“You see, Vivian?” Fanny waves her hand at Morgan. “You are not the only woman to have been dumped at the altar.”
“Fab! Maybe I should start a Facebook page. Click Like if you’re Dumped and Lonely.”
“Trust me Vivian,” she says, moving back to her pod, “you are not going to be single for long.”
Fanny reclines her chair, slips her mask over her eyes, and releases a deep, contented sigh.
I wish I shared Morgan and Fanny’s optimism about my future, but right now I am scared I will spend the rest of eternity on welfare, eating Healthy Choice meals for one. Maybe this awful turn is just the fulfillment of a tragic personal prophecy. When I was in first grade, my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I answered, “A bag lady.”
I am not sure what possessed me to say such a thing. Maybe it was petulance, or maybe I was genuinely enamored with the idea of living an unfettered life, only burdened by the pretty bags I carried. Twenty years later, I am without a man, a job, and home of my own. My possessions have been boxed up and carted off to a storage facility, and I am about to spend the next two weeks living out of a suitcase. Now, how’s that for a self-fulfilling prophecy?
I reach into my purse, pull out my ear buds, and am just about to pop them into my ears when I remember Fanny has confiscated my iPhone. Which means ten hours and thirty-two minutes sans music/podcasts/my guided imagery audio course.
“Pssst, Fanny,” I whisper.
Fanny lifts her mask enough to expose just one eye.
“Can I please have my iPhone? Just to listen to my music?”
Fanny sighs but reaches into her bag and pulls out the most remarkable invention since Victoria’s Secret Hello Bombshell! Bra.
“No checking e-mails or Facebook,” she says as she hands me my cherished cellular device. “And don’t you dare cue up that sad suicidal music.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, quickly choosing a new playlist.
“Puhleez,” Fanny rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen your ‘For When I Am Blue’ playlist. If you listen to that, you might as well skip the champagne and call for the razor blades.”
“Hey, don’t judge. It’s my process.”
“No Adele.” Fanny glares at me like a fierce, protective Cyclops. “You need a Girl Power playlist. Listen to P!nk.”
Before I can respond, she slips the mask back over her eyes, resuming her reclined position.
I pop my ear buds in my ears and opt for my Classic Rock playlist. Maybe all I need is a little Aerosmith, Poison, Def Leppard, and Mötley Crüe to empower me. As the first strains of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” begin screaming out of my buds, I close my eyes and let my mind flow in a stream of consciousness.
I read somewhere the inspiration for this Def Leppard mega-hit came when the songwriter was brainstorming lyrics and took a tea break. Someone asked him if he wanted one or two lumps of sugar and he said, “I don’t care man, just pour some sugar on me.” I like this song, but it doesn’t make sense. Sugar is gritty, like sandpaper. That’s not sexy. It’s painful. Now, why didn’t they say, “Pour some syrup on me”? Syrup is sexy. I don’t eat pancakes very often, but I like syrup. Nathan and I went to the sweetest little B&B in Asheville, North Carolina and had the most delicious homemade triple berry syrup. I remember how we—
Great! Now I am thinking of Nathan and sexy times.
I try to push the thought of Nathan out of my mind, try to press pause on the thousands of images now flickering in my brain, but I can’t.
This is how it starts…the slow slide into insanity.
Take a deep breath, Vivia. Get ahold of yourself. You are not going insane. Your brain is just stuck in an awful loop.
I wrote this article once about taming obsessive thoughts. My editor hated the idea when I pitched it to her, but I explained that the more cerebral piece might help shopaholics stop obsessing about buying an expensive pair of leather Stuart Weitzman biker boots or blinged out Juicy Couture sunglasses. I interviewed a physics professor who said the cure to obsessive thoughts was to reprogram the brain by replacing a positive image with a negative one. In other words, when I start to think about Nathan’s great smile, I should replace it with the memory of him flossing his teeth with my business card.
I conjure up a few more positive memories of Nathan—like the time he stood in the rain holding a bouquet of flowers outside my office, the time he serenaded me over my birthday cake, and when he proposed on bended knee—and replace them with negative ones—like Nathan sitting on a donut shaped inflatable pillow because of a nasty attack of hemorrhoids, Nathan being rude to a waitress after she accidentally spilled a glass of wine, and Nathan stalking out of Snob, leaving me in tears.
I am feeling more empowered already.
I can do this! I will reprogram my brain to stop thinking about Nathan. I will open new neural pathways, form new habits. Au revoir, Nathan Edwards! I am purging you from my mind, banishing you from my brain. I will think of you no more.
Chapter 7
People of Walmart Unite
Welcome, Nathaniel and Vivia Edwards!
The first thing I see when I step off the high-speed train and onto the TGV platform is a chic, willowy French woman holding a large sign with what would have been my married name printed on it. Welcome, Nathaniel and Vivia Edwards. It’s like the universe is mocking me, saying, “Go ahead and try to forget Nathan.”
The chic French woman notices me staring at the sign and walks over.
“Bonjour, Madame Edwards! Welcome to Montpellier.” She looks over my shoulder at the passengers disembarking. “But where is Monsieur Edwards?”
Fanny is still retrieving her large rolling suitcase and has not yet joined me on the platform. I, however, am sans bags. According to the Air France Spécialiste des Bagages at Charles de Gaulle, my luggage has “pris un détournement.” Translation: taken a diversion. Actual meaning: is sitting on a carousel in Zurich, Copenhagen, or Madrid because we employ people who are either too stupid or too inconsiderate to care what happens to your flatiron and La Perla panties.
“Madame Edwards?”
I stare at the sign in mute misery while struggling to construct a plausible explanation for my fiancé’s conspicuous absence.
“You are Vivia Edwards, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“Fabulous,” she says, though with her accent the word comes out more like fob-oo-liss. She leans in and kisses both my cheeks. “I am Chantal de Caumont, one of the owners of Aventures Caumont. As you know, Aventures Caumont offers guided luxury bike and cultural tours of Southern France and Tuscany. It is our greatest wish to cater to your whims while broadening your horizons. If you need anything to make your adventure more enjoyable, anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”
Having wrangled her massive suitcase off the train, Fanny joins me in time to hear Chantal’s welcome. Chantal looks at Fanny and her smooth brow wrinkles. She looks back at me.
“Now then, where is Monsieur Edwards? Is he still on the train?”
Fanny deposits her Louis Vuitton carryon atop her suitcase and fixes Chantal with a bright smile.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Fanny says in her sing-song French. “Je suis Stéphanie Girard Moreau, ami de Vivia. Monsieur Edwards ne vient pas…”
My linguistic deficits prevent me from keeping up with Fanny’s rapid French. I translate a few words. Friend. Sad. Affair. Marriage. Small chicken. I thought I heard Fanny say petit poulet, but I can’t imagine what a small chicken has to do with my breakup.
When Fanny finally stops speaking, Chantal clucks her tongue and looks at me as if I am a crippled orphan scooting around on an old skateboard, panhandling for coins so I can buy food for my faithful flea-bitten cocker spaniel.
I wonder what this pretty French woman must think of me, the poor, jilted Américaine and her histoire d’amour tragique.
My smile wobbles, and tears
prick my eyes. What a pathetic mess I must look to this chic little French woman. I can almost hear her thoughts.
La! Look at this tragic woman, discarded by her lover, and now destined to a loveless life, with only a herd of cats to keep her company.
If I do not excuse myself, I will burst into tears in the middle of the TGV station.
“Pardon moi, Où se trouvent les toilettes?” I ask, phonetically sounding out one of the few French phrases I have managed to master.
I have tried to learn French, but despite my best efforts I can do little more than utter basic messages like: Je voudrais commander un café au lait, which means I would like a coffee with milk. Useless, since I don’t even drink coffee.
Fanny points me in the direction of the women’s bathroom, and I sprint down the corridor.
I stare in the mirror. I am a shadow of my former self. I wonder if this is what it’s like to have Alzheimer’s. Strands of hair have slipped from my ponytail and hang limply over my shoulders. My mascara has formed circles around my eyes, giving me that rabid raccoon look. A button missing from my J. Crew cardigan and a quarter sized stain mars my blouse. I am one tramp-stamp away from joining the People of Walmart.
You’ve seen those awful pictures that circulate on the Internet of people caught on camera at Walmart wearing daisy dukes and wife beaters? Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. It would give me somewhere to go on Saturday nights. I wouldn’t even have to dress up. I picture myself standing in the ice cream aisle, wearing poodle print fleece pajamas, and holding a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. Groaning, I lick my finger and try to rub the mascara from my face.
“What happened to you?” An elderly woman comes in and stares at me through the mirror. “Are you okay?” she asks in a heavy French accent.
Am I okay? Three days ago, I was picturing myself wearing a Vera Wang wedding gown while exchanging “I do’s” with the man of my dreams, and now I’m planning hook-ups in Walmart’s frozen food aisle. No, Madame, I am not well!
Hysterical laughter burbles up my throat.
When I don’t answer, the helpful bystander clutches her bag to her chest and hurries out of the bathroom.
I fish my iPhone out of my purse and jab the power button.
Once it has powered up, I perform my routine check of texts/e-mails/voicemails/Facebook updates to see if any of the messages are from Nathan.
Nope. Not a one.
There is, however, a private Facebook message from Travis Trunnell.
Hang on! I never accepted Travis Trunnell’s friend request and my privacy settings prevent strangers from sending me direct messages, so how… Fanny! My well-meaning meddlesome best friend must have accepted the request when she loaded the first ring photo.
Vivia: I am sorry about what happened the other night at Snob. Drew can be a real ass when he’s had too much to drink. Actually, he can be an ass when he’s sober, too. Anyway, I never meant to embarrass you or make you uncomfortable. I hope your fiancé wasn’t too angry. TT
I type out a response.
As a matter of fact, my fiancé was livid. He broke off the engagement.
I hit reply and stand in the middle of the empty bathroom staring at the inbox icon. A second later, a red number one appears on the screen, alerting me of a new message. I push the icon and read Travis Trunnell’s response.
That might not be such a bad thing. He seemed uptight. Obviously, he’s not the man for you.
WTF? What makes Travis Trunnell think he can just swirl into my life like an F5 tornado and rearrange things? Does he even realize the destruction his reappearance caused? I type my angry response, my fingers jabbing the small keys.
Really? You haven’t seen me in years. You don’t know me.
I hit reply and hold my breath.
Travis’s response is immediate.
LOL. I know you, Vivia.
I am standing in a bathroom stall in France, arguing with stupid old Travis Trunnell. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I am still alone and then type my reply.
Oh really? If Nathan, my fiancé, is not the right man for me, who is?
Sweat trickles down my sides and between my breasts. Talking to Travis makes my pulse race, not in a medically worrisome “grab the defibulator STAT” kinda way either.
My phone blings as Travis Trunnell’s response hits my mailbox.
Me.
My heart flips. I hurriedly exit Facebook and turn off my iPhone. I’ll say one thing for the cowboy; he has balls bigger than a Texas sky at night. I make one last swipe at the dried mascara ringing my eyes and rejoin my shamelessly sneaky best friend and our chic guide.
Chantal leads us out of the train station to a sleek Mercedes S600 idling in the parking lot.
“Fanny has told me about your lost bags,” Chantal says, opening the back door and gesturing for me to get into the air conditioned luxury vehicle.
I feel like a rock star.
“Do not worry. I will call a contact I have at Air France. Your bags will be located. I promise.”
“Merci, Madame.”
“Pfff,” Chantal says. “It is nothing. And please, call me Chantal.”
Fanny climbs into the Mercedes, and for a moment we are alone in the posh car. She runs her hands over the expensive leather seat and smiles.
“Nathan might be a sanctimonious douchebag, but he’s a douchebag who knows how to roll in style. This car is amazing.”
The driver’s door opens and Chantal slides behind the wheel.
“Our journey to the château will take approximately seventy minutes. You will find bottles of chilled water and champagne in the compartment between your seats. Please help yourselves. I will, of course, point out any interesting landmarks, but first, we have prepared a short cinematic preview of your impending adventure.”
Chantal pushes a button and the television screens attached to the backs of the front seats flicker.
Fanny looks at me and mouths, “Can you believe this?”
Chantal maneuvers the Mercedes out of the parking lot and through Montpellier’s narrow, congested streets while Fanny and I watch scenes of bikers riding past vibrant lavender fields, charming hilltop villages, and sun splashed olive groves reminiscent of Van Gogh paintings. As the camera focuses on a field of gently swaying sunflowers, I turn to look at Fanny.
“This is going to be so much fun! Relaxing bike rides, picnics in the country. It’s probably just what I need. Thanks.”
Fanny smiles and squeezes my hand.
We look back at the glowing screen just as the sunflower scene fades away and a new scene comes into sharp focus. A line of bikers are pedaling with determination up a wicked steep road, their heads down, shoulders hunched, and calf muscles bulging. In the distance—the far, far distance—a monastery is perched on the edge of a cliff.
I am sick. Greasy burrito and two bottles of wine sick. Credit card statement after binge buying at Saks Fifth Avenue sick.
“Oh—”
“Now, Vivian,” Fanny interjects, “don’t overreact.”
“My—”
“Deep breath, Vivian.”
“God!” The word erupts from me with Vesuvian force. “What in the hell was Nathan thinking? I could barely shift gears on that beach cruiser I rented when we went to Miami. How did he expect me to maneuver a racing bike up a mountain? A mountain! Not a gently rolling foothill. A freaking mountain, Fanny!”
“Pfft…” Fanny waves her hand. “It is nothing.”
“Nothing?” Panic over my impending humiliating and painful plunge off the side of a French mountain sharpens my tone. “Crossing the Atlantic in a canoe is nothing. This”—I gesture at the exhausted bikers still pumping away on the television screen—“is something, Fanny.”
Chantal glances at me in the rearview mirror, jabs a button on the dashboard, and the video freezes.
“Is something wrong?”
I imagine myself careening wildly
down a mountain road, crashing into a rock wall, lying broken and bloodied with a group of disapproving French cyclists gathered around me, clucking their tongues disapprovingly and saying, “American. What do you expect? What do they know about cycling?”
Tears fill my eyes. I am so embarrassed.
Fanny squeezes my hand.
“Vivia is nervous about riding a bike.”
“Je ne comprends pas.” Chantal’s gaze darts from me to Fanny. “Monsieur Edwards said you were a rider extraordinaire.”
I can’t contain the snort of disbelief.
“Rider extraordinaire? Ha!”
Chantal fixes me with a kind smile before returning her gaze to the road. “Do not worry, Mademoiselle Vivia. The tour will take you across a landscape of colors and light so fob-oo-liss it captured the imaginations of Picasso, Van Gogh, and Matisse. Besides, Jean-Luc will be with you every kilometer.”
“Jean-Luc?”
“Your guide. He has been riding for many years. He competed in the Tour de France three times.”
I imagine the intense drill instructor in the opening scene of Jarhead riding behind me, yelling, “Let’s go, maggot! Get up this hill. Jesus, Joseph, and doggy-style Mary, what is wrong with you flabby Americans? Ride. Ride. Ride.”
Chantal regales us with tales of Drill Instructor Jean-Luc’s otherworldly biking abilities until I can no longer hold back my groan of fear. I am going to die trying to take a hill in the south of France. It will be my own Vietnam.
Chantal looks at me through the mirror again, smiling.
“Do not worry, Vivia. Jean-Luc is very good at what he does. He will know how to ride you.”
Fanny giggles.
“Fob-oo-liss,” I mutter. “I’ve always wanted to be ridden by a French man.”
The movie ends. I rest my head on the leather seatback, close my eyes, and listen to the engine’s soft purr. I am just about to doze off when Chantal begins a commentary, pointing out historical landmarks and areas of interest. Her enthusiasm rouses me. I sit up and stare out the tinted windows.
Faking It Page 5