Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “I know!”

  We laugh and pull apart. I look at the last item on Fanny’s To Do List.

  Compose Facebook updates.

  “Compose Facebook updates?”

  “I composed a few possible Facebook updates for you, just to stem the inevitable flow of curious e-mails and messages asking about your broken engagement,” Fanny says, taking the Blackberry from me. “Would you like to hear them?”

  When I nod, Fanny clicks a few buttons and begins reading.

  “Here’s the first one: ‘I have decided to become a nun. Forward well wishes to the Convent of Rejected Women. God bless, Saint Vivia.’”

  “Too blasphemous. My mother would croak.”

  “I thought so,” she said, tapping a button. “Here’s another: ‘Nathaniel Rutherford Edwards, III is an uptight fuckwad who would rather stroke his ego than me. Oh, and he has a small dick.’”

  I stare at her through wide eyes.

  “Too bitter?”

  “Maybe a tad.”

  “Okay,” she says. “How about this one: ‘Lost the man, but am taking the rock on the honeymoon anyway.’ I thought we could post that one with a close-up photo of your hand holding the airline ticket, the ring sparkling on your finger. What do you think?”

  “It’s brilliant!” I laugh. “Maybe we could post pictures of the engagement ring at various sites around Europe. A silhouette of the ring framed by the airplane window. Another with the Eiffel Tower in the background.”

  “Like the Travelocity Gnome?”

  “Exactly!”

  We both laugh and the weight of my depression lifts off my shoulders for a moment.

  Fanny grabs my hand and lifts it until my engagement ring catches the light. “We’re doing it, Vivian. An entire photographic essay about the jilting and rejuvenation of Vivia Perpetua Grant.”

  “The rejuvenation of Vivia Grant.” I wrinkle my nose. “It sounds like a seedy erotic novel.”

  “One can hope,” Fanny giggles, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Laughing feels good. So does plotting my vengeance against Nathan even though I know I won’t ever do anything that might make either of us look bad. That’s my problem. I am a mess inside my head, but nobody knows it because I bust my ass to look like I have it all together on the outside. Perfect teeth after sixteen months of corrective mouth gear, perfectly straight hair courtesy an industrial ionizing titanium flat iron, great job, interesting social circle, and a handsome, successful fiancé. Appearances are everything, Vivia. I hear my mother’s frequent admonishment in my head. Appearances are everything.

  “You know I can’t really do that, right, Fanny?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, it wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Proper?” Fanny lets her booted feet slide off the box. “I am sorry, but I didn’t realize we were still following Robert’s Rules for Weddings.”

  “There isn’t a Robert’s Rules for Weddings.”

  “Whatever!” Fanny snaps. “Honestly, Vivian, your adherence to some imaginary code of etiquette is getting annoying. Nathan walked out on you. He ended your engagement with a text message. How is that proper? He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

  “That’s not fair, Fanny. I lied to him.”

  “Pffft.” Fanny raises her hands and drops them again. “You lied! You lied! Mon Dieu! You told a little fib about your sexual history. So what? It’s not like he found out you were a Sister Wife with a brood of kids hidden on some farm in Utah.”

  Fanny leaps to her feet and paces in the narrow strip of available floor space. Her heels make tapping sounds against the wood floor as she stomps back and forth. She might have a point. Sure, I lied about my sexual history, but what woman hasn’t?

  “Maybe you are right,” I say. “Let’s do the Travelocity Gnome/Ring Thing. It’ll be fun. I’ll just return the ring to Nathan after our trip.”

  Fanny stops pacing and pivots on a slender heel. “Why would you return the ring?”

  “Well, I can’t keep it.”

  “Why not? Nathan is the one who called off the wedding, not you.”

  I hesitate. My thoughts are jumbled and I can’t seem to arrange them in a logical order. Keep the ring. Return the ring. What would Martha say? Sweet Jesus! Did I really just ask myself what Martha Stewart would do if her fiancé broke off their engagement? Ridiculous, since I doubt Martha would have lied about her sexual history. Martha would have given her fiancé a leather bound journal detailing her sexual encounters—complete with watercolor illustrations of positions used.

  “When my mother died,” Fanny said, “my father refused to make any major decisions for one year. At least wait until you complete your honeymoon to decide what to do with the ring, okay?”

  I look down at the sparkler on my finger—a brilliant three carat round cut diamond in the classic Tiffany Setting—and remember the night Nathan asked me to marry him. He dropped to one knee and slipped the ring on my finger before he even proposed. He promised he would love me forever. And I believed him.

  “Okay, I will wait to make a decision about the ring. Happy now?”

  “Oui.”

  “But Fanny?”

  “Oui?”

  “What am I going to do when the honeymoon is over?” Fear is clutching my throat and I have to struggle to get the words out. “Where will I live? How will I earn money?”

  “Will you do me a favor?”

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Sure, what?”

  “Step out of your comfort zone, Vivian.”

  “What do you mean? Start wearing yellow? Let my dirty dishes pile up in the sink? Admit to everyone I meet I am not a virgin?”

  “That’s not quite what I had in mind, but it might be a good start.” Fanny chuckles.

  “Then what?”

  “I want you to forget about the future. Forget about making a good impression. Forget about being the perfect person. Just go on this trip and let life take you wherever it wishes for you to go. Can you do that?”

  “What if it wishes to take me to the unemployment line, bankruptcy, homelessness? I don’t want to end up sleeping in Golden Gate Park, soiling myself, and shanking some poor homeless guy for a stale donut.”

  Hysteria is looming closer, like a shadow growing and stretching. Maybe Fanny is right about keeping the ring; I might need to pawn it to buy baby wipes for all of my homeless peeps.

  “Don’t be silly, Vivian. You can live with me for as long as you need. No soiling. No shanking. No stale donuts, I promise.” She comes over and gives me a hug. “Now take a deep breath and repeat after me.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “I, Vivia Perpetua Grant…”

  I frown at Fanny.

  “Say it!” she snaps.

  “I, Vivia Perpetua Grant,” I repeat.

  “Solemnly swear…”

  “Solemnly swear.”

  “That I will get out of the driver’s seat and allow life to take me to uncharted territories. I will stop worrying about being in control and just relax. My new mantra is: Vivia is enough.”

  I blink several times. “That’s a lot to remember Fanny.”

  “Just agree.”

  “I agree.”

  “Good.” Fanny slips into her Burberry trench and grabs her purse. “I am going to pop home and pack a few things for our trip. I’ll grab some Mr. Foos and be back in a few hours. We’ll eat spicy chicken and watch crap TV. Sound good?”

  “Yes.” My emotions well up and I have to blink back tears. “Thanks, Fanny.”

  “Please,” she says, brushing off my thanks as if it were a piece of lint on her impeccable Armani trousers. “You’ll be all right on your own?”

  I nod.

  I should do something productive while Fanny’s gone, like search the net for a new apartment/job/man, but all I want to do is collapse in a heap on the floor. I wonder if pizza fumes ever asphyxiated anyone. Sui
cide by semolina and sausage.

  Going back to my bedroom, I cue Adele’s “Someone Like You” on my iPod and listen to the lyrics.

  I sing along until my throat tightens. Turning Adele off, I slip out of my jeans, back into Nathan’s sweats, and fall into bed, pulling the covers over my head.

  Vivia is enough. Vivia is enough.

  Am I enough, just as I am? Nathan didn’t think so. I wish I could relax and just be myself, but it isn’t easy for me. I am always in my head, thinking about how I look and sound to others. I stress that I am not presenting the best image of myself. Sometimes, I get tired of bending, conforming, pleasing. I am not even sure I know who Vivia is anymore.

  Chapter 6

  Cue Adele, Hide the Gillettes

  Text from Camilla Grant:

  It’s your Mum. I saw your Facebook update. You can’t go on a honeymoon with Fanny. It isn’t done Vivia! Besides, you are vulnerable & French men are WICKED creatures who prey on vulnerable women.

  Text from Tiffanie Hoffmeister:

  OMG! Vivia! Just heard about yr wedding. U must feel soooo hopeless. Keep ur chin up & 4get about the statistics. U cld still totally find a man & get married. Ur not that old yet.

  Text from Grace Murphy:

  Oh sweetie! I was just about to head to the airport when I got Fanny’s text. I can’t believe Nathan really broke it off. What an ass (Unless you’ve worked it out with him, in which case, he’s a great guy)! Listen to Fanny. Go to France & call me when you can. Love you.

  “Get up, Vivian.” Fanny gently shakes my shoulder. “The limo will be here in an hour and you still haven’t packed your carry-on.”

  The days since Nathan called off our wedding have passed in a blur, facilitated by liberal amounts of greasy take-out and French wine. Fanny insists French wine can transform any meal into haute cuisine. I politely disagree. A chicken burrito slathered in white cheese product remains a greasy gut-bomb no matter what you pair it with.

  Thank God for my best friend. She’s taken charge of my broken-down life and whipped it into shape. Wedding cancelled. Possessions headed to storage. Facebook update posted.

  “Vivian!”

  “Ooshay,” I mutter, wiping the post drinking binge eye crust from the corners of my eyes. How Fanny can be so freaking perky after last night’s Mexi-French fest is beyond me. “I’m up.”

  I stumble into the bathroom, slip out of my clothes, and step beneath the shower. The scalding water revives me to the point of near-human. Thirty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a fuzzy bath towel. I pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail and applied a full face of make-up. I’ve gone for a glam cat-eye look reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn circa Paris When It Sizzles. Apropos, non?

  Fanny is sitting on the floor, sorting stacks of foreign currency. She looks up and whistles.

  “Chi-Chi. Look out Europe, here comes Vivia Grant!”

  I laugh and Fanny resumes counting her Euros. What’s the antidote for a broken-heart and wounded ego? Spending time with your best friend, of course.

  Sticking with the Audrey vibe, I opt for slim black cigarette pants, a crisp white blouse knotted at the waist, and black flats. I throw on my chunky steel Cartier Ballon Bleu watch, which was an extravagant gift from Nathan, and spritz some perfume into the air, stepping into the sweet-scented cloud.

  I really don’t care what I look like, but Fanny does. I don’t want to embarrass her. She always looks so chic. Besides, I’m going to Paris freaking France! A modicum of effort is expected.

  My bags have been packed for weeks, filled with sheer negligees from Victoria’s Secret and La Perla, bike riding gear, and slinky sundresses. I consider replacing the lingerie and slinky dresses with clothes more appropriate for a Girls Only trip, but repacking seems like too much work.

  I throw my cosmetics bag, flat iron, and toiletries in my carryon and start to zip it up when I notice Nathan’s sweats and my Raw tee on the floor. I look over my shoulder to make sure Fanny isn’t watching, grab the outfit, and shove it in my carry-on. Chi-Chi is fine, but sometimes a girl needs comfort clothes…even in Paris freaking France.

  The limo ride to the airport and check-in at the Air France La Première ticket counter pass without incident. I keep waiting for the airport police to jack me up for impersonating someone accustomed to riding in limos and flying first class. We do the barefoot shuffle through the TSA line, perform a shelf check in the duty free stores, and sit in the first class lounge until we hear the announcement for the pre-boarding of La Première passengers. We make it all the way down the gangplank and onto the airplane before another wave of grief washes over me. I should be flying to Paris with Nathan.

  Once we have taken our seats in our posh first class pods, I check my e-mail/texts/Facebook for messages from Nathan. I appear to have taken up residence in Denial. Maybe I have. Give me a housewarming gift. Don’t judge.

  Nothing from Nathan.

  Several people have responded to Fanny’s update though:

  This is a joke, right?

  What happened?

  Go Girl!

  Super sad for you and Nate.

  Should I return your wedding gift?

  Forget Nathan, shag a Frenchie.

  My travel agent friend Alexis posted:

  If by lost ‘the man’ you mean that idiot I told you not to marry, and by ‘the Rock’ you mean Dwayne Johnson, and by honeymoon you mean that bike trip around the French Riviera I spent a month helping Nathan plan…then I say, Go! I'll even meet you there!

  I am considering deleting the last two comments before my mother reads them, when Fanny reaches into my pod and grabs my iPhone.

  “What are you doing?”

  Fanny’s head appears over the top of my pod. She’s already slipped the complimentary Air France eye mask onto her forehead.

  “I am confiscating your iPhone. You can have it back when we reach the south of France.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’re obsessing, Vivian.”

  A new text message alert flashes on my iPhone screen and I peek through her fingers to see if it is from Nathan. Fanny flips the phone over and reads the text.

  “It’s not from Nathan,” she says, powering off my phone and slipping it into her carry-on. “Your mother said Father Escobar is available if you need to talk to him. And that she loves you no matter what, even if you end up a spinster, like your Aunt Winnie.”

  “Fab! Even my mother thinks my love life is a lost cause.”

  Fanny releases her breath in one long exhalation.

  “If you’re a lost cause, what does that say about me? No man has ever asked me to marry him or given me a sparkler from Tiffany’s.” Fanny snaps her fingers. “The ring! We haven’t taken the Travelocity photo yet.”

  She reaches back into her carry-on, pulls out my iPhone, and jabs the power button.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says and heads up the aisle.

  She says something to a pretty flight attendant. The stewardess looks down the aisle at me, her lacquered lips pulling down in a tragic pout. Then she looks back at Fanny and giggles. She disappears behind the galley curtain and emerges again carrying a crystal flute of champagne.

  Fanny returns, followed by the lacquered lipped stewardess carrying the champagne flute. She holds up my iPhone and squints at the screen as if she were Steven Spielberg shooting his 63rd Academy Award winning flick.

  “Okay, Vivian,” Fanny directs. “Reach out as if you are about to take the glass of champagne from—” She looks at the stewardess.

  “Morgan. Morgan Tyler.”

  “Reach out as if you are about to take the champagne from Mademoiselle Tyler, but close your fingers a little because you’re giving me scary jazz hands.”

  I comply. Who wants scary jazz hands on Instagram? I imagine the hashtags: #MistakesGIRLSmake #Desperate4Love #HideousSelfie.

  “Good, now turn the ring toward th
e camera a little more.” Fanny snaps the picture. “Voila!”

  I look up at Morgan Tyler, sympathetic stewardess, and she fixes her face with a big beaming smile.

  “You are sooooo brave,” she says. “To be out, traveling, so soon after your tragedy.”

  She makes it sound as if I am a pitiable creature, like someone who’s emerged from plastic surgery after a brutal pit-bull mauling or one of Taylor Swift’s lamentable exes. Jeez. I was left at the altar.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Morgan Tyler squats down, looking me in the eye.

  “That came out wrong,” she says, lowering her voice. “It’s just… My boyfriend dumped me last year and it practically gutted me. I was completely useless for, like, three months.”

  I blink at the bubbly California blonde and wonder how any man could have jilted such a beauty.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  Morgan waves her hand. “No worries. I’m so over it. Your Travelocity ring thing is brilliant. Maybe if I had thought to do something fun like that after Dominic dumped me, I wouldn’t have gained ten pounds, emotionally eating my way through the entire Entenmann’s pastry line” She’s all wistful, staring off and then snapping her magnetic smile back on. “Anyway, I’d love to follow your adventure. Maybe I could look you up on Facebook?”

  I like this girl. Her combination of sweetness and candor are kind of cool.

  “Absolutely!”

  I reach into my purse and pull out one of my San Francisco Magazine business cards and hand it to her. Morgan takes my card and reads it. Her eyes widen.

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Yes. No. I was a reporter for San Francisco Magazine until my fiancé broke up with me. His family owns the magazine, so…”

  “You were fired?”

  I nod.

  “Shut up!”

  “Serious.”

  Morgan whistles low. “That’s just harsh.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I lie, slapping a big bright smile on my face. “I’ll get another job soon.”

  “Of course you will.” Morgan Tyler places the champagne flute on my armrest table, slips my business card in her apron pocket, and winks. “If you need anything else, just let me know, ’kay?”