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

by Whitney Dineen

  Ginger calls me at six-thirty to commiserate over the scene at work to which I naively inquire, “Scene, what scene?” I wrongly concluded there was no way that my boss would rat me out to my sister.

  Ginger says, “Jonathan told me all about it, Meems.”

  “Oh,” I sigh dejectedly. “Well then yes I would have to agree that it was one of the most embarrassing moments in my life. But happily it ended all right.”

  “You have to be careful with those cans of soda, you know. They always spray at the most inopportune times.”

  I’m thinking soda, what soda, when I remember my fabrication to Jonathan explaining my state of undress. I take a moment to offer a silent prayer of thanks that I didn’t get so mad that I whipped my bra off too. I mean, there would be no way of talking my way out of that mess, would there? So I change the subject and ask Ginger, “What did Elliot want to ask me about Saturday night? Do you know?”

  “Yeah, actually, I do. But first off, I want to apologize again for trying to set you up with him. If I had known then what I know now, I never would have, I promise.”

  What? What’s she saying? It sounds like code for “Elliot is a mob boss” or “Elliot is an ax-murderer.” So I demand, “What are you talking about?”

  “Elliot wanted your opinion on the perfect restaurant to propose to his girlfriend. She’s coming in town from London on Friday and he wants to ask her to marry him on Saturday.”

  I start to hear this bizarre whirring sound in my head like I’m in the middle of a washing machine. So I ask Ginger to repeat what she just said. She does and the sound gets even louder. I fake call-waiting and hang up before I faint or scream or both. I plop down on my sofa to wait out the spin cycle in my brain and catalogue the facts about my brief association with Elliot Fielding. Elliot Fielding has never been interested in me. Elliot Fielding is about to become engaged to another woman. I have taken my shirt off and propositioned Elliot Fielding in my office when Elliot Fielding only wanted my opinion about which restaurant to use to propose to his girlfriend. While I should be relieved Elliot Fielding is not longing for me or planning an assault on my womanhood, I am left with an alarming realization. I want Elliot Fielding!

  My life has become a farce, a Greek tragedy, it’s become the sole reason that I let my car take me to Burger City, no questions asked. While I wait in the long dinner hour line, I inhale the bunion aroma and let it soothe me. I don’t know about napalm in the morning but bunions during times of crisis are it for me. And speaking of bunions, mine has developed a very irritating voice. It has taken on the tone and inflection of Edith Bunker from those All in the Family reruns on “Nick at Nite.” You remember how Edith used to pester, “Aaaarrrrrchhieeee?” My bunion nags, “MeeeeeeeeMeeeeeeee, what are you doing? You’ve been so goooooooood. What about meeeeeee?”

  I scream at it, “Shut up, you dumb bump, this is no longer about you. It’s bigger than you. Elliot Fielding is in love with another woman!”

  My car revs its engine in sympathy but my bunion just won’t shut up. Now she (I’ve decided to just name her Edith Bunker) says, “I was there when you were talking to Ginger and she just said he was about to get engaged, not that he already was. Go after him, win him over, and don’t eat bunions!”

  Good Lord, did Edith Bunker have a point? Should I really try to win Elliot over after that alarming display in my office? Was there still a chance for me? When it’s my turn in line, I order a Diet Coke and drive over to Kevin’s to see if he has any ideas how to go about this. He is a man after all.

  Kevin’s advice is sexy clothes. He says men are extremely visual and cites Elliot’s inability to speak while I stood before him in my pink bra. Kevin encourages plunging necklines, lots of leg, high heels, and sexy hair. “Jessica Rabbit,” he declares, “when all else fails, think Jessica Rabbit.”

  So I say, “Fine, Kevin, I’ll turn myself into a walking pin-up girl, but there’s one problem. What do I say to him about jiggling my girls in his face and demanding that he ravish me in my office?”

  Kevin cringes at the image. “There’s only one excuse that he’ll buy. And you’re not going to like it.”

  I’m up for any justification that’ll get me out of this jam so I ask, “What?”

  Kevin puts his arm around my shoulder and announces, “You my dear are suffering from PMS. Now here’s the important part, okay? You cannot have this man think you behave this way every month because Lord knows, it’ll get him to wonder if you’re worth it.” Becoming a little flustered, he clarifies, “I mean of course you are worth it, but he doesn’t know that, yet. So anyway, you must tell him that your gynecologist has just put you on a new kind of birth control pill and its wreaking havoc with your hormones. This way, you have an excuse for your truly bizarre behavior and (stress the “and”) you have just told Elliot that you’re on the pill. He will subconsciously start to see you as a sexual creature. Then when you start looking extra hot, it’ll lower his guard towards you and you will have a chance to shift his love from the cold English fish to the hot-blooded American. What do you think?”

  I conclude, “Kevin, you’re a genius. I’m in. Now so long as I don’t freeze up and swallow my tongue while I’m blaming my crazies on Aunt Flo, I think I might have a chance.” What I don’t tell Kevin is I truly am suffering from PMS and if I don’t get home and get my bra off immediately, my aching nipples are going to go on strike.

  Chapter 11

  Elliot, who has been at the Parliament office every single day since he came to town, is not here today. Why, you ask? Because I was going to apologize of course and Stan and Ollie don’t think this makes for very good comedy. I imagine if I were planning to knock him on the head with an anvil and laugh, knuck, knuck, knuck, knuck, followed by a “soytenely!” he would be here with bells on. But he’s not and I am, looking like sex on a plate, I might add, with no hungry diners in sight.

  With nothing else to do, I call Renée and ask her if I can come over to her workshop later this afternoon and check out her summer/fall line. I explain that now that we, as a sisterhood, have decided I need to trap me a man, I should start dressing for the hunt. She’s delighted and exclaims, “Oh, Meems, I’m thrilled! Of course you can come over, anytime. Pick out whatever you want and I’ll have the boys measure you and make the clothes right away!”

  Renée doesn’t have a haute couture line like most designers. She claims to not have the stomach for the drama. The world of super high fashion is one she knows well and was happy to leave behind when she stopped modeling. When she decided to create her own line, she did it with the thought of snazzying up the common woman. While I have no idea how the common woman affords her prices, her clothes are scrumptious to behold. They tend towards classic feminine lines and are made in the most decadent fabrics imaginable. She’s been after me for years to let her dress me, but I have always declined. The only reason I can give for not taking advantage of her bounty is that I spent my childhood as one of her Barbies and the experience was painful at best, psychologically damaging at worst.

  Instead of doing my work, I daydream about Elliot. Why did I never realize how thoroughly and utterly gorgeous he is? And smart…my gosh, the man has written fifteen New York Times bestselling novels. I close my eyes and see his tall, lanky, British form and sigh. I’ve always liked dark-haired men, but not now, mister. Now I like them strawberry blond, and slightly receding at that. I’ve just started wondering how Elliot kisses, when Elaine walks in carrying the most gorgeous vase full of hot pink flowers. I gasp, “Did someone send you flowers, Elaine?” I sound a bit incredulous as I can’t imagine anyone sending her a bouquet of vibrant blooms, snakes, yes. Flowers, no.

  “No,” she declares and puts them on my desk. “They’re for you.” Yet once she unhands them, she doesn’t leave.

  I ask, “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Aren’t you going to read the card?”

  I am curious who they are from, but the last person to
send me an arrangement was Linden and they were my consolation prize for being dumped. Hence, I have no intention of opening the card in front of Elaine, so I answer, “I’ll open it later.” She still doesn’t leave, so I ask, “Anything else?”

  She looks at my blouse and answers, “It looks like you’ve slipped a couple of buttons there.” And while she is wrong, they didn’t slip, they were pushed, I quickly fasten them and thank her for drawing my attention to them.

  Elaine, while probably not the devil incarnate, is at least his first cousin. She’s worked at Parliament two years longer than I have, even though I have been promoted above her. She has told anyone and everyone who will listen that it is because the boss is my brother-in-law. The truth is, that I exceeded her standing long before Jonathan and Ginger became an item. This doesn’t stop her from spewing her venom though. As soon as she leaves the room, I pick up the card and notice it has been sealed shut instead of the flap just being tucked in, as is the norm. No wonder Elaine had to ask who they were from. Normally, she would have just looked before bringing them in.

  As soon as I pull out the heavy card stock note, I wonder if Stan and Ollie have dozed off. What other explanation could there be for me receiving something as lovely as flowers? No bouquet of dynamite, no ticking bomb, but actual peonies. The note is from Elliot and he apologizes for any misunderstanding between us. He hopes that we can start anew and have a very nice working relationship. He signs it, Elliot Fielding.

  I pick up the phone and call Kevin. I know he has a job interview today but I’m hoping to catch him before he leaves, and I do.

  Kevin declares, “This Elliot is a class act. You make an ass out of yourself and he apologizes for it. Wow.”

  “Yes Kevin, but what do I do? Should I call him at home? Should I find out where he’s staying and show up to thank him? What’s my next move?”

  Kevin answers, “Wait for him to come back to work. Don’t call or stop by. Right now you’re on his mind and that’s a good thing. You don’t want to push it and have him think you might be a stalker.”

  “But I’ve scared him away from work. He may never come back.”

  Kevin suggests I talk to Jonathan and give him a restaurant recommendation for Elliot. Then Jonathan will tell Elliot and then Elliot will understand I have returned to normal and he in turn will feel comfortable coming back to Parliament.

  I counter, “It will also help him propose to his girlfriend.”

  Kevin replies, “He’ll find the perfect restaurant with or without you. But if he finds it without you, you won’t know where he’s going.”

  “What good is it going to do me if I know where he’s doing the deed?”

  Kevin chuckles, “You want to have dinner with me Saturday night?”

  Missing his point entirely, I answer, “Yes, Kevin fine. Let’s eat together Saturday. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  Kevin says, “Ask me where we’re going to eat.”

  I play along, “Where are we going to eat?”

  “Wherever Elliot is taking his girlfriend.”

  I’m shocked and thrilled at the same time and ask, “You mean we’re going to crash his engagement?”

  I hear the smile in my friend’s voice when he answers, “We might even invite ourselves to join them.”

  I want to hug Kevin and then reward him with a box of fat-free, sugar-free, point-free Cocoa Puffs, but no such animal exists. So instead I tell him he’s brilliant and I’ll talk to him later.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon trying on my new sex-pot persona. I brush up against the copy machine like it’s a virile Viking looking for a good time. I lick phantom spills off my fingers and even practice the “bend and snap” I learned about many years ago in Legally Blonde. I think I’m really getting the hang of this vixen thing when Bob Meyer from promotions corners me in the elevator and asks if I want to have dinner with him. I answer, “Thank you for the offer, Bob, but don’t you think your wife will mind?”

  “We won’t tell her,” he purrs, all the while licking his lips.

  Shocked by this side of my squat little co-worker, I answer, “Sorry, Bob, I’m gonna have to say no.”

  “But you’ve been begging for it all day! I’ve watched you sucking on your fingers and rubbing up against the office supplies. I know you want me.” Then he grabs his crotch and adds, “Come on, baby, hit the stop button. We can do it right here.”

  My answer to Bob is to lift the twenty pound manual I’m carrying and hit him over the head with it. For good measure, I add, “Snap out of it, Bob!”

  He yelps his displeasure but the elevator door has already opened and I just walk away. While totally revolted by his antics, I am also very proud of myself. Who knew I could drive a man into a frenzy like that? The power I feel is positively intoxicating! I can’t wait to try it out on Elliot.

  On the way to Renée’s I decide to walk everyday at lunch and to try my darndest not to exceed twenty-five points a day. I also call my hairdresser and book an appointment for Saturday morning. I schedule highlights, a trim, and a blow dry. I am going to leave nothing to chance.

  Chapter 12

  By the time I get home from my sister’s house I feel like I’ve been run through a food processor. I’ve been measured, pinned, judged, and then measured some more. LeRon (pronounced just like her husband, Laurent) and Fernando simply cannot believe my hips are forty-two inches around. This bit of news causes a great deal of excitement with their delicate constitutions. There are gasps, semi-hysterical hand wavings, and re-measuring just to make sure. The fifth time they measure me, I am forty-three inches around. That’s when they decided to accept forty-two. Once they grasp that I am not my sister, they really start to have fun with my curves. LeRon even confesses, “When we dress in drag, I pad and pad but I can never quite attain your degree of womanliness.”

  I thank him for the compliment and suggest he might be packing a few things I’m not, hinting that might work against the whole “woman” look.

  He laughs and shrieks, “I strap that down, girlfriend!” Then he playfully smacks my hand and declares, “You’re so bad!”

  Fernando confesses that women in his native Argentina are very curvy and he claims to be delighted to help dress me. Once it’s all over, I’m not sure how many outfits they are planning to sew, but I’m not to worry my pretty little head over it. They swear to have a spectacular dress finished by Saturday morning and send me on my way.

  As I fall asleep I dream about Saturday night. While I do not get a clear vision of the gown I’m wearing, I know it’s silver-blue and floor-length and it flows. Every time I move I virtually flutter through the air as though I’m about to take flight. There also appears to be some kind of a sumptuous boa around my neck. I’m gorgeous. Elliot can’t possibly resist me like this. Especially as his girlfriend is wearing an atrocious brown tweed getup circa World War II, and she’s fat. Not curvy and Marilyn Monroey like me, but seriously corpulent and those ankles! I’ve seen hundred-year-old tree trunks with less girth. I break for a moment of sisterly concern and hand Philomena Snood (as that’s what I name her) Marge’s business card. Poor Marge is going to have her hands full with this one.

  As soon as Elliot sees me, he stares at me longingly and rises in slow motion. He looks to Philomena with regret and declares, “I’m so sorry, Phil, but I simply can’t go on seeing you. This (gestures to me) vision of perfection is the one for me and I love her beyond all reason.” Then somehow Philomena evaporates and I am the one sitting with Elliot. The waiter brings us ice water with lemon wedges and two frozen dinners, Weight Watchers Swedish Meatballs, my favorite. And only six points. I can’t remember what else I dream, but I wake in the morning with an aching jaw and my teeth hurt like I’ve taken direct hits to the mouth.

  The week flows by with alarming speed and I do not lose the thirteen pounds I’m hoping for. According to Marge, I’ve only lost point two pounds. Two tenths of a pound? I demand to know how this could be as Kevi
n and I have worked out three times and not once did I consume more than twenty-six points (not the twenty-five I had hoped for but still.) My peppy leader assures me that my losses will get smaller and smaller as I approach my goal and that I should soldier on. She also mentions something about muscle weighing more than fat and I grab onto that bit of information like a life boat. In fact, that has to be it. I am simply that much more muscular than I was last week.

  After weighing in and reporting to Kevin, I drive over to The Gates to get my hair done. The salon is aptly named as there is a pair of truly intimidating iron doors blocking the entrance to the building. You don’t get buzzed through until you announce yourself into the intercom. Somehow the whole experience makes the three hundred dollar expenditure feel justified. I used to pay nothing for the first year after the grand opening as I had been in charge of their PR. But once my freebies ran out, I was seriously hooked on all the attention I got and started to shell out the bucks myself. After all, when was the last time Supercuts offered me a glass of wine? Courtesies like that are priceless.

  Francoise declares it’s time for a change and I bow to his obvious excitement and skill and think, “Why not?” The same old, same old hasn’t gotten me anywhere, it’s time to try something new. He asks if I want to know what his plans are but I say no. I’ve obviously been watching too many episodes of Extreme Makeover where the participants never have any idea what’s happening to them until it’s all done. I do request a five point, 6 oz. glass of white wine though, for courage.

  As my fearless hairstylist dry cuts my hair, Edith Bunker starts carrying on again. She has not shut up all week. Apparently she’s mad that I haven’t worn my silicone wedge everyday like the doctor advised. But I keep reminding her it was her idea for me to go after Elliot and there’s simply no way I can take him away from his intended in loafers. I assure her that the heroines in big Hollywood movies never get the guy while wearing sensible footwear.