tickets—it’s been sold out for months.

By the time we finally got dressed, got to the city and found the place, it was almost eleven. The bar, as promised, was packed to the rafters with cross-dressers and queens in various stages of undress. Theo, clothed rather conservatively in a zoot suit, chaps and a feather boa, was trying to convince some of his
friends that Nicole was really a guy. It wasn’t such a stretch. She was wearing the most dreadful sequined top and a miniskirt with go-go boots. And the ten pounds she’d lost in the fall seemed to have been sucked directly from her chest. Kimby, who nobody, no matter how wasted, could ever mistake for a man, was laughing hysterically, pointing at Nicole’s crotch.

“If you squint and tilt your head this way, you can see it,” Theo said to a cute guy he was obviously trying to impress.

When he noticed us, his eyes widened. At first I assumed it was because he could tell I’d lost some weight—six pounds since the office Christmas party two weeks ago!—but he was far too smashed to notice.

“Evie! Hi! This is Phillip. Phillip, this is Evie and her
fiancé
Bruce. Oh, how I wish
I
had a fiancé,” he shouted above the music, and winked at Phillip, who rolled his eyes. “Bruce, you old dog, I can’t believe you actually had the balls to show! You look like my father in that sweater vest, why don’t you take it off?”

Bruce smiled and looked around nervously. “Be nice, Theo,” I laughed. “It was hard enough to get him to come here at all and—”

But Theo was already trying to convince an obviously uncomfortable Nicole to enter the wet T-shirt contest.

“Just do it!” he said. “They’ll love you,
I promise!
I’m sure you’ll win. It’s so ridiculous, how could you not?”

“Forget it! I won’t!” Nicole whined, stirring her Bloody Mary.

Kimby, who’s a surprisingly mean drunk, joined in eagerly. “Come on, Nic, don’t be shy! Everybody will just think they’re implants!”

“Or like he’s been messing around with estrogen,” Phillip added.

Nicole struggled visibly, trying to decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Oh, leave her alone,” I told them. “Nicole, your tits look real.
They’re just saying that because they’re much perkier than they used to be.” She looked at me thankfully while Kimby stifled a laugh. Poor Nicole.

“Yeah,” she said. “But do I look like I’m in drag?”

“Of course not—it’s just the shirt, that’s all,” I assured her. “Half the guys in here are wearing sequins, so it’s kind of deceptive at first glance. But anyone who bothers looking will see that you’re a hundred percent woman.”

Theo, whose attention span was even shorter than his relationships, turned to me and asked, “Where’s that slut Morgan?”

“Not here, obviously,” I said, and gulped down the rest of my drink. Bruce just stared mutely at the floor, refusing to join in the conversation. I believe he was having even less fun than I was. But I was starting to feel bad for him.

“I’m
dying
to shoot her, Phillip, but she hates my guts. Seriously, though, she’s the most
gorgeous
redhead I’ve ever seen. Come to think of it, she’s the
only
gorgeous redhead I’ve ever seen. Freckles turn me off. What about you?”

After another few insufferable minutes, a waiter came to the table with a drink for Bruce, and pointed to the bar. A very tall woman with an Adam’s apple smiled and waved. And that was it for our New Year’s Eve in the Village. With unusual firmness of purpose, Bruce grabbed my elbow and silently steered us out into the street, without so much as a goodbye to anyone.

We rang in the New Year on the train, completely alone in the car.

“I guess even the bums and weirdos have better places to be tonight than here,” Bruce sighed.

“I guess.”

But I did think it was kind of romantic, with the city lights twinkling in the background.

T
his was to be the Year of Keeping New Year’s Resolutions, I resolved. On the advice of Jade, and to appease Bruce, I turned convention on its ear and threw out my scale. The one at the gym is more accurate, Jade says, and weighing myself every day, or even several times a day, for that matter, is not going to help my focus, nor is it a good indication of my progress. Besides—I was taking on this whole exercise thing primarily for health reasons and to feel better about myself mentally.
Or at least that’s what I would tell myself if I didn’t lose any more weight.

Still, I’d been making strides, so the thought of ditching my old friend didn’t sit too well with me. But Bruce was utterly insistent, so we had a small scale-smashing ceremony in the bathroom one night, followed by rice cakes and Crystal Light. On the upside, when I saw what it looked like on the inside, all rusted and greasy from years of shower steam and tears, it was apparent that it had not been functioning properly anyway.

With the engagement party less than a month away, now was definitely the time to firm my resolve. After weeks of agonized deliberation for everyone involved, Bertie had finally whittled
the list down to a hundred people, and we’d settled on January 20, a Saturday night. She hired a very good local caterer and a party planner—or
stylist,
as she likes to say—who was determined to turn her house into a winter wonderland for the occasion. The invitations had already gone out, and there was not a moment to waste if I expected to look halfway decent by January 20. I decided to up my gym schedule to four times a week. Jade was very impressed with my commitment.

“Most people start coming to the gym
after
New Year’s,” he said as he filled up my water bottle. The personal training sessions were expensive, but I needed the motivation. “You’re the first client I’ve had who started the week before Christmas.”

“I don’t have the luxury of time,” I panted. In just three weeks, I’d gone from fat to, well, less fat—eight whole pounds of me were gone forever.

“Why not?” he asked. “Back on the stepmaster. And don’t lean on the railings—that’s cheating.”

I’d been very careful not to discuss my personal life at the gym. Morgan’s been schooling me in exercise etiquette, so that I don’t make an idiot out of myself. She says only pathetic, needy women turn their trainers into their shrinks, and quite frankly, I agree. It’s completely unattractive, and irritating for other people who are just there for a good workout to have to listen to this one’s problems with her philandering husband, and that one’s panic over her four-year-old’s overbite.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
Oh please, please, ask me again.

“Sure I do,” he said, and looked me right in the eyes and smiled. God, was he gorgeous. Who knew sideburns could be so cute?

I’m the first one to admit that a small part of my newfound enthusiasm for the gym stems from the fact that looking at Jade makes the minutes fly by. And it doesn’t hurt that I desperately want to please him, and would probably jump off the Brooklyn Bridge with rocks in my pockets if he ever thought ill of
me. Granted, that probably isn’t the most normal of motivations, but I never claimed to be normal.

“Well, you see…I’m…I’m…” It was getting harder to talk. “I’m…”

“Hold that thought, Evie. I’ll be back for you in half an hour, then we’ll do the weights,” he said, and trotted off to help a young woman whose disproportionately large breasts were preventing her from making it up the climbing wall.

Better to keep it to myself anyway.
Why would Jade care about my life? This is just a job for him. He’s not interested in my engagement party, or my problems with my mother, or my distorted body image. He probably has his own things to worry about. He probably has his own relationship troubles. He’s probably gay, for all I know. Well, if not probably, then possibly. Oh, who am I kidding—the guy oozes heterosexuality from every perfect pore. Still, though, why should he care about me?

By the time I finished and made it upstairs to the weight room, I was exhausted. Sticking to my rigid four-times-a-week schedule had been a lot easier when I was on vacation. After working a whole entire day (which now involves actually working, since Pruscilla’s been watching me like a hawk), it takes just about everything I have to get my ass here and slap some spandex on it.

Jade rushed over with my chart. “Sorry about before. Giselle was in a bit of a rough spot. So, you ready to pump some iron?”

I smiled weakly. “I’m tired,” I said.

“You’re tired?” Jade looked at me in mock horror.

“Yes.” I knew I was pouting, but I couldn’t help it.

“What happened to not having the luxury of time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do a few reps for me, and tell me why you’re in such a rush.”

Defeated, I settled into the machine. “I have an engagement party on January 20.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“You’re getting married?” He seemed surprised, but I couldn’t tell if he really cared or not.

“Yup.”

“You don’t wear an engagement ring?” Funny question. Does that mean he was looking for one?

“I do, just not to work out.”

“Well I hope you don’t keep it in your locker here. There have been a few thefts lately, you know.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he actually cared. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He stared at me for a second, then said. “You look so young to be getting married. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all. I’m twenty-seven.”

“Wow. You don’t look twenty-seven.”

“It’s the fat—smooths out the wrinkles.”

“Oh, Evie, come on, now. It’s just that you just have a young face. Besides, I’ve never heard of a twenty-seven-year-old with wrinkles, no matter how thin. And you’re
not
fat. You just need to tone up a little.”

“Thanks. You lie very well. I can see why you’re the most popular trainer here.”

“And I always thought it was because of my boyish good looks,” he grinned.

“That, too,” I panted, struggling through my last set. Was I actually flirting?

Jade just smiled and ticked things off on his clipboard. “Three, two, one. Good job. Next stop—hamstrings.”

We walked over to the next machine.

“Well, if my opinion counts for anything, you don’t have to worry about looking good for your party, because you already do.”

“Thanks, Jade.” I’m glad my face was already beet-red, because I probably would have blushed like a schoolgirl.

Mental note: Ask Morgan if it’s okay to tip your personal trainer for a job well done.

It’s a good thing Christmas sales last until well after New Year’s in New York, because I still had nothing to wear to the party. Of course, I didn’t want to buy anything too soon, or else I’d have to have it taken in, and I was in no position to be spending frivolously on things like alterations. I planned to lose another three pounds before January 20, for an anticipated grand total of eleven pounds gone forever.

Morgan flat-out refused to ever come shopping with me again, using the whole wedding dress thing as an excuse, and Annie and Kimby were busy. Even Bruce was occupied, on some type of extra-credit field trip behind the scenes at the planetarium. I had no choice but to ask Nicole, even though shopping just wasn’t our thing.

“Please, Nicole. I have nothing to wear, and I can’t trust myself to go alone.”

“I was planning to catch up on my reading,” she said. “My thesis is due the end of August, you know, not that you ever ask me about it. I bet you don’t even have a clue what my topic is.”

“Of course I do,” I lied. True, I’d been a little preoccupied lately, but it’s not like she asks me much about my life either. Nicole and I aren’t the sort of friends who spend hours chatting on the phone anyway, and she knows it.

“Okay. What is it, then?”

“What?”

“My topic!”

“Oh. Something about…infanticide in Burma?” I suggested hopefully.

“First of all, Evie, it’s
Myanmar,
not Burma. It hasn’t been called Burma in, like, fifteen years. And my thesis is on the mythology of gender and sexuality in New Guinean folklore.
God,
it’s not like I haven’t told you a thousand times.”

I don’t how she managed to do it, but I suddenly felt really
guilty. The truth was, I guess I had been neglecting my friends a bit lately, what with all the time I was spending at the gym. Suddenly, I worried that I was becoming obsessed without realizing it. But wasn’t trying to get healthy a full-time commitment? Surely, everyone would understand that my time was at a premium now. Still, I silently vowed to renew my commitment to the girls. I couldn’t just expect them all to drop everything and run when I needed them if I didn’t put out some kind of effort, even if that meant asking Nicole about Burmese lesbians once in a while.

“You’re right, Nicole. I forgot. I am
so
sorry. I guess there’s just something about Burmese lesbians that makes my mind completely shut down.”

“Evie!”

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding. Jeez! It’s Myanmar. I know.”

“It’s New Guinea,” she said, even though she knew I was still kidding. “And lesbians have nothing to do with it.”

“So, uh, how are they doing there? Gender-wise, I mean.”

“Forget it, it doesn’t matter.”

“How can you
say
that? Have you no respect for their oral traditions?”

She giggled. “Give it a rest, Evie. I’ll come shopping with you. But only if we go to Saks, because I could use a few things too and my sister gets a five-percent employee discount on regularly priced merchandise.”

“Thanks a million, Nic! I owe you.”

I knew she didn’t feel like spending the day studying anyway. Who would?

We met in the cosmetics department, and wasted half an hour talking about eyeliner to her sister Cherie, who definitely got the looks in the family, if not the brains. Not that working at an Estée Lauder counter is something to be ashamed of, but if I was as pretty as she is, you can bet I’d have found some way not to work at all.

On our way up the escalator, Nicole asked, “Have you lost weight?” She’d had a good, long look at me from behind, and now there was no denying it. But I was delighted anyway—she was the first person to notice without me pointing it out first.

“Why, yes, I have—I don’t know exactly how much, though,” I lied. “I’ve been working out a lot, but I threw out my scale because my trainer says it’s not a true measure of progress.”

“You have a trainer?”

“Yup!”

“I’ve managed to keep my weight off, too, but I haven’t lost anything in over a month,” she said as we made our way to the designer dresses.

“Just stick with it. You’ve probably just hit a plateau. And you might want to try exercising—it’s the only thing that’s worked for me in almost five years.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s because my metabolism is so screwed up from all those plans I’ve been on. And having a personal trainer is the best, and he’s absolutely gorgeous, and I think he’s even been flirting with me. Can you imagine?”

“Not really,” she said. “Which gym do you go to?”

I
definitely
didn’t want her there. (
O,
January: “Fitness Saboteurs: Sorting the Friends from the Foes?”). That would ruin everything. “Just some place near work. It’s probably not worth it for you to join, though. It’s pretty far from you.”

Nicole rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, Evie, I won’t crowd your little party.”

“You make it sound like so much fun. It’s not, believe me. He’s making me work my ass off.”

“Well, that’s the idea, isn’t it?” she smirked.

“Ha, ha. What do you think of this one?” I asked, pulling a microscopic red-and-pink Betsey Johnson off the rack and holding it up hopefully. “This is a large.”

“Umm, I don’t think that’s going to work so well,” she said
diplomatically. “How about that?” She pointed to a drab gray Saks Fifth Avenue suit on a mannequin.

“I don’t want to look like I’m going to a lunch meeting. Think sexy and sophisticated.”

“It’s your party—you can look like a tramp if you want to,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “So tell me, does Bruce know about your crush?”

I almost choked on my Tic Tac. “Don’t be an ass,” I told her. “I don’t have a
crush
on Jade. He’s just my trainer. And he happens to be a little flirtatious. It’s all in good fun.”

“Oh, so it’s
Jade,
now. Quite a fancy name.”

“Make fun if you want, I couldn’t care less. But it sounds to me like someone’s a little bit jealous.”

“Of what? An imaginary love affair between you and some ape? I think not,” she said. But I think she must have been, because she dropped the subject.

After an hour of trying things on, I finally found a great dress. When I stepped out of the changing room, Nicole’s jaw practically dropped.

I stood back to admire myself in the mirror. It was an ocelot-print D&G satin-stretch wraparound with a plunging neckline. It was also a size ten, and admittedly a little tight, but I still had two weeks to go before the party.

“Well—is it too much?”

“Depends,” breathed Nicole, smiling broadly. “It’s not too much if you’re going for a Queen of the Jungle thing.”

“Are you sure? Even with the cleavage?”

“The cleavage is actually quite elegant.” Her envy was almost palpable.

“Are you sure I don’t look like a fool?”

“You? Look like a fool? With all the fashion magazines you read? That’s virtually impossible.”

“I’m serious now, Nicole. Don’t jerk me around. I really need you to tell me if I look like an idiot.”

“What? You think I’d tell you it looked okay if it didn’t?”

“With a pair of control-tops, it’ll be fine, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” she said.

It wasn’t easy, but we also found shoes and a bag to match, all with Cherie’s five-percent-off card, which amounted to quite a considerable savings. Although she’s a touch defensive at times, Nicole can actually be a pretty good friend when the going gets tough. I even promised her that I would proofread her thesis when it was done, and we made plans to meet for lunch next week.