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

by Whitney Dineen

  Calmly, very calmly, I answer, “Elliot Fielding.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake Meems, he swears he didn’t push you into the pool. Plus I invited him for Trinny, not you.”

  My heart sinks slightly, “For Trinny?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “You know her divorce just became official yesterday and she’s feeling a bit low. I thought Elliot would be perfect for her.”

  While I know she’s right, I can’t help feeling, what’s the word, jealous? No, that’s not it. But if I’m truthful with myself, it’s an emotion not too far removed. So I answer, “Well then, fine, as long as I’m not sitting next to him at dinner or anything.”

  Ginger smiles as my drama seems to have resolved itself and concurs, “Of course not, you’ll be sitting next to Robert once he gets here.”

  Yes, Robert. I forgot all about him. I imagine that he’s about seven trillion times better looking than Elliot and a small smile creeps over my face. Okay then, Robert. Bring on the wine. I’m ready to blow a few points.

  By seven-thirty, there is still no sign of Robert and I’m feeling on the happy side of tipsy. My empty stomach sucked up that glass of Chardonnay like a thirsty sponge. Ginger takes a phone call and announces that Robert has been sidetracked at the hospital with an emergency, but he’ll get here as soon as possible. Then she instructs us to find our places at the dinner table.

  While I’m totally disappointed my date hasn’t arrived, I’m also delighted to discover he’s a doctor. So on the way to the dining room, I sidle up next to Elliot and whisper, “Hear that? Robert’s a doctor.”

  He looks down the length of his patrician nose at me and replies, “That should come in handy if he ever tries to kiss you.”

  I’m not even the tiniest little bit ruffled by his ill-mannered comeback. I merely ask, “Jealous?”

  Again with the eyebrow, “I am an internationally acclaimed novelist, you know.”

  Before we separate to find our seats, I ask, “Ever saved anyone’s life?” Then I punctuate my question by turning my back on him and walking away. Take that, you stuck up wanker.

  Ginger has prepared all the food herself but has asked her cleaning lady to come in and serve. We start out with delectable lobster bisque, of which I only eat six bites because it’s made with cream. I decide to spend a few more points on another glass of wine instead.

  Our main course is grilled Atlantic salmon with wild rice and braised asparagus. It’s delicious. I’m half way through and onto my third glass of wine when the doorbell rings. It has to be Robert. I’m peeing myself with excitement when Ginger gets up to answer the door. She comes back to the dining room with a thoroughly pleasant looking man in his forties.

  Robert is tallish (maybe six feet), dark hair, happy crinkly laugh lines around his eyes, no alarming features, just very pleasant looking. While I’m disappointed he’s not better looking than Elliot, I console myself that he is a doctor. Everyone at the table seems to already know him except for Elliot and me. The stuffy novelist takes the opportunity to ask, “So Robert, what kind of doctor are you?”

  “Obstetrician,” he answers.

  I raise my eyebrow at Elliot as if to ask, “Brought any babies into the world lately?”

  Elliot isn’t done and gambles on the question, “Ever save anyone’s life?”

  Robert laughs, “No, no, real life isn’t always like television. I’ve never had any close calls like that.”

  I, in turn, refuse to look at Elliot and ask Robert about the baby he delivered tonight. When Jonathan interrupts and suggests, “Elliot, tell everyone about the time you gave that baby CPR after it choked on a carrot stick.”

  Oh for crying out loud. I look at Elliot with such disgust and loathing that he has deigned to save the life of a child that he demurs, “Oh, it was nothing, really.”

  Trinny stares at Robert, all dewy eyed, and asks, “How have you been, Robert?”

  My date, emphasis on the “my,” looks across the table at her, with what appears to be longing, and answers, “I’ve been okay, Trin, how about you?”

  She smiles shyly and announces, “I’m doing great.” Then quietly adds, “The divorce became final yesterday.”

  You have got to be kidding me! I went out and shelled out nearly five hundred dollars on a new dress and shoes and my date is all hot to trot for the divorcée sitting across the table. Yes, thanks, I’ll have another glass of wine. The rest of the night passes in a blur. Ginger serves her famous flourless chocolate cake with crème anglais. I eat my whole piece and wash it down with a tawny port.

  I have often thanked God I’m not a sloppy drunk. This quality comes in handy tonight as I am positively shit-faced. I’ve also fallen off the diet bandwagon with such abandon that Elliot catches me in the kitchen stuffing the remains of someone else’s dessert in my mouth. He quips, “I was coming in to do the same thing. Anyone else leave leftovers?”

  I look at him miserably and point to another plate sporting a couple bites of cake. He shrugs his shoulders and declares no one at the table appeared to have had cooties as he stabs a fork into the remains and digs in.

  I have to smile that he’s not too stuck up to miss a great opportunity like eating off of other peoples’ plates and ask, “Where’s Trinny?”

  Elliot clears his throat and declares, “She’s just left with your date.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, are you kidding me?” I roll my eyes and proceed to lick the dish that I’ve been eating off of. “God damned lousy blind dates.” Elliot just stares at me in what is either amusement or horror or a bit of both. “Son of a bitch! Miserable do-good doctors.” I am unclear as to what happened at this point in the evening because the next thing I know, I’m waking up the following morning in Ginger’s guest room still wearing my red dress and shoes.

  Chapter 9

  My head feels like it’s caught between two cymbals desperately trying to be reunited in a thunderous clang. They are striving valiantly to reach each other but my stubborn skull refuses to get out of the way. Oh Lord, I’m hung over. Not in the feeling a little queasy sense either. I am still drunk. I try to sit up but the bed is trying to buck me off and I have to hang on for dear life. I try to discern what time it is but the clock is facing the other direction and the mere thought of expending the energy to turn it towards me exhausts me to the point I fall back asleep.

  The next time I open my eyes, it’s to discover Ginger sitting on the bed next to me. She’s brought a tray of buttered toast and coffee. She trills, “Hello sleepy head! How do you feel this morning?”

  Even though my mouth is full of cotton balls, I still manage to tell her to quit shouting at me. She smiles in an irritating fashion and asks, “Feeling a little worse for wear this morning?”

  I reply, “Ugh, frmph, shlunk, mmmph gggrrrr.” Translation, go away and leave the food. But she doesn’t go away. She tells me she has a hot bath running for me and that I need to sit up and drink my coffee and take a couple of aspirin. What I need is an anesthesiologist to knock me out until tomorrow when the alcohol has been metabolized through my system.

  Sitting up involves the kind of excitement normally reserved for riding roller coasters. While I’m not suffering from full blown vertigo, I am suffering. Everything in the room is so bright and clear I swear I can see individual molecules dancing through the air. If only I could vomit.

  Ginger unbuckles my shoes and tells me how pretty they are. Then she helps me out of my dress and asks where I bought it as she thinks she might like one just like it. So I tell her I got it at Ross. That ought to keep her from ever finding it and getting one just like it, only two sizes smaller. She leads me into the bathroom like one would lead a crippled grandmother with one leg and only two toes on the remaining foot, which is exactly how spry I feel. Once I’m in the tub, she submerges a washcloth in the hot water, wrings it out, and drapes it across my eyes. It’s heavenly. If I could only die right now I would go marginally happy.

  Ginger sits on top o
f the toilet and apologizes, “I’m so sorry about Robert. I didn’t know until last night that he and Trinny had gone out before.” I grunt in response. She continues, “Apparently he had a problem with her still being married and told her that he couldn’t see her again until the divorce was final.” Grunt, grunt, to acknowledge I heard her. “But still. I’m not going to rest until I find you a man.”

  I actually moan in response to this, and beg, “Please stop. No more men. Not for a while. Please.”

  While she doesn’t actually concede to my wishes, she does comment, “That Elliot’s really something isn’t he?”

  “No,” I reply.

  “Why Miriam May Finnegan, that’s not the way you were acting last night.”

  These words have the same effect on me as a glass of ice cold water poured over my head. No longer do I feel drunk. The sensation has been replaced by sheer panic. “What do you mean that’s not the way I was acting last night?”

  Ginger laughs and recounts, “Don’t you remember how you got up to bed last night?”

  Her prompting starts the beginning of a foggy outline forming in my mind. In what is surely a fabricated memory, I vaguely recall a tall British man carrying me up the steps with my worried sister trailing behind, telling him where to take me. Then I seem to recollect him gently laying me on the bed and then…Oh please, make it stop. I did not say, “Come on big boy, want to join me?” Did I?

  If this is truly a memory and not the nightmare I’m hoping for, Elliot quirked that eyebrow again, right before declining my gracious offer. He did however agree to rethink his position should I ask him when I’ve sobered up. Just kill me now.

  By the time I feel well enough to leave Ginger’s it’s four-thirty on Sunday afternoon and I’ve already consumed another hundred and eighty-seven points. As soon as I walk through my front door, I go straight to the phone to confess my sins to Kevin. He picks up after the third ring and I tell him everything that happened last night. Then I ask, “Should we try to calculate how many points I ate?”

  “Absolutely not,” he declares. “Just start over fresh tomorrow and don’t continue to eat everything you want tonight.”

  I tell him I’m weak and I can’t be trusted in a house with a refrigerator. He decides to come over and baby-sit. When he arrives, he’s carrying a box of double fudge bars and declares, “First, we exercise!”

  “No,” I beg. “I can’t, I might still be drunk. I could hurt myself.” Kevin will not take no for an answer and instead searches my shelf for the obligatory workout videos, the ones every woman over the age of sixteen owns. He finds them right next to the complete works of Jackie Collins. He chooses, “Buns of Steel,” with that annoying creature, Tami Lee Webb, and we’re off, squeeze, squeeze, pinch, lift, hold, repeat. By minute twelve, I’m starting to feel a little better. The workout endorphins are taking over and by the time the video ends, I want to do “Arms and Abs of Steel” too.

  Now its Kevin’s turn to demure. “Jeez, Mimi, there’s working out, then there’s killing yourself.” So we opt to think about it over our first fudge bar. I tell him all about Elliot Fielding and he exclaims, “I love that guy! Once I pick up one of his books, I can’t put it down until I’m finished.”

  I roll my eyes, “Kevin, you are obviously not fully aware that as my new girlfriend you are supposed to hate Elliot. Furthermore, no matter what you really think, you are to tell me his writing is drivel and an epileptic monkey could do a better job.”

  Kevin looks surprised, “Really? That seems like a lot of work. Can’t I just like him and console you?”

  “No.” I tell him. “You cannot.”

  We decide to do the Abs portion of “Arms and Abs of Steel.” Then after five trips around the block, I microwave Weight Watcher meals for us. I have the fettuccine Alfredo and Kevin has the pepperoni pizza. We both add extra cheese.

  Over dinner, Kevin confesses he ate half of a box of Cocoa Puffs last night. I ask, “What were you thinking about when you ate them?”

  “Megan. I was thinking that Megan will probably be having her baby any time now.”

  I reach across the table and take Kevin’s hand. “You have got to start thinking more of yourself, my friend. Megan has taken enough away from you. Don’t give her all of your power too.”

  “Oh, Mimi, I know. It’s just that it should be my baby. I should be the one coaching her through it.”

  Frustrated, I demand, “She’s not worthy of you Kevin. You need to develop some revenge fantasies.” Then before he can respond I ask, “Who is your favorite model?”

  Without missing a beat, he answers, “Gisele Bündchen.”

  “Okay,” I say, “when you start to feel the Cocoa Puff urge overtake you, I want you to visualize yourself all trim and thin, walking down the street with Gisele. Close your eyes,” I demand. “Now, you and your supermodel are holding hands and laughing. Suddenly you stop on the street corner and you kiss. It’s not a simple little peck either. It’s a full blown passionate assault. You with me?” Kevin groans in the affirmative. “Just as Gisele runs the tip of her tongue over your earlobe, you hear, ‘Kevin, is that you?’ You look up and it’s Megan. But she’s gained like sixty pounds and her hair is gray and she’s got a pimple the size of Detroit on her upper lip.” I pause to appreciate the look of contentment on my friend’s face. “You look at this woman and say, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.’ Megan answers, ‘Kevin, it’s me Megan, your wife?’ at which point Gisele faces Megan and she relates, ‘No, I’m his wife.’ Because you see, she’s left Tom Brady for you, Kevin Beeman.”

  Kevin is beaming like he just won Publishers Clearing House. “Holy cow, that was good. You’ve got talent Mimi!”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been dumped before. I know how to get even.”

  Chapter 10

  Everything is going fairly well at work today with one major exception. That rat Elliot is in the office, again. He keeps looking at me like the cat that swallowed the canary. And while yes, I know that I propositioned him while lying on a bed on Saturday night, I was also drunk at the time. Everyone knows proper party etiquette dictates you immediately forget embarrassing proposals made when one or both of the parties is under the influence. Yet it doesn’t seem like the high and mighty Mr. Fielding knows the rules. He keeps grinning at me like we share a dirty little secret.

  After a twenty-four hour all-you-can-eat bender, I feel surprisingly in control of my food consumption today. I have discovered tic-tacs, tiny little nuggets of spicy-sweet that help to keep my mind off of say, cheesecake. At three twenty-six on the nose, and I know this as I am staring right at the clock when it occurs, His Highness, Elliot Fielding, walks through my door and simply stands there. I am sick of the looks he has been shooting at me all day so I demand, “What Elliot? What do you want?”

  Marginally taken aback by my combative tone, he quirks his damn eyebrow again and says, “I wanted to ask you something about Saturday night.”

  Well now I’ve had it! Not only does he not possess the good manners not to bring the incident up, but he is actually daring to speak of it in the light of day. So I stand up and shout, “Do you want to take me up on my offer? Is that why you’re here?” And then horror of horrors I start to unbutton my blouse. “Because if that’s what’s brought you here, big boy, come and get it!” And I stand before him, completely topless with just my lacy pink satin bra for protection. My arms spread like Jesus Christ himself about to bless the bounty at the Last Supper.

  Elliot just stares at me, then at my chest as it heaves up and down in expended fury, then at me again. But he doesn’t move. There are sparks shooting between us at an alarming rate and I feel like I’ve just been electrocuted when he takes a step towards me. I want to scream, “Don’t dilly dally, get over here and take me!” when who should walk into my office behind Elliot? Yes, that’s right, my brother-in-law, Jonathan.

  Jonathan strolls in and asks, “What did she say about Saturday night?” It occurs t
o me at that moment that Elliot must have had a legitimate query and may in fact be talking about next Saturday instead of last Saturday night. My gaze is drawn to my boss who is slack-jawed at the image of his sister-in-law standing partially undressed in front of his most important client, apparently offering him the smorgasbord that is her body. He looks shocked, confused, and a little faint all at once. He asks, “Mimi?” his tone begging for a reasonable explanation.

  At first I can’t think of what to say as I have hormones raging through me at the speed of food poisoning. As inexplicable as this reaction is, I still want to jump Elliot Fielding’s bones, even though we are no longer alone. Look out, I’ve become kinky. I had no idea I had this in me. Just as my thoughts segue to rubber boots and whips I answer, “Oh hi, Jonathan. I um,” indicate the blouse in my hand, offer, “I just spilled Diet Coke on my blouse before Elliot walked in.”

  Jonathan visibly relaxes and averting his gaze says, “Well, my goodness then, we should leave you alone.”

  He turns to exit the room but Elliot doesn’t move an inch. He just stands transfixed by the sight before him. After giving himself a little shake, he uncomfortably declares, “Right then. Well, I’ll ask you later, how’s that?” And he turns and walks out the door.

  I drop to my desk and vaguely wonder if God has put a team of Vaudeville writers in charge of my life’s script. I can see them now, “You know what would be funny, Stan? Make her rip her blouse off.” “No kidding, Ollie, that’s your best idea yet!” I dig into my closet for any spare tops that might be lurking about as I can no longer put on the blouse with “a Diet Coke” stain on it. The only thing I have is a sweatshirt that we used as a promotional gimmick for a canned cheese product. It says, “Think of Us When You Gotta Whizzzzzz!”

  My main concern at the moment is how I am going to leave the building without running into Elliot. I mean this is shame like none other and I have known shame. I pick up my phone to call Elaine and ask if she’s seen Elliot anywhere. She snootily tells me Mr. Fielding went into Jonathan’s office and they’ve just closed the door. Without as much as a thank you for being such a nosy, pain in the ass bitch, I hang up on her and run out my own door. I am about to take a very late lunch that will extend into a very early dinner.