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

by Whitney Dineen

  She asks, “What did he do to you?”

  “He tried to kiss my hand.” And as soon as the words were out of my mouth I know how utterly lame they sound. Like a homeless person scolding a shelter for trying to feed them. But Muffy just looks at me with a quizzical smile on her face and announces, “Well, there are plenty more fish in the sea.” Then in true smart ass form, adds, “You probably saw a couple while you were in the pool.”

  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, humor at my expense, who would have thought? I tell her to go back to the party and regale someone else with her wit. I want to be alone.

  Back up in Renée’s room, I take off my sopping wet outfit and put on one of Laurent’s robes, then blow dry my hair. My sister arrives carrying a neon colored, floral caftan with a pair of low healed chartreuse mules. “How’s this?” she asks.

  I stare in shock and reply, “Absolutely perfect if I were Auntie Mame or Mrs. Roper.”

  Renée responds in a hurt voice, “Mimi, there just isn’t that much in my wardrobe that will fit you.”

  I want to scream at her not to call me fat, when I comprehend the truth of her words. My only choices probably are this outrageous bit of drama or Laurent’s terry cloth robe which I’m already wearing. So I don the caftan and refuse to look in the mirror before leaving the room. After all, if I don’t know how bad I look no one else will either, right? A sorry piece of logic, but I’m grasping at straws here.

  As I walk back into the backyard for Birthday Party, take two, my family scurries around me in a show of support, as if to say to all the other guests, “She’s one of us no matter how clumsy and embarrassing she is.” Eyeing my perfectly groomed sisters and parents, I wonder if there’s any chance I could have been adopted. Or maybe my mom cheated on my dad with a circus clown and I’m the result.

  After cake and ice cream, both of which I eat (points be damned), Camille opens her gifts. She obviously isn’t too delighted by the envelopes with the pictures of bedroom furniture that has been ordered in her name. And by the time she unwraps a huge box, containing her brand new duvet, we catch a glimpse of the terrible twos that lie ahead.

  Thank goodness my gift is next. Camille opens the rocker first and immediately sits in it and teeters back and forth for about twenty seconds before she tears open the doll. Her eyes light up and she exclaims, “Baby doll, pretty pink baby doll!” Then she plops back into her rocker and serenades the plastic and rubber infant with a heartwarming, if not babbling version of “Toora Loora Loora” meets “Frère Jacques.”

  Meanwhile, I keep the widest berth possible from Elliot Fielding, the demon novelist. He, as I had hoped, did not have the good sense to leave the party before I came down from Renée’s bedroom. In fact upon witnessing my return, he smiled at me and arched that god-damned eyebrow again. The arch said, “You silly, clumsy buffoon, I didn’t even want to kiss your hand.”

  I merely glared at him and showed him my back. My screamingly loud floral back, which countered, “You are so far beneath a fool like me it isn’t even funny.”

  Happily I manage to avoid Elliot until the time of my departure. As I’m leaving, I wonder why he’s still here. Doesn’t he have other damsels to distress? When I hug Ginger goodbye, I ask, “What is he (said with the same disdain I might utter the word slug) still doing here?”

  Ginger replies, “He came with us.” Then adds, “You have to give him a chance, Meems. He really is a wonderful man. I just don’t see how he’s responsible for you falling into the pool.”

  I lean into my sister and lie, “He pushed me.” Then I walk out the front door. That’ll show those nosy broads to leave my love life alone. Or I hope it will anyway.

  Chapter 5

  I manage to avoid Jonathan for the better part of two days when he finally corners me and asks, “Isn’t it great news about Elliot Fielding? What do you think of him anyway?”

  Ignoring his second query, I counter, “Why did we get the account instead of the New York office?”

  He answers, “New York will still take care of some of the press, but we’ll be responsible for hitting all of the Middle America markets. You know, we’ll book him on shows like Good Morning Tulsa and Wake Up Chicago.”

  I pretend, “Wow, that’s great!” and suggest, “You should have Riley work with him.”

  “Riley?” Jonathan disagrees. “She’s a junior coordinator.” He continues, “No way Meems, you’re the one for the job.”

  Here’s the rub. While I would rather eat a whole bowl full of bunions than work with Elliot Fielding, I don’t have that option. Jonathan, might be my brother-in-law, but first and foremost, he’s my boss. I can’t refuse to work with Elliot because he’s a cocky British prick. Most of the clients I labor for are a million times more egregious. Like the night club owner who actually stuffed a sausage down his pant leg to make himself appear better endowed. Therefore I simply declare, “I’d be delighted to work with him.” Adding as an afterthought, “When the time comes.”

  My co-worker, Elaine, is unintentionally responsible for making my whole week. Just yesterday she asked if I was losing weight. She said she noticed my clothes were fitting a lot better. Now while you may normally think this is a backhanded compliment, as though she were insinuating I’m normally stuffed into my wardrobe like manicotti, I don’t care. Backhanded or not, a compliment is a compliment and I’m not going to turn my nose up at it.

  My clothes are fitting a lot better. And while I’m in no danger of changing sizes any time soon, I can once again wear panty hose without feeling like I’m being cut in half at the waist. Between you, me, and the fencepost, I stood naked in front of the full length mirror last night without even the slightest urge to become a bulimic.

  Bulimia is a dieting trick that I’ve tried on occasion during my adult life with absolutely no success as I have the gag reflex of a porn star. You could ram a tree trunk down my throat and I would simply try to eat it, not throw it up. I have never told anyone about the attempted bulimia. I mean, my entire well-intentioned family would pile into a string of cars to drive me to the Betty Ford Center if they knew.

  The day sails along beautifully until four-thirty when Jonathan calls a staff meeting. I have just finished my afternoon snack and begin the process of deciding which Weight Watchers entrée to microwave for dinner when he rings me to say that he needs to meet with the entire staff in the conference room, ASAP. I do my part and gather up the masses and ten minutes later we are assembled, nervously waiting to find out why he’s called this meeting. The last time Jonathan held an unscheduled meeting was to inform us that a senior member of the New York branch of Parliament was going to be observing us for three days. And while we weren’t to worry, that person did have it in his power to fire any of us, including him, our boss. Yes, thanks, we won’t worry. You have never seen so many hyper-animated press dealings in your life. I personally took twenty-three imaginary calls and even had time to avert six potential, fictitious disasters. The good news, no one lost their job on that trip, but it didn’t keep us from worrying over future visits.

  Our fidgety group of fourteen doesn’t so much as breathe until Jonathan arrives four minutes later. Unfortunately, he isn’t alone. With my eyes glued to his companion like I am witnessing the beginning of the apocalypse, Jonathan smiles and announces, “I would like you all to meet Elliot Fielding. Elliot has just signed on with Parliament to cover the press relations for his next book that is due out in the spring.” The group glows in anticipation of meeting an international celebrity. Normally speaking, we work with fame at a more local level, restaurant and nightclub openings, resident children’s book authors, Bebe’s House of Hair launching another location. Okay, so maybe we were a little fancier than that but still, Elliot Fielding is most certainly our biggest client to date.

  Jonathan continues, “Elliot is staying in Hilldale while he finishes his latest book and will occasionally be coming into the office to observe our work. You see,” he pauses for dramatic effect, �
��his new novel is set in a PR company!” The crowd oohs and aahs their excitement and pleasure. I do not.

  After Jonathan’s announcement, the staff of Parliament rushes at Elliot in a massive wave of excitement. Brenda from payroll exclaims, “Oh Mr. Fielding, I just love your books!”

  Edgar from accounting asks if Mr. Fielding would mind signing his hard covers and Elaine bats her eyes and offers, “If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know.” Then, for good measure, she rubs up against him like a cat in heat. Me? I leave the room.

  At my desk I decide to retrieve all of the change out of my purse in order to buy as many Ho Ho’s as I have the cash for. The vending machine was just filled this morning so my hope is that I find enough coins for at least seven double packs. But before I can leave my office, my bunion lets out a small cry of pain and I’m forced to rethink my position on raiding the snack machine. Instead, I dig through my purse for my Weight Watchers book and call the hotline number. I need a meeting and I need it now.

  Luck is on my side. If I leave the office right now, I’ll be able to make the 5:30 meeting in Hilldale. The Pipsy branch doesn’t have a Tuesday meeting after two in the afternoon. I quickly grab my purse and attempt to flee the premises at the same time our new client walks by my office. As I scurry out the door with my sights on the elevator, I run smack into the knave that caused my unexpected swim over the weekend. Elliot reaches out instinctually to keep me from falling before he sees who he’s caught.

  I let out a loud, “HMPH!” on impact and then notice the owner of the arms that surround me. I want to scream, “Unhand me, you brute!” but against my will I realize how nice it feels to be in the embrace of someone I’m not related to. I pause for several seconds too long, simply enjoying the sensation when Elliot leans down and whispers in my ear, “I did not push you into the pool.”

  Coming to my senses as though doused in cold water, I accuse, “Nor did you attempt to help me.”

  Elliot retorts, “My dear Miss Finnegan, you yanked your hand from mine, I didn’t have the opportunity to save you from your folly.”

  I just stare at him thinking, “My folly? My folly, you bastard? I’ll show you my folly.” And while I want to rip off my loafer and beat him senseless with it, I opt to just walk away.

  Chapter 6

  I miss Marge. The Hilldale Weight Watchers leader looks like she’s had a face lift, liposuction, and a fake tan. I feel she’s guilty of false advertising. It’s like she’s saying, “Do what I tell you and your wrinkles will disappear, your cellulite will evaporate and you’ll glow like a bronze statue.” All Marge’s countenance says is, “If I can lose thirty pounds on Weight Watchers so can you.” No false promises, no expectation of immortality. As I listen to Cheryl drone on about the importance of fiber, I want to raise my hand and tell her too much fiber makes you gassy but I’m afraid the good ladies of Hilldale will run me out of the meeting.

  Surprisingly, there is one man in the meeting. He looks to be about my age and has a lovely, round face that reminds me of one of the contestants on that TV show, The Biggest Loser. Maybe this is the reason I feel like I know him, so I send him a smile. I applaud the folks on that show. I mean, they go on national television seriously overweight and let the world watch as they compete to see who can shed the most poundage. They are subjected to the most monstrously cruel temptations too, plates of cookies and doughnuts, pizzas and steaks. I know I could never do it. Shoot, I’ve been known to hide in my car during work hours and eat chocolate chip muffins until I can feel the beginnings of a diabetic coma coming on.

  The only good thing I learn in the meeting is Weight Watchers has come out with a new product, The Double Fudge Bar, and it’s only one point! That’s right, one point. In my calculations, if these things are any good, I could eat twenty-nine of them a day. Of course I wouldn’t be able to eat anything else, but still. Cheryl stresses that they contain five grams of fiber as well. There goes my plan to eat twenty-nine, but I’m still going to pick up a box on my way home.

  As I’m collecting my purse and new hand-outs, the nice, round-faced man from across the room approaches me. He smiles and asks, “Mimi Finnegan, right?”

  I answer, “Yes. Do we know each other?”

  “Kevin Beeman,” he answers, “from Mr. Phips’ chemistry class junior year?”

  Ah, so this is why he’s so familiar. “My gosh, Kevin, it’s been years. How are you?”

  Shaking his head, he answers, “I’ve been better.” Then with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he adds, “And thinner.”

  “Oh don’t I know it. I tried on my ski jacket from high school the other day and looked like a tick about to pop.”

  He laughed, “But you look great now. Have you just lost a whole bunch of weight?”

  “If you call three point seven pounds a whole bunch of weight…”

  Kevin looks confused, “But you look as gorgeous as ever. What are you doing at Weight Watchers?”

  I want to throw myself at him and kiss him with tongue in appreciation of such a spectacular compliment. Instead, I suggest, “Hey, you wanna go to the store and pick up a box of those fudge bars? I’m dying to see if they’re any good.”

  Kevin says it sounds like a plan and off we go. We buy a box of six and then walk over to the park to eat one. “Creamy,” I declare.

  “Not gritty like some,” Kevin adds.

  Having decided they are well worth one point each we have another. I learn that Kevin and his wife Megan were recently divorced. Kevin explains that Megan had been cheating on him with his business partner, David, and she announced it one day over breakfast. She added she was pregnant with David’s child, so if he had any crazy ideas of trying counseling or something, he could just forget it.

  Kevin was devastated and went on a six month bender of eating everything he could get his hands on. He gained fifty pounds, lost his wife, his business partner, and his self-respect. He’s been back in Pipsy for a month and has been a member of Weight Watchers for the same amount of time. Then he asks me what I’ve been up to.

  I answer, “I work at a PR company, I’m still the least attractive sister in my family, and I have a bunion.”

  He counters, “What do you mean you’re the least attractive sister in your family? You’re gorgeous!”

  Then I look him dead in the eye and say, “Thank you, Kevin, but do you by any chance remember what Renée, Ginger, and Muffy look like?”

  He grimaces, “Do they still look like that?”

  “Better.”

  Like a true friend, Kevin stands by his words, “You’re prettier than you used to be in high school and I had it bad for you back then.”

  “You did not, you big liar! You were dating Helen Bishop for all four years.”

  He laughs and answers, “Only because I knew I couldn’t get you.”

  In mock anger I declare, “Well, thank you, Kevin Beeman. You mean that I didn’t have to be dateless through four years of high school, but was, thanks to you?”

  He smiles sheepishly and asks, “Any chance I can make up for that now?”

  I’m totally surprised Kevin is asking me out. I mean, just so we’re perfectly clear, the last guy who propositioned me had a bratwurst in his pants. I can’t help but think that Kevin is not my dream man. I mean, he’s pudgy, divorced, and a little depressed, but what the heck? I still have to lose sixteen point three pounds, and I have a bunion. So I say yes. We decide to go out Friday night. He’ll pick me up at seven. He laughs and says, “Hey, you know what? It’s going to be great to go out with someone who has to count points the same as I do.”

  I add, “We can force each other not to cheat.” On that note we eat our third double fudge bar (only three points total) and enjoy the feeling of being with a kindred spirit.

  Chapter 7

  The phone is ringing as I walk through my front door. I run to grab it but my answering machine has already picked up. I hear, “Meems, it’s Ginger
, are you there? Pick up the phone if you are. MeeeeMeeee, pick up the phone.”

  So I do. “Heya, I just walked in, what’s up?”

  “Who were you eating ice cream with in the park?”

  Pipsy is a small town and word spreads like a forest fire doused in gasoline, but still, I’ve only just left the park. How could Ginger already know I was there with a man? I cautiously answer, “That was my friend, Kevin, from high school, why?”

  She demands, “Are you dating him?”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, Ginger, we just ran into each other and decided to catch up. We aren’t dating.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her we have a date on Friday night, but I don’t. I guess I’m secretly hoping she’ll still try to set me up with other men. I mean, I like Kevin, but I just can’t see us getting romantic.

  “Good,” she declares. “I’m having a dinner party Saturday night and there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Woohooo! She is going to introduce me to someone else. I tell her I’ll be there without tipping my hand about how excited I am. She informs me it starts at seven sharp and not to be late. I hang up with her and dance around the living room singing, “It’s raining men, hallelujah it’s raining men!” I feel like Bridget Jones. Now if I could only get a couple of hunks to fight over me in a knock-down-drag-out brawl. The last ten days of my life have brought a slew of changes, a bunion, a diet, and dates. I decide to zap a W.W. Mac and Cheese in the microwave and then go out in search of a new outfit. I had promised myself no new clothes until I was a size ten, but I just can’t seem to help it. I haven’t purchased a new dress since Linden.

  Linden Fairbanks was my last real boyfriend. While he shared the same last name as Douglas Fairbanks (and Jr.), the similarities end there. Lin was a real mama’s boy. He would ask his mother to come over to his house every Saturday morning to lay out his clothes for the week. She always set out a couple extra outfits too, in case something like a squash game or opera opening came up at the last minute and she wasn’t able to get to him in time. When I spent Friday nights at his house, I would have to leave by ten the next morning so his mother wouldn’t know I had slept over. If he stayed at my house, he had to leave by the same time so he could get home and make his bed look slept in.