Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “That’s not true!”

  “Be honest, Vivian! Think of all the times he disregarded your feelings, your wants, because they did not fit neatly into his agenda.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Really?” Fanny pushes up her sleeves.“Don’t you remember the night you met Nathan at Snob to plan your honeymoon?”

  I arrived with a stack of glossy travel brochures of the art capitals of Europe. Paris. London. Rome. Vienna. I bounced through the bar, as buoyant as Kate Upton’s boobs. Nathan listened, nodded, and then went out the next day and booked a bike and wine tour through Provence and Tuscany. A rigorous bike tour. Not like the time Fanny and I visited her Grandma in Normandy and rode pink Schwinns to a café for hot chocolate and croissants.

  I throw back the covers and bring my knees up under my chin. Nathan’s expensive musky cologne floats around me, a ghostly reminder of his absence. I am ashamed for thinking of the man I love in less than charitable terms.

  “Okay, so he booked a honeymoon that catered to his interests instead of mine, but that doesn’t make him a selfish son-of-a-bitch. Does it? A honeymoon in Europe is still a honeymoon in Europe. Did it really matter if we filled our days cruising on the Seine or biking through the French countryside?”

  Fanny stands and walks to where she deposited our tea, grabs a cup, and holds it out to me like a peace offering.

  “I am sorry, Vivian. I should not have jogged off at the mouth like that.”

  “Run.”

  “What?”

  “Run off at the mouth, not jogged.”

  The spicy scent of chai teases my nostrils, and I take a sip of my tea.

  “Run, jog. It does not matter.” Fanny takes a sip of her tea and shudders. “I shouldn’t have said those things about Nathan. Not yet. It’s too soon.”

  I get out of bed and pad into the kitchen, rummaging around in the cabinets until I find an old box of Border’s Strawberries and Cream Shortbread Biscuits courtesy of my mum. Fanny follows me into the kitchen and I offer her a cookie. She shakes her head. Normally, I would take Fanny’s refusal to indulge as a cue to resist the temptation of the evil glutinous goody, but not this morning. I am basically sticking a tub of butter in my mouth and I don’t care. They taste good. Besides, what does it matter if I blow up like Violet Beauregarde, the bratty gumball thief in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? I’ve been jilted, practically left standing at the altar. I might as well buy a herd of cats, don the flannel pajamas, and call myself Perpetual Spinster.

  If I could have a quart of Haagan Dazs White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle administered to my veins via IV, I swear I would do it.

  I polish off two more cookies, take a seat on one of my kitchen chairs, and drop my forehead to the table.

  “What am I going to do, Fanny? My life is over.”

  “Nonsense!” Fanny says. “Your life is not over.”

  “It feels like it is.”

  Fanny rests her hand on my shoulder. “Of course it does, ma chérie. Your heart has been broken. Your dreams have died. You are in mourning.”

  Queen Victoria mourned the death of her husband for forty years. She dressed in black and cultivated a talent for taxidermy. Will I mourn the loss of Nathan for that long? God, I hope not. Dead animals really creep me out, even if they are stuffed and confined to glass domes.

  “These feelings will not last forever, though,” Fanny says, reading my thoughts. “You will forget all about Nathan.”

  With effort, I raise my head and look up at my dear friend. “How?”

  “Do what French women do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Replace him with a new lover.”

  Fanny never refers to men as boyfriends, only lovers. It’s so cosmopolitan.

  “Ugh.” I groan, imagining myself sitting at some pathetic speed date making small talk with a stranger. “I don’t have the stamina for all of that. My heart is broken.”

  “Not now, but you will. Maybe you might consider revisiting someone from your past?”

  “It’s not like I have many to choose from.”

  “Think, Vivian,” Fanny urged. “What about that SCUBA instructor, the South African with the hazel eyes?”

  “He only wanted to go down.”

  “How is this a problem?”

  I laugh through my tears. “He only wanted to SCUBA dive. It’s all he ever talked about.”

  “What about that boy you had a crush on in high school?”

  “Jason Thomas?”

  Fanny nods.

  “I saw him a few months ago at a function in Napa.”

  “And?”

  “I grossly miscalculated the trajectory of his hotness. He was fat, had three chins, and no neck. And he was bald. He looked like a giant toe.”

  “Been there, done that. Remember Sean the midget?” Fanny shuddered. “We met for drinks a few months ago.”

  “What? You didn’t tell me.”

  Fanny shrugged. “What’s to tell? The munchkin had not grown—in size or personality. I spent the evening imagining him skipping down a yellow brick lane and wondering how I could have ever been attracted to him.”

  I want to remind Fanny that at five feet tall sans Louboutins, she could easily take her place on that yellow brick road, but humor seems somehow sacrilegious. I am, after all, in mourning.

  “I guess Travis Trunnell is out of the question?”

  I fix her with my most munchkin-withering stare.

  “You are right; sometimes it is best if one leaves the past in the past.”

  “It’s useless. I am destined for spinsterhood.”

  “Don’t be absurd! You’re beautiful, smart, and ridiculously funny. You’re going to meet another man.”

  “Maybe I could learn to knit.”

  Fanny laughs. I wish I could adopt her laissez faire attitude about love and loss, but it’s probably genetically impossible. After all, the French have been perfecting the talent for years. Look at Napoleon. He found a replacement for Josephine before her spot in his imperial bed had grown cold.

  The doorbell buzzes. Fanny walks to the door and looks through the peephole.

  “How odd,” she says. “It is a bike messenger. Leave it to me, chérie. I will deal with it.”

  Fanny opens the door and steps into the hallway.

  My head suddenly feels too heavy for my neck so I rest my forehead on my kitchen table again. A memory flashes in my brain of the day Nathan surprised me with the table. We’d been puttering around Napa Valley when we found a small furniture store filled with custom wood pieces. I saw the sleek table made of reclaimed wine barrels, stained a milky French gray, and I had to have it.

  Nathan had said, “Vivia, it’s hideous. Besides, you don’t know a thing about wine.”

  “I don’t need to be a sommelier to appreciate a unique piece of art,” I argued.

  A few days later, I opened my door to find two delivery men hoisting the table up the stairs. Nathan was behind them, a dozen roses in hand. My throat clogs with emotion. Nathan purchased the table as an investment in our future—a future that will never happen. There will be no Thanksgiving dinners, no Easter brunches, no sitting around the table reading the Sunday paper, and sipping tea.

  “Look what I have!”

  I lift my head in time to see Fanny striding into my kitchen, triumphantly carrying a large envelope like an Olympic torch.

  “Guess what I have in my hands?”

  “A scarlet letter branding me a lying whore?”

  “Pfft.” Fanny waves her hand dismissively. “You are not a whore, Vivian. You are a normal woman with a disproportionately large guilty conscious. I love your Maman, but she filled your head with a load of merde about sex.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I do!” Fanny smiles. “Now, don’t you want to know what is in this envelope?”

  “Not really.”

  “Vivian!
”

  “Fine,” I say, even though I want to climb back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and forget the last twenty four hours ever happened. “What is it?”

  Fanny sits in the chair opposite me and slides the envelope across the table with one manicured fingernail. “The itinerary, vouchers, and tickets for your honeymoon.”

  Chapter 5

  Martha Stewart’s Sex Journal

  I blink at her, too stunned to speak. If accepting delivery of my honeymoon tickets makes her this happy, she ought to be positively gleeful when the bridal store delivers my wedding gown.

  “It is parfait!” Fanny chimes.

  “How is receiving tickets to a honeymoon I will never take perfect?”

  “But you can still go on the honeymoon.”

  “What do you mean? Go by myself?”

  “Why not? You could be like the woman in Under the Tuscan Sun. Leave the shambles of your old life behind, and build a new, exciting life in Europe.”

  “Under the Tuscan Sun was just a movie, Fanny.”

  “Perhaps, but it was based on a book about a real woman who moved to Italy and found love. A writer. You’re a writer! Think about it, Vivian. You could take your solo honeymoon in Europe and meet the love of your life.”

  “I haven’t even returned my engagement ring and already you have me married to some random European guy.”

  “And writing a book about your affaire de coeur. A best-selling book.”

  “You do dream big, Fanny.”

  “Big is the only way to dream.”

  She nudges my foot with hers.

  “Come on, Vivian. If you won’t go on your honeymoon by yourself, why don’t we go to Europe together?”

  “What? I can’t go to Europe with you.”

  “But why not?”

  I am about to explain to Fanny that embarking on a honeymoon with my best friend would be the most pathetic thing I had ever done, when my iPhone begins to chirp, alerting me I have an e-mail.

  I weave my way around the boxes, snatch my phone from the box beside my bed, and jab the envelope icon on the screen.

  From: Ciara.edwards@sfmag.com

  To: vivia.perpetua.grant@sfmag.com

  CC: PerpetuallyVivia@yahoo.com

  Subj: Termination

  Dear Miss Grant,

  Recent budgetary constraints have forced us to reorganize. I regret to inform you that your position at San Francisco Magazine has been terminated effective immediately.

  Human Resources is sending an information packet with details on a severance package, continuing employee benefits, and your final paycheck. Your personal belongings will be returned via messenger service within seven business days.

  Please return any company property in your possession, including your press badge.

  Thank you for your time at our company and best of luck to you in the future.

  Sincerely,

  Ciara Edwards, Managing Editor

  San Francisco Magazine

  My life is going up in flames like Scarlet O’Hara’s Tara and I am impotent to do anything to stop the destruction. Numb from shock, all I can do is mentally fan my cheeks and sip mint juleps. I read the e-mail twice before handing my iPhone to Fanny. Her brown eyes dart back and forth as she reads.

  “Bâtard!” Fanny curses again. “Breaking off your engagement wasn’t enough; he had his sister fire you, too? That’s low.”

  The shame of my situation settles on my shoulders like a cashmere shrug. I have lost my fiancé and my job.

  “What am I going to do, Fanny? I don’t know where to begin to start putting the pieces of my life back together.”

  Fanny pushes the sleeves of her turtleneck up to her elbows, pulls her Blackberry from her pocket, and begins tapping away. “Leave everything to me, chérie.”

  “What should I do?”

  Fanny stops tapping the screen and looks up, piercing me with her earnest gaze. “Go take a shower, Vivian. Fix your hair, put on some Dior Gloss, and get dressed. That’s all you need to do for now, okay?”

  Numbly, I obey. I leave Fanny sitting in my kitchen and head to the bathroom. Once I have undressed and am standing under the shower, I let the tears fall. What will people say when they find out Nathan dumped me? What will my mother say when she learns she didn’t raise a chaste do-gooder, but an insecure mess of a woman who lies about her virginity?

  Maybe I should go into seclusion, move to some isolated place far from civilized society, like Alaska, Montana, or New Jersey. I could become a hermit, raise bees, and sell honey to survive. Live off the grid.

  I rub L’Occitane Sweet Almond Oil into my skin and imagine life without Teavana, Downton Abbey, or electricity powered beauty gadgets. Three weeks without my ionizing flat iron and I’d look like Brett Michaels circa 1986. So not pretty.

  Since I don’t even like bees, or honey for that matter, I mentally cross Become a Hermit off my Post-Nathan Plan for the Future.

  An hour later, I emerge from the bathroom surrounded by a cloud of perfume-scented steam to find Fanny reclining on my couch, booted feet propped on a packing box.

  “Voila! It has been done,” she triumphantly announces, slipping her Blackberry into her purse.

  “What has been done?”

  I flop on the couch beside her.

  “Everything.” She beams. “I sent a text to your wedding planner letting him know that the wedding is off. I instructed him to cancel all reservations, return all accoutrement, and send an e-mail blast to your guests.”

  I sit up. “My parents are on that blast list. That means they are going to—”

  “Covered,” Fanny said. “I’ve already called your parents and broken the news to your mom.”

  “You did?”

  Fanny nods.

  Sweet Jesus! Obviously I underestimated my best friend’s courage. My mother has been looking forward to my wedding since the day she found out I was dating an heir to the Edwards fortune. Three weeks into my relationship with Nathan, my mum started sending me regular text messages with baby name suggestions.

  William Edwards would be a fab name.

  My mother has an embarrassing crush on Prince William.

  Ephraim Edwards. It’s a biblical name & has nice alliteration. Think about it.

  Again with the biblical baggage!

  What about Aurelia Edwards? Means golden dawn & was Sylvia Plath’s mother’s name.

  Name my baby after the mother of a suicidal bipolar poet? No thanks.

  Nathan took more than my heart when he walked out of Snob; he took my mother’s most cherished dreams.

  “You told my mother the engagement was off?”

  Fanny nods.

  “Whew,” I whistle. “I hope Father Escobar was standing nearby with a Prozac.”

  “She’s fine, Vivian,” Fanny assures me. “She didn’t even cry.”

  I tilt my head and give her my best “bullshit” look.

  “Much,” she added. “Only the tiniest bit of wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

  My poor mother. I have disappointed her.

  Again.

  I remember the year she begged Father Escobar to choose me to play the Virgin Mary in the church’s annual Nativity Theatrical. I was five. The Virgin’s heavy wool robe made me sweat and itch. I would wiggle and scratch and fan myself through each rehearsal, drawing Sister Regina’s stern rebukes. Finally, I came up with a scathingly brilliant idea: the night of the theatrical, I slipped my bathing suit on beneath the Virgin’s robe. Halfway through the play, sweat began to trickle down my sides. I unfastened Mary’s rope belt and shrugged out of the robe, letting it pool around my sandaled feet. I stood in my Wonder Woman bathing suit, clutching a plastic baby Jesus. The scandalized parishioners convinced Father Escobar to ban me from performing in future productions.

  Maybe Father Escobar cast me as the wrong Mary. Instead of the Virgin Mary, our holiest mother, I should hav
e played Mary Magdalene—not the real Mary Magdalene who prepared Jesus for burial, but the legendary prostitute whom Jesus cleansed of sin.

  My bottom lip begins to tremble.

  “Your mother will be fine, Vivian,” Fanny says, squeezing my hand.

  “Did you tell her the reason Nathan called off the wedding?”

  “Of course not. I am not stupid. That would have sent her into apoplectic fits.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I said you both realized you didn’t know each other as well as you thought you did, and that you were postponing the wedding until you felt you knew each other better.”

  I slump back against the cushions. “I guess that is not a complete lie.”

  “You see?” Fanny leans down, retrieves her Blackberry from her purse, clicks a few buttons, and waves the screen in front of me. “Would you like to read what else I was able to accomplish while you were in the shower?”

  Taking the Blackberry from Fanny’s hand, I look at the screen. She’s opened an application that builds To Do lists and has clicked on a list titled Liberate Vivian.

  The list includes:

  Text wedding planner. Ask for refunds.

  Break news to the Grants.

  Exchange Nathan’s airline ticket.

  Arrange storage of Vivia’s belongings.

  Call Lisa Todd about job for Vivia.

  “Hang on,” I say, looking up from the screen. “Who is Lisa Todd?”

  “You remember Lisa? Pretty redhead. Blue eyes. Tall. Super smart. You met her at Tiffanie’s tacky bridal shower.”

  Tiffanie is one of our frenemies. The snotty, pretentious woman somehow manages to remain on our radar screens despite our best efforts to shake her off.

  “Anyway,” Fanny continues, “Lisa is an executive headhunter. I told her about your broken engagement and termination from San Francisco Magazine. She feels bad for you. She’s going to ask around, see if she can find a position for you in the media. No charge.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oui.”

  I hug Fanny. “You’re the best friend ever.”