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

by Whitney Dineen

  Elliot appears to be delighted by my enthusiasm and says, “You are a lot of fun to spend time with. Did you know that, Mimi Finnegan?”

  The truth is I didn’t know that. Certainly Linden never said so. But I never felt like I could be myself with him. And for some strange reason, I’m sitting with a man about a million times more impressive than Linden Fairbanks and I can’t seem to help being myself. I mean, Elliot even knows about Edith Bunker and he’s not running in the other direction. I don’t feel any of the crazy sexual tension that’s been lurking between us from day one either. What I feel is the beginning of another surprising emotion. I like Elliot Fielding and not just in the “want to get him horizontal” kind of way, I truly like him as a person. I’m going to have to be very careful with my heart here. I could fall for this man in a big way and as long as he’s involved with another woman, I had best try to keep my distance.

  Chapter 20

  Elliot and I have a wonderful lunch and an invigorating walk back to the hotel. I try to watch my points as I’m missing a weigh-in tomorrow, but I’m not a fiend about it. After all, I’m sure I will get plenty of exercise this week, walking around this fabulous city.

  Parliament’s New York office is throwing a drinks party for Elliot tonight to introduce him to the key players on his PR team. We are due at the president of the firm’s apartment at 6:30 and will be joining him and his wife for dinner afterwards. I am a little worried about the evening ahead as the PR game in Pipsy is a million time less cut-throat than the one in New York. I really want to make a good impression on everyone and first impressions being what they are, I feel a lot of pressure to be spectacular.

  I wear one of the dresses Renée designed. Actually, the only clothes I brought with me are ones that she designed. The dress is a shortish black cocktail number with a whimsical fluttering hem that hits about three inches above the knee. It is sleeveless with a relatively low neckline. I accessorize with a simple strand of pearls and matching earrings. I am striving for understated elegance and am surprised when I look in the mirror as the reflection is one of a beautiful, curvaceous Amazon with fiery tresses. The not so impressive sister, with dirty blonde hair and fifteen more pounds to lose isn’t anywhere to be seen.

  I’m just spritzing myself with Eau de Adrienne when Elliot knocks. He looks like James Bond in his black suit and once again I’m hit with a blinding wave of lust. I want to jump him and ravish him, but first I want to go out with him and show him off to the world.

  It turns out Marcus Goldman lives only a few blocks from The Plaza but we take a cab in deference to Edith Bunker, who is not at all pleased by tonight’s choice in footwear. A liveried doorman opens the door to the Fifth Avenue apartment building and yet another one checks us off the guest list. We are shown to a small elevator that will take us directly to the Goldmans’ penthouse. As Elliot and I (especially in heels) are well above average in size, we find ourselves standing very close together in the small space. By the twelfth floor I am leaning closer towards him, by the seventeenth, he’s returning the favor, and by the twenty seventh, the blasted doors slide apart and we’re there.

  I feel like I’m in the movies again as the elevator opens directly into the Goldmans’ foyer, not the hallway outside. Surely this is a luxury reserved for only the wealthiest of people and I find myself a bit awed. A maid offers us champagne and by the time we each have a drink a dapper older gentleman with silver hair and a brilliant smile descends upon us, “Welcome, welcome, I’m Marcus Goldman.” Marcus shakes Elliot’s hand and declares, “We are beyond delighted to be handling your next book, Elliot.” Then he turns to me and kisses my hand, “And you must be Mimi.” His gaze travels appreciatively over my person, “Why are you being hidden away in Pipsy? You should be working in the New York office.” A brief thrill runs through me at the thought of actually living in New York and working at Parliament here.

  As Marcus leads the way to his palatial living room, Elliot leans in and accuses, “You let him kiss your hand. I thought for sure when he tried to put his lips on you, you would have punched him in the nose.”

  I pinch his arm, “Elliot, shoosh! Marcus Goldman is my boss’s boss and he can kiss my hand anytime he wants.”

  Elliot gets a naughty look in his eye and retorts, “But only your hand.” I know he’s trying to be funny, but he is also jealous. I can make this work for me. In fact the only time Elliot has ever tried to kiss me himself was when he saw another man, namely Bob, go after me. Well maybe that’ll give him an idea of how I feel when I see him with Beatrice. And just like that, I’m mad again. How dare he be all possessive of me when he’s nearly engaged to another woman? He may actually be engaged for all I know. Maybe he asked the beast to marry him before we came to New York. He might have done it anytime. Just because he didn’t propose at La Petite Maison doesn’t mean he didn’t do it afterwards. I’m furious at the thought!

  A foggy plan begins to take shape in my mind. I am going to trap Elliot Fielding by flirting my way through New York and showing him once and for all what he’s missing. If that doesn’t wake him up and make him realize he wants me too, I’m not sure anything will. With a smile on my face, I sidle up against Marcus and let him introduce us around.

  Elliot and I are both bombarded by members of the opposite sex. It’s like we’re the chum and everyone at this party is a hungry pod of killer sharks. Elliot is swept away by a bevy of women from his “team” and as much as I try to keep an eye on him, I lose him as the men circle me. It’s all very flattering actually, as I have never elicited this kind of response in the past. But still it’s hard to enjoy myself when I can’t see what Elliot is up to.

  At eight o’clock the party disperses and Marcus leads Elliot and me out to his balcony where a gorgeous table for four has been laid. Marcus holds my chair for me and Elliot does the same for Mrs. Goldman, who interestingly enough is named Miriam as well, although she actually goes by Miriam and not the abbreviated Mimi.

  During our soup course, Marcus outlines his plans for Elliot’s book. He talks about the parties, the book signings, the movie premieres, all the things that go into keeping a famous author in the public eye. His book sales will climb in accord with his increasing public appearances.

  By the entrée, Miriam starts to veer the conversation away from business. She asks me if there is a special someone in my life. With a brief glance at Elliot, I answer, “Not at the moment.”

  Then she announces to Elliot, “And I hear from Marcus you’re newly engaged. How exciting! How did you do it?”

  Elliot appears to be immensely uncomfortable and answers, “I don’t know where you got your information, Miriam, but it’s not accurate.”

  Marcus looks up, “Really? Jonathan told me last week you were on the verge of becoming shackled. Haven’t asked her yet, huh?”

  Desperate for a new topic, Elliot replies, “No, Marcus, and in all honesty I can’t say we are headed for marriage.”

  Miriam casually comments, “Then why date her? I mean, after all, the only reason women bother dating is to get married. Don’t you agree, Mimi?”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “There’s no point in seeing someone for an extended time if you aren’t planning a future with them.”

  Marcus interrupts, “You women leave Elliot alone. He’s single, famous, and richer than all get out. Let him enjoy himself, why don’t you.”

  Miriam responds, “I’m just saying it’s not fair to the woman. When we reach a certain age, we start to think about husbands and babies. We don’t have time to waste dating someone who isn’t going to make an honest woman out of us.”

  Marcus replies, “Miriam, my dear. I’m not at all sure Elliot is used to our plain spoken American ways. I think perhaps we’re making him uncomfortable.”

  Warming to the topic, I ask, “Are you uncomfortable, Elliot?”

  With a grimace he answers, “A bit, yes.”

  I smile at him brilliantly, “Good.” And with that one word, Elliot
’s and my eight-hour truce is over. I’ve declared war and he seems to perceive he’s not in Switzerland (or Kansas) anymore. No hope of standing on the sidelines in this battle.

  Elliot and I leave the Goldmans’ at eleven-thirty. The elevator ride on the way down to street level couldn’t be more dissimilar to the ride up. Even though we are nearly standing shoulder to shoulder, we might as well be on opposite sides of a football field. My battle plan involves acting like nothing is wrong, so I ask, “Did you have a nice evening?”

  He responds, “It was fine. It was work, so I wasn’t actually intending on having fun.”

  “I had a great time,” I tell him. “I met some of the most interesting people.”

  “Yes, I know you did, Mimi. Several men seemed to have made asses out of themselves trying to get your attention.”

  My face lights up. “Really? Which ones? I am single after all and have reached the age when thoughts of husbands and babies fill most of my waking hours.”

  Elliot curtly responds, “I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty once you set your sights on someone.”

  Scrunching my face up in confusion, I answer, “You’d think. Yet I’m not finding it easy at all.” That’s it, gauntlet dropped. I have as good as declared myself.

  My companion slams his mouth shut and cuts me off from all further conversation.

  When the cabbie takes a hard right on Central Park South, I allow myself to slide into Elliot. I stay pressed up against him for the remaining half block and then gingerly glide my hand down his leg and push back to my own seat. I hear him let out a low growl as one of the many Plaza employees opens the car door for me. Elliot and I take the elevator up to our rooms together but there is still no talking. He bids me good night at my door but clearly his mind is on other things. So I lean into him and slowly kiss him on the cheek, “Thank you for a lovely day, Elliot.”

  As I pull away he stares at me long and hard and bends the tiniest bit closer to me. After an eternity, he closes the distance even more and gently presses his lips to mine. “I had a lovely time too.” Then he pulls away, “Sleep well.”

  I walk into my room and think, “Sleep? I’m so beyond worked up, there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep.” But once my makeup is off, and I’ve slipped into my nightie, I feel totally worn out. All the excitement from the day has finally caught up with me. I’m so exhausted I don’t even eat the chocolate on my pillow, which I calculate is worth two points. I merely move it aside and crawl into the crisply ironed sheets. I’m sound asleep before my head even hits the pillow.

  Chapter 21

  Edith Bunker starts ripping into me before I’m even fully awake. “MeeeeeeeeMeeeeeeee, it’s weigh-in day! Go find out how much you lost…cause it doesn’t feel like much to me. MeeeeeeeMeeeeeeee…”

  I tell her to shut up, that I have Marge’s permission to skip my weigh-in this week because I’m out of town. She tries to guilt me into it by saying there are Weight Watchers branches in Manhattan, too. But I tell her I don’t have my weight chart with me and they won’t let me on a scale without it. This information shuts her up momentarily, but she’s clearly not happy.

  Once Edith Bunker quiets down, I open my eyes and the first conscious thought that hits me is, “I’m in New York. I jump out of bed, pull my curtains back and gaze lovingly at the street below. It’s only seven o’clock but already the sidewalk is teeming with people. I briefly wonder where they’re all going this early in the morning. Probably out for bagels and coffee. Suddenly, I’m ravenously hungry for an onion bagel.

  I knock on Elliot’s connecting door to see if he’s up yet, but there’s no answer. I knock once more for good measure. Then I walk into my bathroom and start the shower running. But just as I’m about to strip off my nightie I see another reflection in the mirror and I let out a blood-curdling scream! It’s Elliot and I accuse, “How did you get in here?!”

  “The connecting door. I heard a knock and when you didn’t answer when I called out your name, I decided to come in and make sure that you were okay.”

  I respond, “Well I’m fine, except you’ve just taken three years off my life.”

  He apologizes and says, “Listen, I just got a call from Marcus and our ten o’clock appointment has been moved up to nine so I don’t think we’re going to have time to eat breakfast in a restaurant.”

  I tell him about my onion bagel craving and he offers to go out and get us a genuine New York City bagel with coffee while I get showered and dressed. He tells me to just pop through our connecting door when I’m ready and we can eat in his room.

  As soon as Elliot leaves, I realize how really comfortable I am with him. I’m not in the least bit embarrassed he saw me without my hair and makeup done. I mean he’s already seen me before my transformation, so it’s not like he doesn’t know what the real me looks like. While I’m shampooing my hair I realize how intimate it was talking to him in my bathroom. It felt very domestic and right, like we should always be able to do it, like we could if we were in a relationship together. I briefly wonder if he and Beatrice talk while one of them is in the shower and I nearly rub my scalp raw at the thought.

  I dress in cream palazzo pants with a matching shell and a navy blazer. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I think I look very East Coast yacht club. The good news for Edith Bunker is in this ensemble I can wear a conservative heel which allows room for her silicone pad. I accessorize in gold today which looks fabulous with my new red hair. And speaking of my new red hair, I blow it out straight and wear it long down my back. I feel like a Miss Breck girl of yore.

  I grab my briefcase and purse and open the connecting door to discover Elliot has set up breakfast on his little table overlooking the park. Staring out at the view, breathing in the fresh aroma of warm bagels, and sitting across from Elliot Fielding, I wonder if life could get any better. Then his cell phone rings and I remember it would be oh-so-much grander without Beatrice.

  Elliot answers, “Good morning Beatrice. How are you today?” He listens to her talk for a very long time before adding, “Yes, I am. It’s lovely here.” Listen, listen, listen. “Yes, I’m aware you’re not fond of it here but I am… Okay then, goodbye.”

  I look at him with my eyebrow raised in a question mark and he says, “My mechanic.”

  I decide to ignore his attempt at humor because all of a sudden I’m not feeling all warm and cheerful towards him. Leave it to Beatrice to pop my bubble. I’m going to have to call Kevin later and see if he wouldn’t mind eloping with her while we’re still in New York.

  Our meeting this morning is with Elliot’s New York agent, Eliza Finch, and his editor from Dell, Maynard Stafford. They fill us in on the details of tonight’s party which has been set up by his publisher. Parliament will contribute to the success of the event by bringing in press and celebrities. Elliot also has a book signing tomorrow morning at McJ Books and another one tomorrow afternoon in the Village. By the time our summit is over it’s eleven-thirty. Marcus thanks everyone for coming and then invites Elliot to join him at his club for lunch. I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do with myself, but clearly I have not been invited to join them. Elliot gives me a look as if to ask if I mind if he goes with Marcus, but how can I say no? So I just smile and declare, “I think I’m going to do a little shopping.” I have no intention of doing any such thing, as I’m saving up for a new hot water heater, but I don’t want to look pathetic and destination-less like I am. So I catch a cab back to the hotel and change into some casual pants and sneakers and decide to traipse around the city in comfort.

  My first stop is a sidewalk café on Madison Avenue. The prices are shockingly steep, but I couldn’t care less as I’m simply going to expense it. While I consider myself a very self-assured woman, the truth is I hate eating alone in public. I’m never sure what to look at. I don’t want other diners to feel like I’m staring at them and then if I just sit and read a book, what’s the point of going out? Plus, I get really caugh
t up in the conversations happening around me. To the point where I want to approach other diners’ tables and add my two cents, “If I were you, I’d divorce the bastard. I mean it’s bad enough he likes to wear women’s underwear, but to stretch out your LaPerla panties? That’s just crossing the line.” Plus when I eat alone, I feel like I wind up being seated near the kitchen door like a total loser.

  But here in fabulous New York City, I’m seated right outside in the bright light of day with the world to look at as they walk by. There are the wealthy East Side ladies out for an afternoon of boutique shopping, the hardworking moms who are trying to catch up on all their errands, using their strollers as batting rams and then there are the bridge and tunnel people who have made the daily trek from New Jersey or Long Island.

  As I scan the menu for something that can be translated into points, I settle on the ahi tuna steak with the Miso Crème Fraiche (on the side please) and the steamed vegetables (no butter). I order a passion fruit iced tea and settle in to enjoy the best show on earth, not the circus, the New Yorkers.

  I dive into my food when it arrives like I haven’t eaten in a month. The truth is the half bagel I just had for breakfast wasn’t that filling. Marge says a full bagel is enough to feed twelve starving African children for a week. But of course she’s just trying to get us to see the reality of a true portion. The ahi is divine and I nearly moan in pleasure. I close my eyes and savor every bite. I chew slowly and thoroughly so as not to miss any of the flavor sensation passing my lips. Even the vegetables are delicious, firm without being underdone and the most vibrant colors imaginable.

  When my waiter clears my plate I order a fat-free, decaf, iced cappuccino for dessert. But before it arrives, something, or should I say someone else does. A very distinguished and good looking gentleman, in what I’m assuming is his mid-forties, is standing by my table carrying a ramekin of Crème Brûlée and a bowl filled with Peach Cobbler à la mode. He asks if he can join me. I have absolutely no idea how to respond, so I ask, “Excuse me?”