After a miserable night’s sleep, I couldn’t wait to get out of bed this morning. I felt like the battling heroine in a Wagnerian opera. Yet unbeknownst to me, the powers that be decided that instead of an eight hour work day, today was going to run an atypical ninety-eight. It just dragged and dragged, and dragged, and dragged. And dragged…
Of course Elliot chickened out and didn’t come into the office at all. Not that I expected him to. I’m sure he was spending his last moments in town with Beatrice trying to convince himself they are perfect for each other; which of course they are not. I have this new (ever since meeting Elliot) theory that Brits should never marry Brits because they just keep watering each other down. In another hundred years their whole society is going to be a bunch of righto, cheerio, pip-pip, polo playing, tea drinking, inbred, fops. Did I mention boring? Cause they’ll be boring too and icy. God, they’re an arctic lot.
I firmly believe the English need to shake up their gene pool. I’m thinking as a goodwill gesture we should ship a bunch of our wild American singles across the pond to bring some fire back to their civilization. Perhaps that will be my own personal PR project that I work on for my country. Private Finnegan reporting for duty! In grateful appreciation they can promise to quit looking down their noses at us.
Mom and Dad are the first to arrive and even though I told them not to bring anything, Mom is toting a tuna casserole, yum, and Dad is hauling a case of Guinness and Mom’s purse. My dad has been carrying my mother’s purse for as long as I can remember. It’s one of the many sweet memories I have of him, Dad in a navy suit dressed for mass, carrying a black and white patent leather handbag, Dad in jeans and a sweater carrying a brown leather saddle purse with fringe, Dad in shorts and a T-shirt schlepping around a turquoise beaded pocket book. He never seems to mind either. It occurred to me long ago that my mom should start matching her purses to Dad’s outfits instead of her own.
My mom kisses me on the cheek and greets, “Meems, your hair is gorgeous, you’re a natural redhead!”
Dad throws in, “You know your grandma Sissy was a redhead and so was my Aunt Barb. Uncle Patty was a redhead, and then there was…” I start to tune him out as this litany could go on for hours. We are Irish, after all.
Renée and Laurent show up next, sans the wee ones. They both look a little frazzled as they just discovered Camille painted her closet with eight jars of raspberry jam from the pantry. Renée has finished a Guinness before I can even say hello to her. She compliments me on my hair and outfit and declares LeRon and Fernando will be devastated if I ever go elsewhere for my clothes again.
Ginger and Jonathan arrive next and they are not alone. They’ve brought Elliot and Beatrice with them. Why, you ask? Ginger tells me she thought it was just an informal family gathering and decided it would be nice for Beatrice to meet a group of Elliot’s friends before going home.
Beatrice greets me with the warmth of a sleet storm. I’m about to offer her a laxative to correct her tight-assed disposition when Kevin shows up. I’m shocked by his appearance and ask, “What are you doing here? We’re not working out tonight.”
He hands me a bottle of wine and answers, “It’s nice to see you too and Muffy invited me, so let me in. She said she could use all the moral support she can get.”
Elliot is ignoring me to the point of pretending I’m not even in the room. Beatrice has latched onto Kevin, and Muffy is still nowhere in sight. So I decide to go ahead and put out the food on the table so people can at least eat dinner before the bomb is dropped. Yet I wonder if Muffy will still share her news now that Elliot and Beatrice, the beast, are here.
My sister finally shows up forty minutes later, still in her tennis clothes. She pops upstairs for a quick shower and change and once she’s greeted everyone, she jumps right in with her news (even though there are foreigners in the room, one she hasn’t even met before). She says, “I asked Mimi to invite you all over because I have something to tell you …” Everyone waits with bated breath. She takes a fortifying gulp of air and continues, “Tom and I are getting divorced.”
The room is dead quiet. Here’s something you should know about Catholics. We, as a people, are against divorce to the point of absurdity. Old school Catholics like my parents will tell you that you’ve made your bed, so you’ve no choice but to lie in it. I’ve heard this pearl of wisdom my whole life. Every single time one of my friends’ parents got divorced, they trotted it out. Alcoholic, wife-beater, transvestite, hop head, no matter the reason cited, they always declared that it was a bed of their own making.
So it is beyond shocking when my mother blurts out, “About fucking time!”
My dad adds a, “Here, here!” And the gathering takes on an almost festive air.
My family as a whole rallies around my sister and declares Tom was never good enough for her anyway. Mom thinks he was shifty and Dad never trusted him because he drank micro-brews. Even Laurent jumps on board declaring that a man who won’t eat cheese is no man at all. Beatrice is so enamored with Kevin that she doesn’t even pay attention to the family drama and Elliot looks decidedly uncomfortable as the scene is simply too real for his delicate English sensibilities.
I take the opportunity to raise my glass and toast, “Here’s to marriage. May none of us ever marry the wrong one!” I shift my gaze to Elliot and he is not toasting. Beatrice however, lifts her glass high right before snuggling back up to Kevin who seems to be enjoying the beast’s attention. But you can tell his focus is on Muffy and Muffy alone.
Muffy reveals that Tom has been servicing the older ladies at the club and the Finnegans demand revenge! They start to visualize a river of his blood. It’s all Dad can do not to go right down to that fancy pants country club and demand satisfaction for his offspring. But Muffy assures them they shouldn’t worry about her. She’s better off without the bastard.
More beer, more wine, and more food are passed and finally by ten o’clock I tell my family to hit the bricks. I have an early flight and I need my rest. Elliot disengages his intended from Kevin’s side and is the first to say his farewells. Yet he says nothing to me. No “Thanks for the KFC,” no “You have a lovely home,” no “I’m leaving Beatrice because I ache for you,” nothing.
My family disperses next and finally, finally, my marathon day is ending and I get to take a bubble bath. As I lay back in the scented foam, I realize that Edith Bunker has not said one word to me today and I couldn’t be more grateful. I can barely retain consciousness long enough to crawl into bed and turn the light off. I feel more exhausted than ever before and yearn for the sweet bliss of a dreamless night’s sleep.
That’s when I hear it, “MeeeeeeeeeeMeeeeeeeeee…you didn’t wear your wedge again today. Why do you want to hurt me? What did I ever do to you? MeeeeeeeeeeeeMeeeeeeeeeeee…”
Goddamned bunion! I shout, “Shut up, Edith Bunker, and go to sleep!”
But she doesn’t stop. She keeps on with the, “Wear your loafers…British men like loafers…why won’t you help me? You didn’t even exercise for me today. And what about those Fig Newton’s and candy bar yesterday? Why would you do that to me?” On and on she goes, nagging and stabbing at me all night long. It feels like I’ve just fallen asleep when the alarm rings and insists that I get out of bed before I miss my flight.
Chapter 19
By the time I check my luggage and get to the gate, it’s only thirty minutes before the flight is scheduled to leave. I’m in jeans so I can wear my blasted loafers and silicone insert. I do this to appease Edith Bunker. I’m desperate for sleep and it’s my hope to catch a nap on the plane so I can be in good form by the time we get to New York. We have the first of three parties tonight and I would like not to look like a zombie.
Elliot is already seated on the plane by the time I board. He doesn’t even look up from his paper when he says, “I thought perhaps you decided not to come.”
I merely squeeze past him and plop down in the seat to his right. We are flying first class wh
ich is a total and complete luxury for me and I’m only sorry I don’t plan on staying awake long enough to enjoy it. So he tries, “Lovely party last night.” Sarcasm dripping from his every syllable.
I don’t have the energy to do battle with him this morning so I merely close my eyes and fall into a blissful slumber. I’m so far gone I don’t have any recollection of the take-off. I’m just lost in the arms of the sandman and it’s pure heaven.
As I begin to drift slowly back into consciousness I feel like I slept as well as if I were in my own bed. The pillows are warm and soft. I snuggle my face deeper into one. Yet, as I burrow in I realize mine has a hard lump in it. I grind my face into it further trying to redistribute the feathers so that they are nice and soft again. But the more I try to fluff them the harder they get. That’s when I hear the stewardess say, “Sir, your wife is going to have to sit up now, we’re about to land.”
His wife? Is that fricken Beatrice on board? Then I remember that Beatrice is going back to England today and she has mistaken me for Elliot’s wife. Oh, how nice is that? But what does she mean, I have to sit up? Snuggling into my lumpy pillow again, it occurs to me that I’m laying down. Then it occurs to me that the arm rest between us must have been lifted because I am in fact lying on Elliot’s lap and the hard pillow that I’m snuggling my face into isn’t actually a pillow at all. And the reason it keeps getting harder is because… hello! Elliot Fielding is not as immune to me as he would like us both to believe. Before I sit up, I purposefully put my hands under my cheek and cop a brazen feel. Then I push up and stare into the eyes of the man who has allowed me to sleep on him for the past two hours.
Elliot looks like he’s in pain, pure physical, glorious, aching agony! He groans, “Did you have a nice nap?”
Relishing my power, I answer, “It was delicious. I hope I wasn’t a bother.”
Groaning in response, he mumbles, “No, no bother at all.”
“Oh, Elliot,” I think, “you are about to have the most excruciating five days of your life. Do yourself a favor and break it off with Beatrice so we can get down to business.”
Our cab ride from LaGuardia is another conversation-less trip but I don’t care. I’m busy taking in the beauty of the Manhattan skyline and once we hit the Verrazano Bridge I nearly shake from excitement. Elliot, the seasoned traveler, merely reads his paper as though he drives into this fabulous city every day. His air of ennui makes me want to slap him and scream, “Get over yourself and look out the window! Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
He’d probably respond, “Yes, quite right, lovely and all that rot.” So I don’t say anything else to him.
When we arrive at The Plaza, I’m in jeopardy of fainting. It’s everything I ever thought it would be and more. The movies have never done it justice because there is an energy humming through this place you simply have to experience in the flesh. Everyone is so sleek and stylish and it occurs to me how glad I am to be wearing my famous sister’s designs. I look like I fit in with this crowd of sophisticates even though my insides are spastically performing a happy dance and I’m wearing loafers.
Once we check in, the bellhop loads our luggage onto his cart and takes us to our rooms, which are conveniently right next door to each other. They are also conveniently connected which is something Elliot doesn’t know yet. I declare that I’m starving and tell him to be ready in an hour for lunch. He suggests perhaps he’ll just order room service and I say, “Nonsense, we need to discuss our schedule.” Then add, “We are here on a business trip after all.”
He shoots me a look that says, “Keep telling yourself that.” Then he disappears into his room.
My room is not the palatial space that I had imagined, but it’s lovely nonetheless. Drum roll please, I have a view of Central Park. If I look hard I’m sure I can see Carrie Bradshaw strolling through the trees with her girlfriends gossiping about the single scene in New York.
Here’s the deal with me and Sex and the City. I went the whole six years it was on the air, never catching a single episode. I was convinced the entire serial was about a bunch of floozies just banging their way into spinsterhood. I was sure I had absolutely nothing in common with them. It wasn’t until I came down with the flu that Muffy brought over her complete DVD collection and told me in no uncertain terms to watch them. My sisters had been fans all along. Perhaps this is one of the perverse reasons I didn’t bother watching the show sooner. After all, if they related to it, how could I possibly hope to as well?
Anyway, I viewed the whole series in three days and I now cite the show as if it were a literary classic. You know how some people will quote Dickens and Shakespeare? I quote Sex and the City. “Carrie Bradshaw says…oh, now, Charlotte says never to do that…Miranda has a point about…” I have yet to quote Samantha because my sex life has been so polar opposite to hers I just haven’t found the proper occasion to reference her, yet. I’m not giving up.
While daydreaming about Sex and the City, I wonder what Carrie would make of Elliot. Certainly he’s no Mr. Big, as Big was the consummate bad boy and Elliot can’t be bothered being bad. Although to give him his due it must be hard having a proverbial cob stuck up his ass. We Americans are not proper, uptight aristocrats by nature. So maybe I should cut him a bit of slack.
The bathroom is very nice but I can’t help myself from scanning it for stray hairs. I’m a real stickler for cleanliness. Ever since I saw that Dateline special report, I search my lodgings for things like chewed gum, stray hairs and the more obvious stains that I choose not to think about for too long. My room simply won’t feel like mine until I know that all visible traces of its last occupant have been obliterated. But no surprises here, The Plaza doesn’t let me down. It’s spic and span and ready for action.
I take a quick shower, reapply my make up, and change into a flirty summer dress before knocking on Elliot’s door, exactly fifty-eight minutes later. He’s on the phone when he answers, so I just walk in and sit down on his bed to wait for him. I hear him say, “Yes, well…but still…don’t you think you should be getting back?” Pause to listen to the person on the other end. “I understand that you’re having a nice time…yes, I’m glad for you…well then, if that’s how you feel…alright, I’ll see you when I get back then. Yes…bye.”
Then he hangs up and I ask, “Your mechanic?”
He shoots me a look, “Beatrice.”
Shocked, I ask, “She’s not going back to England today?”
“She appears to be having such a nice time with your friend Kevin, she’s decided to stay another week.”
I just stare at him with my eyes bugged out and ask, “Kevin, what does Kevin have to do with anything?” Thinking, I’m gonna kill the bastard.
He answers, “Apparently he offered to take her to the miniature museum next week and Beatrice loves nothing as much as tiny little replicas of things.” Obviously, she’s not a big fan of napping on Elliot’s lap then.
I manage to utter, “How fascinating.” Stan and Ollie demand to know, “How did you and Beatrice meet?”
Elliot replies, “Doing research for a book. She works for a barrister I was interviewing for Deadly Tortes.”
Relying on humor to break the tension, I say, “When I first saw that book on the newsstand, I thought it was an odd name for a cookbook.”
He cracks the tiniest of smiles and declares, “Where shall we have lunch then?”
I don’t know any restaurants in New York City and being we’re going to be cooped up inside for the next several days, I suggest we grab a hot dog in the park.
Elliot replies, “I know just the place. Come on.” He leads me through the hotel, out the door, and straight into Central Park. We pass about fifteen hot dog carts and I comment on each one, but he has another destination in mind. What surprises me the most about our walk is that Elliot and I actually have a lovely conversation with no combative undertones. I suppose even vinegar and oil can’t always keep from mixing. After all, if you
slowly drizzle vinegar into oil, beating it the whole time, it emulsifies beautifully.
During the next twenty minutes, I learn things about Elliot I would have never expected. For instance, every time one of his books comes out, he’s convinced that it will bomb so badly people will demand their money back. I also learn that he’s afraid of snails, due to a particularly nasty childhood prank. He loves espresso and considers Stephen King to be one of the great authors of our time. This last nugget being perhaps the most incongruous information I discover about him. One would think Elliot Fielding would have a taste for more obscure and cosmopolitan fare.
I confess more of myself to him as well. For instance, I tell him how I’ve always felt inferior to my sisters. He’s an attentive audience so I go on to list all of their many accomplishments. I am deathly afraid of flying beetles. I spray canned whipped cream straight into my mouth while perusing my refrigerator for dinner and I feel that perhaps Sophie Kinsella is one of the great literary minds of our time.
He helps by adding, “And you have a talking bunion named Edith Bunker.”
I agree, “Perhaps the worst thing about me.”
He suggests, “But it makes you singularly individual, don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid a criminal profiler might suggest that it makes me the obvious choice for a mass murderer.”
He considers this and responds, “Is she telling you to kill people?”
With raised eyebrows, I answer, “Not yet, but I’ll keep you posted.” We have finally arrived at our destination. I have seen this place many times in the movies but somehow didn’t really think it existed outside of the silver screen. We are going to eat at the restaurant by the boating pond, smack in the middle of Central Park. Once we’re seated, I look at Elliot and exclaim, “This restaurant has been in about a million movies. I can’t believe we’re actually eating here.”
The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan (The Mimi Chronicles Book 1) Page 11