The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan (The Mimi Chronicles Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  In the Pottery Barn Kids parking lot, I inhale my apple and cheese stick, realizing it’s almost time for lunch. While I’m out, I decide to drive by Weight Watchers and get my weigh-in over with. Checking my purse to make sure I have my loss/gain chart with me, I take off. Before you can sing Danny Boy, I’m there, but not at Weight Watchers. Burger City, again. “What am I doing here?” I chastise my car and it replies with a rev of the engine.

  “Absolutely, not,” I tell it. “I’m about to weigh in!” But before I can back out of the line, a minivan pulls up behind me, trapping me in the fast food queue at lunch time. Oh God, the smells are going to undo me. I now feel obligated to order something because I’m in line, but what? What on this whole menu is Weight Watchers approved? I start to drool, the smell of cheeseburgers is wafting through the breeze. My stomach growls like a rabid dog. “Feed me…feed me…feed me…” I’ve got to get control of myself.

  That’s when I hear another voice call out, “Don’t do it!” It’s my bunion to the rescue! It reminds me I’m off Burger City because they serve bunions, delicious smelling, and mouth watering, but bunions all the same. So when it’s my turn, I order a large Diet Coke and keep it for after the weigh in.

  Marge declares, “You’ve lost 3.7 pounds. Good for you!” And while I’m not one who fancies my weight being broadcast in anyway, ever, I find I’m okay with this. This is a loss, baby! Slurping down my large Diet Coke, I force my car to take me home so I can prepare a healthy lunch. A lunch that feels vastly more satisfying knowing it is going to help the scale go down even more. I’m so euphoric to be on a downward trend I put on my Priscilla, Queen of the Desert soundtrack and fast forward to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”

  Standing on my couch, singing into the remote for my DVD player, I belt out, “Walk, walk out the door. Just turn around now, you’re not welcome anymore.” I’m not singing to an ex-lover that’s done me wrong either. I’m serenading my fat clothes and I can actually see them dancing down the steps before they leave the house, never to return.

  Chapter 4

  Renée first met Laurent when she was in Paris shooting for Cover Girl. She was only twenty and he was twenty-eight. Their love affair was not a wham bam thank you ma’am kind of situation as Renée was involved with Hot Potty’s lead singer, Jeremiah Jones, at the time. Laurent also happened to be married. So for several years, the two shot together, laughed together, and eventually became very good friends. It wasn’t until Laurent’s divorce at age thirty-four that he began to look at Renée as a possible mate.

  At the time she was dating race car driver Lorenzo Fiarenzo (I kid you not, his name rhymed, like Bob Cobb) and had no idea Laurent was about to put the moves on her. Renée actually loved Lorenzo, but did not want to marry him until he gave up the sport. She declared that she didn’t want to be a young widow or worse yet, wife of a vegetable. So she left him to consider his options, marry her and retire or lose her and continue racing, while she went back to Paris to shoot a new lipstick campaign.

  Her phone rang on her first night at the George Cinq. It was Lorenzo’s manager, Jeffrey Hicks, calling to tell her Lorenzo had just been in a serious accident and he hadn’t made it. Renée was not able to digest the information. Cover Girl offered to postpone the shoot, but she declined. On set the next morning, Laurent gave her a big hug and offered his sympathy, secretly feeling guilty that perhaps his newfound lust for Renée was somehow responsible for killing her boyfriend. But Renée just thanked him and proceeded to pose her way to her most popular campaign ever.

  Two days later, remarkably dry-eyed, she flew to Florence for Lorenzo’s funeral. She greeted his parents and helped to hostess the whole event, murmuring comforting words to the other mourners. When Renée left, she flew home to Pipsy and moved back in with Mom and Dad. She didn’t stop crying for four months. As much as I envy my sister, this one event brought her world crashing so low I decided then and there that she deserved any happiness that life brought her. I still find myself envying her, but now I have a shut off valve if those feelings ever try to take over. It took Renée and Laurent two more years to finally hook up but all signs point to them being the love of each other’s lives.

  As I pull up to my sister’s palatial home in the affluent town of Hilldale, I’m once again awed by the gentrified manor in which she lives. I think of my little yellow house on Mercer Avenue and realize what a far cry it is from the Bouviers’ estate. Renée and Laurent decided to move home when they discovered they were pregnant with Finn, as they wanted their kids to grow up close to family. Yet the two of them had amassed such a fortune in their respective businesses they needed a tax shelter for a sizeable chunk of it. That’s how they came to purchase a house so far beyond their needs. Even after turning half of the manse into Renée’s design studio, they still had room to spare.

  I park my Honda next to what seems like dozens of fancy cars in the drive, check my make-up, and grab my gift. My mom opens the front door when I ring and trills, “Meems, you’re here. I was starting to get worried.”

  To which I reply, “I’m only ten minutes late.”

  “I know darling, but a mother can’t help worrying, can she?” Then she leads me through the house, into the kitchen, and out to the back yard where everyone is gathered. The assembly is all very well dressed for a baby’s birthday, but it is Sunday. Perhaps they’re still in their church clothes. I am wearing a floral print skirt with a sleeveless silk sweater. I feel like I look better than normal and can’t tell if it’s the weight loss or just a good hair day.

  My sisters spot me and advance en masse. Ginger arrives first and she’s glowing like she has a nightlight hidden under her skin. “Mimi, we were starting to worry.” Then adds, “Your hair looks great!” I can’t help but wonder why everyone is all of a sudden so worried about me. Normally, I could arrive three days late and not cause this kind of a hullabaloo.

  Muffy arrives next. “There you are!” Then she eyes my outfit and declares, “You look very nice today.”

  Renée pulls up and concurs, “You do Meems, very pretty.”

  Staring at all of my sisters I can’t help but think that something big is up. While they love me and always greet me when I arrive at a family gathering, they are not prone to making a beeline straight for me, and dumping a load of compliments at my feet. Something is wrong. “Who died?” I ask.

  Ginger giggles too loudly and playfully pushes at me as if to say, you silly goose.

  Muffy laughs too, and repeats, “Who died? You crack me up!”

  I look to Renée and plead with my eyes for her to tell me what’s going on. She links her arm in mine and pastes on her supermodel smile before leaning in and whispering, “Look like you’re having fun. We’re setting you up.”

  “What?” I screech. Then a bit quieter, I ask, “What do you mean you’re setting me up? With whom?”

  Ginger reprimands, “Lower your voice Meems or he’ll hear you.”

  My eyes start to dart around the party looking for the elusive “he” that might hear me if I don’t quiet down. Yet I cannot seem to find anyone who appears to be single and the potential half to my whole. So I inquire, “Where is he?”

  Ginger announces, “Over there.” Behind her hand she points across the lawn to the round tables that the caterers have set up. “The table closest to the pool.”

  I follow her finger and discover the table closest to the pool is surrounded by a bevy of Renée’s friends. So I ask, “Is he a she? Have you all decided I’m a lesbian then?”

  Renée interrupts, “He’s sitting down. You can’t see him from here because of all the ladies surrounding him.”

  To which I comment, “Look, if he is so gorgeous and has already developed this kind of a fan club, there is no way on earth he is going to go for me.”

  Muffy decides, “He’s not really that good looking if you ask me. He’s just got charisma.”

  Ginger demands, “Not that good looking? Muffy, open your eyes, he’s
distinguished, and refined and very easy on the eyes.”

  Renée gets a saucy sparkle in her eye and declares, “I’d do him.” Then amends, “If I weren’t married and so in love with Laurent that is.”

  I am beyond intrigued by all this fussing and clucking my sisters are doing. But instead of running over to the mystery man I ask, “Have I become so pathetic that the three of you have to find a man for me?”

  Muffy answers first, “When was your last date, Meems?”

  Ginger intercedes, “It’s not that we think you’re pathetic, we just want you to find someone to spend your life with. We love you and we want you to be happy, like us.”

  I’m touched by my sister’s declaration, but still bristle at the thought they are trying to set me up. Renée adds, “Plus there just aren’t many single men around this area. It’s past time we pull together as a family and do our part in finding you a husband.”

  I laugh nervously, “I’m meant to marry him then?”

  Muffy replies, “Don’t be silly Meems. We just think it’s time that you start meeting some single men. He doesn’t have to be “the one,” but if you’re out there looking, you’ll eventually find the one.”

  I announce, “Then you better take me over there so I can fight my way through the throng and throw myself at his feet.”

  Renée gasps, “Not yet! I need to touch up your make-up and maybe find you a scarf first.” My sisters lead me, like a lamb to slaughter, up to Renée’s changing room and proceed to have their way with me. I feel like an episode of that old show “What Not to Wear.” But instead of two hosts tearing me apart, there are three.

  Muffy begins applying lotion to my legs as she declares that they are dry and scaly. Ginger heats up the hot rollers as, this just in, big hair is back! Renée starts to accessorize me. If there was a chance in hell I could have fit into her post-baby curvy size eights, she would have made me change my outfit too. I have to say as irritated as I am that my sisters don’t think I’m fine the way I am, I really am enjoying watching my metamorphosis. Stand back caterpillar, the butterfly is on her way!

  Just when I think I’m more gorgeous than I’ve ever been and am ready to go meet the mysterious man by the pool, Renée declares, “Your shoes are atrocious. You’re a nine right?”

  I mutter that I am. She searches her closet and comes back carrying a pair of gold strappy sandals that must be at least three-and-a-half inches high. “These are perfect for your outfit. Put them on.”

  Before I remember why I wore the loafers to begin with, I kick off my shoes and slip my feet into her delicate footwear. Muffy is the first to notice and gasps, “Mimi, what is that on your foot?”

  Too late, the truth is out. Now my family knows I am no longer the one with pretty feet. I whisper, “It’s a bunion.”

  Renée cringes and in horror asks, “A bunion? But how, when, why?”

  There was no way I was going to mention Dr. Foster’s theory about extra weight and tendency to waddle so I explain, “Genetic weakness in the structure of my foot.”

  Renée is in a quandary. The only other pair of shoes in her closet that will work with my outfit and cover the bunion is a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti hot pink Mary Janes. And while they are beyond gorgeous, they also require an advanced degree in cat walking to move in them. She makes me try them on anyway. It’s their oohs and aahs and usage of words like divine and perfection that convince me to wear them. Otherwise I would have understood they were an accident waiting to happen. As it is I decide Giuseppe Zanotti is a misogynistic fiend of the worst order.

  Once I’m rigged out in all my new gear, the girls lead me toward the stairs. It finally occurs to me to ask, “Who is this guy anyway?”

  Muffy answers, “He’s an author.”

  I’m intrigued. “Really, what has he written?” I’m guessing probably manuals for a software company or perhaps how-to books like, “How to Rewire Your House in Five Short Years.”

  Ginger interrupts my reverie and announces, “He writes legal thrillers.”

  Intrigued, I ask, “You mean like Elliot Fielding?”

  Renée smiles, “Exactly! Because, (drum roll please) he is Elliot Fielding!”

  “What? What do you mean he’s Elliot Fielding? Elliot Fielding lives in London.”

  Ginger intervenes, “He needed a quiet place to work on his next novel and he decided Hilldale was exactly what he was looking for.” She adds, “Plus, Jonathan just signed Parliament on to launch his latest novel in America.”

  To pull an antiquated saying out of my hat, I was gobsmacked. I didn’t even know Parliament was up for the job, let alone got it and I’m supposed to be aware of these things. It’s my job. Forgetting that Elliot is my potential future husband, I ask Ginger, “When did this happen?”

  She answers, “Just last night. It’s all been very hush-hush. Elliot didn’t want a whole bunch of companies approaching him while he was in the states so he asked Jonathan to keep it on the QT.”

  I have read all of Elliot Fielding’s books and I have loved each one better than the last. For the life of me I can’t figure out why my sisters think I have a chance with such a celebrated novelist. Well, actually, I can. They rightly assume I am a product of the same DNA they are which in and of itself makes me spectacular. Unfortunately, they wrongly assume that I have their innate confidence, which I just don’t. I go to Weight Watchers and I have a bunion. Elliot Fielding can do a lot better than me.

  The next thing I know I’m being led across the lawn in Renée’s medieval torture devices. She advises, “Walk on your toes so you won’t sink into the grass.”

  I glare at her, “Easier said than done.” I had just started to become used to the insert in my shoe and now I was flying without it and my comfortable loafers. Add to that, I am teetering on my tippy toes in drag queen shoes, and I’m pretty screwed here.

  As we approach Elliot’s table, Jonathan looks up and smiles. He seems genuinely glad to see me and it occurs to me that he has not been made privy to my sister’s plans for his new client to join the family. So I smile back and he gives me a nice brotherly peck on the cheek. “Ah, Mimi, you’re here! There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” And just as I start to wonder if he really does know, he gestures to who I assume is Elliot and says, “Elliot, this is my sister-in-law, Mimi Finnegan. She is also my right hand at the office so as the book launch closes in, the two of you will be working together quite a bit.”

  Elliot pushes his chair out and stands. His eyes slide up and down the length of my body and he smirks as he raises his left eyebrow in a supercilious question mark. I have no idea what that’s all about so I simply extend my hand and smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Elliot.”

  Instead of extending me the same courtesy, he tilts his head to the side, nods it once and declares, “Indeed.” Like, “Indeed, you should be happy to meet me.”

  Well that settles it. I don’t care if he was well over six-two or his slightly receding strawberry blond hair is the most gorgeous color ever or I find him immensely attractive. He’s ruined it for himself. I am not going to marry Elliot Fielding.

  I rush to lower my extended hand back to my side, where it obviously belongs, when at the last moment he chooses to take it. I try to pull away as if to indicate he has had his chance and the offer is now withdrawn. I’m so peeved by his arrogance that I yank my fingers from his, setting into motion a domino effect I’m sure Renée will later claim ruined Camille’s party.

  Elliot bends at the waist and gently touches his lips to my reluctant appendage in what I’m sure he assumes is a display of superior English manners, yet my whole body responds in an angry shudder. How dare he think he can “indeed” me and then put his mouth on my person. I yank my hand back, upsetting my very delicate balance, at the same time Elliot takes the hint and releases me. He does not attempt to aid me in any way as I fall backwards, straight into the pool.

  As I’m flailing through the air, the world takes on the slow motion
effect like a murder scene in the movies. I see everything around me in a series of freeze frame snap shots. Picture one: The smug countenance of one Mr. Elliot Fielding. Snap two: The judgmental faces of Renée’s stuck up society friends and number three: Jonathan’s wild-eyed attempt to reach out to help me, too late. The fourth picture has sound effects: Renée leaping towards me screaming, “Don’t get my shoes wet!” SPLASH!!!

  As I hit the water it occurs to me a three point seven pound weight loss is simply not enough to balance the horror of this day. I was feeling so good about myself too. I begin to breast stroke to the shallow end and decide to just go home when I realize that if anyone should leave it’s the fancy pants writer. This is my niece’s birthday and I’m family. I’m staying!

  Renée meets me at the end of the pool and offers her hand to help me out. I gladly accept her aid and give her points for asking if I am okay before inquiring after the state of her shoes. She leads me over to a lounge chair and sits me down before removing the treacherous footwear. She murmurs, “Go on upstairs and dry off. I’ll try to come up with something else for you to put on, okay?”

  I’m so grateful to her that she isn’t berating me for causing a scene or ruining her party that tears start to form in my eyes. Before I can move, my dad hurries over carrying a beach towel. He wraps it around my shoulders and laughingly jokes, “You’ve made quite a splash my girl!” He thinks he’s being funny and I simply don’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not.

  Muffy trails after me as I drag my sopping wet person across the lawn. When she reaches me, she asks, “So what did you think of him?”

  I look at her in shock. “I’m fine, Muff, thanks for asking.”

  She exclaims, “Of course you’re fine. It was just a pool, not the English Channel.”

  Sympathy has never been Muffy’s strong suit. Even though she looks like a beautiful country club goddess, the truth is she’s one hundred percent tough jock. If a pack of midgets beat me with sticks, she’d declare, “They were just midgets.” So I answer, “He’s an arrogant, stuck up prig. That’s what I think of him.”