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

by Whitney Dineen

  Saying goodbye to my family was difficult, but not as hard as I expected as they were all going out of their way to be cheerful and bubbly. Plus, in addition to Kevin and Muffy promising a visit, everyone else said they would come as well. Ginger wants to get a bigger size in her “Frick”en T-shirt so she can wear it into her pregnancy, Jonathan wants to meet with Marcus regarding Elliot’s PR campaign (now that I’m not there to be the liaison between the offices), Mom and Dad want to visit some authentic Irish pubs, and Renée and Laurent are desperate to get away from the kids for a few days. All in all, it looks like the Finnegans aren’t going to let me get too lonely for them.

  My flight lands at three-thirty and by the time we hit the tarmac, my pulse starts to pound double time in anticipation. I’ve never actually been to Renée and Laurent’s apartment and I’m anxious to see where I’m going to be living for the next three months. Renée assures me it’s not grand but it’s head and shoulders above the accommodations of the average New Yorker. She claims a five hundred square foot apartment easily runs over twenty-five hundred a month in rent. I’m shocked when I hear this, but then she adds a lot of those only have windows facing brick walls of other buildings. Apparently television shows are very misleading.

  As I exit the terminal, I see a man holding up a sign that says “Mimi Finnegan.” I briefly wonder if there could possibly be another Mimi Finnegan at LaGuardia this afternoon. I decide to ask him just in case. Joey, the man holding the sign, informs me he is looking for the Mimi Finnegan that is friends with Richard Bingham. I smile brightly and assure him he is looking for me then. Leave it to Richard to make sure I arrive in style. Joey collects my luggage from baggage claim and then leads me out front to a shiny black stretch limousine. Inside are flowers and a note from Richard saying he’s sorry he wasn’t able to meet me himself. He wishes me a wonderful first night in the city and promises to take me out to dinner tomorrow night to celebrate. I’m starting to feel the tiniest wee little bit like Carrie Bradshaw. I wonder if Richard is going to be my Mr. Big after all.

  Joey drops me off at Renée’s apartment on Eighty-Sixth Street and Central Park West. The building is a lovely red brick structure dating from the turn of the century. It positively takes my breath away. Joey hands my luggage over to the doorman, Julio, who in turn helps me lug it to the elevator. Another uniformed man pushes the button for the eighth floor and helps me schlep my belongings to my new home, apartment 8B. I briefly wonder how much this is all costing my sister but I know the actual number might give me a coronary so I force myself not to think about it.

  Renée is right. By Pipsy standards this is not a big place to live, but what it lacks for in size it more than makes up for in charm. And, drum roll please, there is a terrific view of Central Park! That alone makes it feel three times as big. All total there are four rooms plus a bath, living room, small dining room, teeny kitchen, and bedroom. For me, it’s love at first sight.

  The first thing I do after settling in is to check the kitchen and make a list for the grocery store. The refrigerator is stocked with the non-perishable essentials of any model turned designer; Perrier and champagne, but nothing else. The freezer houses coffee and shriveled ice cubes, and the cabinets, my friend, are totally bare. Renée has already told me which grocery store to go to for the basics and happily, she explains, it is located right down the block from Zabar’s where I simply must go for my gourmet treats. I wonder if they carry Cheetos.

  Once I pay for my provisions at D’Agastino’s, they promise to have them delivered within a half hour so I don’t have to worry about lugging four heavy bags home. I walk down the block to Zabar’s and am immediately shocked by the number of people packed into this establishment. The cheese counter alone is enough to make me an agoraphobic. While one lady shouts for eight ounces of the Exploratore, another man angrily demands the Extra-Sharp Cheddar, and an old lady rams her elbow into my ribs so hard I swear I hear a crack. I expect her to apologize, but instead she demands, “No cuts. Get a number like everyone else.” I want to tell her old ladies are supposed to be nice and sweet, not bullies. But it occurs to me she might beat me over the head with her baguette so I opt to walk away.

  I force my way out of Zabar’s and try to remember to call Renée to find out a less crowded time to shop there. I also make a note to ask her what exactly I should buy. I have the feeling it’s the kind of place where you’re expected to move through the aisles at a brisk pace and not take up valuable space by browsing. After all, if an old lady will attempt an ass-kicking by what she perceives as a cut, imagine what a young, healthy person would do to you if you diddled around in front of the olives for too long.

  Once my foodstuffs have been delivered to the apartment, I choose a take-out menu from the stack Renée has by the phone and pick which one I’m going to call for dinner. I decide on Empire Szechwan and immediately start hankering for the Cashew Chicken with Snow Peas and the Egg Drop Soup. Once my order is placed, I set about unpacking my belongings.

  As I’m hanging up all of my lovely new clothes, the phone rings and nearly scares the life out of me. I am greeted by Richard’s enthusiastic, “Welcome to the Big Apple!”

  I thank him very much and ask if he wants to join me for Chinese, but unfortunately, he says, he is still in the Hamptons visiting his mother. I feel very cosmopolitan when I ask if he took the Jitney. This is more lingo I’ve picked up from watching Sex and the City and while I’m sure Richard, did not in fact take public transportation, I still feel really cool using the word Jitney. Before hanging up, he promises to pick me up tomorrow night at seven for dinner and I ask if we can’t make it six-thirty. I confess that I’m not used to eating so late. Once the words are out of my mouth I realize that I sound like a total hick, but it’s not like I’ve ever pretended to be someone I’m not with Richard, so why start now?

  After the most delicious Chinese food I’ve ever eaten, a sumptuous bubble bath, and a very comfortable night’s sleep, I’m up at six to get ready for my first day at New York’s Parliament office. I am terrified to be going in. It’s one thing to pop in from the sister company for a few days. It’s quite another to actually be a part of the daily whirl of activity.

  I decide to bluff them by wearing my sleekest summer suit, which happens to be an off-white linen blend, and boldly pairing it with citron green shoes and matching shell. Then I throw my hair in hot rollers for the necessary amount of time to achieve the confidence boosting “bigness” I’m after. I look in the mirror to garner the full effect and am once again hit by how stunning I look. I still don’t recognize my reflection as the insecure Mimi Finnegan who rules my brain but I live in hope that my two identities will merge sooner rather than later.

  Marcus introduces me around the office and assigns a co-worker by the name of Trish to show me the ropes. Clearly Trish has more important things to do as she treats me like I’m a hundred and sixty pound bowling ball chained to her ankle. More often than not, she acts like I’m not even there and simply carries on with her normal routine. The day is saved when Jim Burger, Trish’s immediate boss, tells her he wants me to work on the Shimmer account with him. Trish shoots me a look like I just stepped on her injured cat before showing me to Jim’s office.

  Jim Burger is a very nice, forty-something, short, chubby Jewish man. I like him on sight. He jokingly explains that spending the morning with Trish is their office’s version of trial by fire. More than one person has apparently quit within two hours of tagging along with her. Being I’ve lasted a whole four, he assures me I have what it takes to make it at Parliament, New York. Jim hands me the folder for the Shimmer account, which is a well-known Los Angeles based cosmetics company. He explains they are adding a new line called “Pink” and half of the proceeds will be donated to finding a cure for breast cancer. We are responsible for promoting the line in as many magazines as we can get to cover it.

  I’m immediately excited about the project and know my new assignment is a far cry from pimping
bad rock music to small suburban night-clubs. Jim takes me along to his team’s meeting and introduces me to Helena, captain of our crew, Jocina, party planner, and Imelda, all around workhorse. I don’t know if it’s my excitement for the project itself, but I immediately like all of the women. Helena announces I will initially be working with Jocina on party planning as we have three rather large events we need to put together for the launch.

  By the end of the day, not only am I delighted with my new job, but all of a sudden I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile for society. It’s a nice boost for my sagging ego.

  I get back to the apartment by six-fifteen and decide to wear my work clothes to dinner as I don’t have time to agonize over which dress to change into. I fluff my hair, darken my makeup and reapply my perfume just as the doorman calls up to announce my guest.

  Richard looks good and when I answer the door, I immediately realize how much I’ve missed him. I happily give him a quick kiss and we’re off to dinner. Tonight we’re eating at a very elegant restaurant off of Madison and Seventy-Ninth called Ravine. In case you’re wondering, this is where Edith Bunker makes her first attempt at conversation in several days. She wants me to tell Richard how thrilled she is to see him and wonders if he might be interested in rubbing her after dinner. I of course refuse to pass along her request and she pays me back with punishing jabs all night.

  Richard orders us a lovely bottle of Viogne and then we get down to the business of catching up. He shocks me by demanding, “Tell me about Elliot.”

  Before I begin the saga, I lament, “Richard, you won’t believe it when you hear it.” Then I fill him in on all the gory details.

  He asks, “What reasons did he give you for proposing to her?”

  “Reasons?” I demand. “What reasons? I didn’t let him explain why he did it because the bottom line is that he did. He’s engaged to Beatrice.”

  My nice sweet suitor takes my hand and very genuinely asks, “How are you doing?”

  And just what any man wants when he takes a woman out for an expensive meal, I burst into tears and bemoan the fact another has broken my heart. It’s like every bad dating cliché that’s ever been told except Richard consoles me and tells me that it will eventually get better. Then he assures me when it does, he will be there for me.

  He tries to elevate my mood by declaring for the waitress’ benefit, “I don’t care how much you cry, I will not have sex with you in a public bathroom.”

  Our server stares at Richard and then at me in total shock. I mean, I’m sure she’s heard her fair share of juicy comments whilst waiting tables in this city but this one seems to particularly capture her attention. So I play along and reply, “I understand why you won’t do it under the table, but if you don’t let me have my way with you in the bathroom by the time the night is over, we’re through!”

  Trista, our waitress, apparently shares our conversation with everyone else on the staff because the rest of the night involves a string of restaurant employees slowly walking by our table giving us the once-over. When I get up to use the bathroom, no less than three staff members join me, probably to make sure my date and I don’t get into trouble. Richard worked magic by taking the focus off of Elliot and giving us an inside joke to enjoy. Of course when we leave I say, “It’s too bad we can never eat here again.” He agrees.

  Chapter 33

  The next day, Jocina and I discover we work very well together. She thrives on planning these affairs and when she describes some of the other parties she’s been responsible for throwing, I’m duly impressed. The first of our events is a lunch for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. We are currently working on a list of celebrity guests to invite as speakers. Jocina mentions a few high profile movie stars known for their philanthropic work and then surprise, surprise, she mentions a name I am very familiar with; Elliot Fielding.

  Trying to look nonplussed, I ask, “Why would Elliot Fielding be a good match for breast cancer? It seems like a strange fit to me.”

  Jocina looks shocked and says, “But you’ve been working with him on his book launch, surely you know.”

  “Know what?” I demand a little too sharply.

  Jocina answers, “Know about his girlfriend.”

  With a sense of dread I ask, “What about Beatrice?”

  Jocina explains that shortly after becoming involved with Elliot, Beatrice was diagnosed with breast cancer. Elliot, unlike the majority of men in his situation, actually stayed with her and helped her through it, a fact that would make him an excellent candidate to speak at our lunch.

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I have no idea what to say so I simply nod my head in agreement. He would be a good choice. Jocina requests I do the honors of asking him being that he and I have a prior working history. Of course I agree as I’m sure it wouldn’t be very professional to explain I can’t because I had sex with him in a carriage right before he proposed to his girlfriend, the one that once had breast cancer.

  As soon as I get a few minutes to myself, I run into my office and call Kevin. He answers but before he can say more than, “hello,” I bombard him with questions. “Did you know about Beatrice’s breast cancer? Why didn’t you tell me? Is that what you meant when you said she was a tragic figure? What is going on Kevin?!”

  Kevin asks how I found out and I answer that apparently it isn’t a secret as I heard it from a co-worker at Parliament.

  He slowly starts to explain, “I didn’t tell you because Beatrice asked me not to. She doesn’t like meeting people and then having them automatically feel sorry for her because she’s a cancer survivor. Of course that was before she went to the specialist in Hilldale last week and found out that the cancer is back.”

  I interrupt, “The cancer is what?!”

  Kevin answers, “It’s back.”

  Oh God, I want to vomit. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He responds, “Oh Meems, that’s why Elliot asked her to marry him. Beatrice says their relationship has never been a grand passion but he has been her rock. She doesn’t know how she would have gotten through her first two bouts of chemo without him.”

  “Two bouts?” I’m shocked.

  Sadly, Kevin answers, “This is her second recurrence and her third battle. She’s already had one mastectomy and one partial.”

  I remember the turban wearing young woman at Elliot’s book signing, the one who declared he was her hero and I feel tears start to fill in my eyes. She must have been dealing with cancer herself and my guess is her significant other was not up to the task of seeing her through it, hence her declaration she wished more men were like Elliot.

  I thank Kevin for the information and hang up. Beatrice isn’t pregnant after all, because in all likelihood she’s dying. What are the chances she will fight cancer three times in three years and live to a ripe old age? My heart breaks for her and I wonder if I have it in me to begrudge her marriage to the man who has stood by her side through it all, even if he is the man I love with all of my heart. Those fucking bastards Stan and Ollie simply don’t know when to leave well enough alone, do they?

  I’m not sure how I get through the rest of the day. But between you, me, and the devil, I fantasize all afternoon about Beatrice dying. Isn’t that the singularly most horrific thing you’ve ever heard? I mean what kind of self-centered, heartless, cruel bitch would do something like that? The truth is I would have never conceived of her death on my own but now that it’s out there and she has cancer anyway, what harm would it do if she dies before she marries Elliot? I have to force myself to stop thinking these thoughts as they become a cancer in and of themselves. Plus only me, and say, a serial killer, would ever ponder such a horrendous outcome. I begin to think I should go to confession but I’m afraid of shocking the priest on duty.

  As much as I try to prevent it, I fall more in love with Elliot than ever before. Not only do I love him, but I also love his unselfishness that makes him do this heroic thing. This is obviously a fine
r attribute than I possess as I am secretly harboring thoughts of premature death for the woman he is so valiantly supporting. I realize if Beatrice doesn’t die first, Elliot should marry her. There is no way that he can abandon her now after being her rock through all of her years of struggle.

  I, Mimi Finnegan, who has gone on a diet, changed her hair color, joined Weight Watchers, move to New York, and has finally begun wearing stylish clothes, am apparently not through with my reinvention. I must also cut ties with Elliot Fielding and find a new love. It’s the right thing to do, for him and me. His life shouldn’t be made any harder by knowing I am pining away for him. Therefore I choose to embrace a romance with Richard Bingham. When I see Elliot next, as I’m sure to do, I will treat him like a supportive friend but nothing else. No more pining, no more whining, I will be lovely to him and let him know I encourage and respect his decision. I will be a beneficial member to his PR team and on a personal level, I will take him off the hook and let him know he has my support in marrying Beatrice. The brand new Mimi Finnegan is now the brand new and improved Mimi Finnegan.

  Chapter 34

  Renée says the best time to shop at Zabar’s is from ten to eleven-thirty and two to four-fifteen Monday through Wednesday. To which I say, “Renée, I have a job, I can’t shop then.”

  She responds, “So does everyone else in New York which is why those are the best times to go.” I briefly wonder if the store could possibly be worth all the drama of going back, but my sister assures me it is. I plan to see if Richard will escort me this weekend. Maybe he can be my body guard against old ladies wielding long loaves of crusty bread.