Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “Vivian? Hello?”

  Fanny calls me Vivian because she thinks it’s more sophisticated than Vivia. Like Vivian Leigh.

  “I’m here,” I whisper. “Bishop is not sleazy. He’s actually kinda nice.”

  “Bishop?” Fanny’s French accent is unusually thick, a sign she is teetering on the precipice over the valley of Truly Pissed Off. “Bishop is it? So now you’re on a first name basis with Bishop Raine? I can think of another man you’re on a first name basis with: Jean-Luc de Caumont, your boyfriend. Remember him?”

  “Wow!” I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen as if I might find the explanation for Fanny’s anti-Bishop tirade. “I had no idea you had such strong feelings about Bishop Raine.”

  “Je m'en fiche!”

  I don’t care! I whistle low and long. Her transition from thickly accented English to full-on French means I am in deep trouble.

  Fanny might be Team Luc, but her reaction is a bit overblown. It’s not like I ditched my boyfriend to become a Bishop Raine groupie. I didn’t pawn my MacBook and buy an old VW Van so I could follow Bishop from gig to gig.

  “Calm your culottes, Frenchy! No need for a revolution,” I chuckle, in a dismal attempt at levity. “I am flying to be with Luc in the morning, and the British boy will be but a distant memory.”

  “I still don’t understand why you are in some club in London, French kissing the sleazy comedian, instead of celebrating your one-year anniversary with your boyfriend in Paris. What is this really about, Vivian?”

  I tell Fanny about my right royal cock-up with the Prince Harry story, my time in the pokey, and Big Boss Woman’s vaguely displeased text.

  “Normally, I would choose Jean-Luc every day of the week and three times on Sunday, but after tanking the Harry story, I thought I could save face by going back to my editor with a dishy tell-all about London’s reality TV stars.” I take several breaths before launching into my final argument. “Choosing Poppy’s party over Luc’s love-in was a shrewd career move. If I am going to go out, I might as well be on top, and not wallowing in a pit of humiliation over a failed story.”

  I speak the truth, but deep down something niggles at me. Something else kept me from leaving London, from joining my crazy-hot boyfriend in Paris for some crazy-hot sexy time, but I don’t know what that something else is.

  Fanny mutters something in rapid French.

  Despite countless hours of Rosetta Stone brainwashing, my ability to translate spoken French is no better than a deaf and dumb Inuit. I think she said, “Lord help me teach the old monkey to make funny faces,” but I don’t know what an old monkey has to do to with our conversation or why she would want to teach it to make faces.

  “Who is Poppy?”

  “Poppy Worthington. Heiress of the Worthington Hotels fortune?”

  I wait for Fanny to respond, the muffled thumping of the electropop playing in the background.

  “She’s a British socialite. She dated Sir Richard Blanchard and Tristan Kent, remember?” I hold my breath and wait for Fanny to say something. Six muffled thumps later, I finish my story. “We met on the street outside the police station. I was trying to hail a cab, waving my arms and jumping up and down like an idiot. Poppy took pity on me. She taught me the proper way to hail a cab.”

  “What the…” Fanny emits an explosive pffft. “The proper way to hail a cab? Did you really just say that?”

  “We have different rules for hailing a cab in London,” I say, defensive of my new friend. “She was only trying to help.”

  “She sounds pretentious.”

  “Anyway,” I say, ignoring the jab. “I told her about my royal cock-up and she invited me to a party at Boujis. It’s hosted by Brava TV. Her cousin, Carolena, is the newest Bravalebrity on some show called Ladies of London.”

  “I still don’t understand why you decided to spend the evening with some uppity snot instead of Luc.”

  The hinges on the bathroom door squeal and the explosive sound of electropop reverberates off the smoked glass partitioning the stalls.

  “She is not a snot!” I whisper, cognizant of the stranger on the other side of my stall door. “She’s really nice, actually. I think you’d like her.”

  Fanny mumbles something in French.

  Now it’s my turn to sit quietly and wait for Fanny to speak, because she will speak. Oh, she’ll speak.

  “What is going on, Vivian? Why are you letting some sleazy comedian stick his tongue down your throat when you should be with your boyfriend? Has your career become more important than your relationships?”

  An exhalation explodes from my lips as if someone delivered a swift uppercut to my solar plexus. I have experienced this sensation before—the breath-robbing, gut-wrenching blunt force trauma caused by one of Fanny’s carefully aimed verbal assaults. I remind myself that brutal bluntness and tactless honesty are merely byproducts of her French ancestry. After all, her sharp, pointed questions often needle my conscious and prod me toward deeper introspection.

  “Of course friendships matter more than my career,” I say, shifting my iPhone from one ear to the other.

  “Really? Because I can’t remember the last time we had a real, meaningful conversation. Ever since you took that GoGirl! job, you’ve been AWOL in the friend department.”

  Ouch! Another one-two jab to the solar plexus.

  “I’m sorry if you’ve felt neglected. I’ve tried to keep in touch with you. I called a bunch of times, but with the time difference and my crazy itinerary—”

  “Is Poppy on Facebook and Twitter?”

  “What?” Fanny’s abrupt change of subjects confuses me. “I don’t know if Poppy is on social media.”

  “Well,” Fanny sniffs. “I hope for her sake she has an active Facebook account. God knows, you can’t be one of Vivia’s friends unless you’re active on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and Instagram.”

  Ding! Ding! Sound the bell Mickey; Rocky is down for the count. This unprovoked boxing match has left me dazed and bewildered. I am flat on my back, prostrate and gasping for breath, but Fanny’s still doing her float-like-a-butterfly-sting-like-a-bee victory dance.

  “Being a magazine columnist, traveling the world, meeting interesting people. This is my dream.”

  “It’s not your dream, Vivian,” Fanny snaps. “Writing a novel about Mary Shelley is your dream—at least, it was before that stupid photo of you and Jett Jericho went viral and you became famous.”

  “Okay, maybe being a travel columnist for a chick magazine wasn’t my dream before, but it is now,” I argue, my voice rising. “I am living a dream, and I don’t want it to end. If you were a real friend, you would stand by me—”

  “Pffft.”

  “Don’t you pffft me!”

  “Why? What are you going to do? Send me a strongly worded tweet?”

  I let out a low, long whistle to keep from saying something I will regret. She’s starting to piss me off.

  “Look, Fanny,” I say, struggling to control my temper. “I get it. You’re not a touchy-feely, I-get-your-pain-sister-kinda gal, but do you have to be so blunt?”

  We remain silent for several seconds. When Fanny speaks again, some of the bitter has leeched from her tone.

  “I am worried about you, Vivian,” Fanny says, pronouncing my name with her nasal French accent. “You have a good thing with Luc—a great thing—and I am afraid you are taking it for granted. I saw how devastated you were after your breakup with Nathan. It killed me to see you in such pain. I supported you—”

  “I know you did, Fanny,” I say, the piss and vinegar gone from my tone. “And I appreciate it.”

  Fanny makes a noise low in her throat, a dismissive noise that translates, “Please, it was nothing.”

  “The love you felt for Nathan was but a drip in the wineglass compared to what you feel for Luc.” Fanny’s voice is suddenly hoarse. “You might not realize it yet, but it’s true, ma
cherié. I’ve never seen you as happy as you are when you are with Luc.”

  An image of Luc holding a sign with the words “You fill my heart with music, Vivia Perpetua Grant” in the arrivals terminal at the Vienna airport, a musician dressed as Mozart playing the violin behind him, flickers in my brain. Luc. Sexy, smart, sometimes-sappy, larger–than-life romantic gestures, Luc. Luc does make me happy. Crazy happy.

  “I love Luc. I do.” My voice is thick with emotion. “But I love my job, too. I might not have imagined myself a travel columnist, but I have always wanted to be a writer and I love writing travel pieces. I am not ready to trade my suitcase for a stroller. You know what they say, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes popping Prozac over the baby carriage.”

  Fanny chuckles. “Oh, Vivian.”

  “I am not kidding!” Fanny’s verbal jabs have loosened secret feelings I have been too frightened to release before this moment. “My mum could have had a brilliant career as an artist, but she gave up art to marry my father, support him in his career, and raise me. I don’t want to be my mother, Fanny.”

  I love my mum, dearly, but I don’t want to follow in her domestic footsteps, suppressing my creative spirit, abandoning my goals, in the name of marital bliss. I won’t be subjugated by any man…not even Luc.

  “Your mum is wonderful, Vivian. Truly.”

  “Yes, but deep down she’s not happy. She knows she could have had a brilliant career. That’s why she keeps such a frantic, frenetic pace, rushing between Zumba and poetry readings and Bible study. Her creative spirit has withered and cries out for nurturing.”

  “Have you ever thought your mum didn’t really want an art career? That if she did, nothing, not a domineering husband or an energetic child, would have kept her from painting?”

  I exhale again. This is all too deep, too emotional for Boujis. I can’t ponder weighty life issues to an electropop soundtrack.

  “Luc and I have only been dating for a year—long-distance dating. We have had a whirlwind romance—champagne in Chamonix, bootie calls in Belgium—and I’m not ready for it to end.”

  “You can’t go on dating long-distance forever, Vivian.”

  “Why?”

  Fanny sighs. “If you love Luc-ious, forget the Downton Abbey set and get to Paris.”

  I grit my teeth. I hate when people refer to Jean-Luc as Luc-ious. It’s a stupid, demeaning name coined by one of my Twitter followers after I tweeted a photo of Luc, tanned and shirtless, sailing off the Amalfi Coast.

  “I am still on assignment, working on a story. Jean-Luc will wait.”

  “French men don’t wait.”

  Chapter 8

  A Conscious Uncoupling

  I sink down and take a seat on the commode. Have I become self-absorbed? I have missed a few of Fanny’s phone calls over the last few months—and I’ve only seen her once since taking the GoGirl! gig.

  It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know what is going on in my best friend's life, who she is dating, how she spends her Saturdays now that I am not in San Francisco. Fanny is right! I have become a wee bit self-absorbed. Tears prickle my eyelids.

  “Vivia? Are you okay?”

  Oh shit! It’s Poppy. I don’t want posh, powerful Poppy to see me weak and weeping. I swipe the tears from my cheeks and open the door, the brightest, phoniest smile plastered on my face.

  Poppy narrows her gaze.

  “If you think you are fooling me with that smile, you really must be away with the fairies.” She tilts her head, and her chic blond bob spills over her bare shoulder. “Whatever is the matter?”

  My bottom lip trembles. I can only shrug like some sad six-year-old. Poppy reaches into her Lucite clutch, pulls out her Dior Addict Lip Gloss, and offers the tube to me. I shake my head and tears spill down my cheeks.

  “Blimey!” She tosses the lip gloss back into her clutch, puts her arms around me, and pats my back, crooning, “There, there.”

  I knew it! I told you my instinct about Poppy was spot-on. Behind her stiff upper lip British exterior beats the heart of a warm, huggy California kinda girl. The kind of girl who invites you to a posh party, helps you score discount Louboutins, and shares her Dior Addict with you. Poppy pats my back one last time.

  “I must paint a rather pathetic picture.”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely.”

  Poppy grins, unabashed, and I can’t help but laugh. Her unflinching, unapologetic manner reminds me of Fanny, which makes me feel somehow better and homesick all at once.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I must look positively wretched, because you broke your No Hug rule.”

  Poppy grimaces. “Yes, well. I believe I said I don’t do kisses.” She takes the lip gloss out of her bag again and swipes the bright pink wand over her full lips. “Hugs are permissible, once annually, or on extremely special occasions. You just received your annual hug. You’re welcome.”

  She has such a serious Churchill-esque expression on her face.

  “I am serious.” She turns away from the mirror and hands me her lip gloss. “Now, care to tell me what catastrophic event has you weeping in a loo stall instead of dancing your arse off?”

  While I hit the high notes of my tragic opera, Poppy repairs the water damage to my face, dabbing my cheeks with a puff from her compact. I wait for her to tell me to ignore Fanny’s advice, to concentrate on my career, because, after all, she is the CEO of a major hotel chain, but she doesn’t.

  “Whenever I am struggling with a difficult decision, I try to follow the advice my father always gave me. Would you like me to share my father’s advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “When life roars at you, find a quiet place and listen to the whispers in your heart. They will not lead you astray.” Poppy lips quiver.

  I sense loneliness settling around her like an Armani poncho.

  “What does your heart whisper, Vivia?”

  Luc. GoGirl! Luc.

  Maybe I have a schizophrenic heart.

  “Are you kidding me?” I joke. “Who can hear a whisper over Martin’s mad electropop remixes?”

  Poppy doesn’t push me.

  “Come on, Bishop is worried he offended you. Perhaps you can assuage his guilt.” Poppy tosses her compact back into her clutch and snaps it shut. “Besides, Mandy Cohen wants us to do a shot with her, and Prince Harry just arrived with a new blonde.”

  * * * *

  Bishop is deep in conversation with some leggy blonde, but he grins when he sees me. The blonde flips her hair back and I realize she is Wynona Pathlow. She’s holding an untouched martini and fiddling with the plastic spear impaling the fat olive in her glass.

  I take the flute of champagne Poppy offers me and pretend not to listen to Bishop and Wynona’s conversation

  Bishop proselytizes to Wynnie about his call for a nation-wide abstinence from voting to draw attention to the “massive economic disparity perpetuated by a preexisting paradigm which is quite narrow and only serves a privileged few and ignores the disenfranchised and discarded lower class.”

  Wynnie appears to be more interested in her olive than Bishop’s plan for a New World Order. And who can blame her, really? When you’re pipe cleaner thin, a single olive must look like a veritable feast. I’ll bet that single olive contains more calories than she consumes in a day. I stare at her hard and send a telepathic message.

  Go on, girl. Binge. Eat the olive. You can run a marathon tomorrow to make up for it.

  Wynnie looks up, and we make eye contact. She stares right through me. Poor thing. Malnutrition must be impeding her vision.

  I have to wrap both hands around my champagne flute to keep from Yelping the nearest Italian joint and having a pizza with extra olives delivered to Boujis in care of Wynona Pathlow.

  When Bishop stems the flow of his Niagara Falls-sized monologue long enough to take a sip of his lime water, Wynnie releases her grasp on the olive spear, rises majestically, and leaves wi
thout uttering a word.

  “Looks like you and Wynnie just had a conscious uncoupling,” I say, referencing the ridiculous phrase the actress used to announce her divorce from her husband, Chris Morgan.

  Bishop looks at me and grins.

  “You fink?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely.”

  “Good,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “My divinely inspired though wholly devious plan worked.”

  “What plan?”

  Bishop finishes his lime water, deposits the glass on a low table in front of us, and leans over to confess his wicked, wicked little secret.

  “The former Missus Morgan is an insufferable prig who believes serving on the board of a homeless charity nulls and voids her grossly lavish lifestyle.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Reality is often harsh, luv,” he says, leaning back and crossing his long, lanky leather-clad legs at the ankles. “Wynona lives in a self-perpetuated, self-gratifying, delusive fantasyland wherein dispensing wisdom to the masses on where they might purchase pricey monogrammed knickers qualifies as a philanthropic act.”

  “Isn’t it hypocritical to criticize a system that has brought you untold fortunes and fame? You fault Wynona Pathlow her lavish lifestyle, but I remember reading you flew to India first class, cruised Jaipur in a Mercedes Benz, and rented an elephant to serve you peanuts or something.”

  “Balderdash!” Bishop slams his fist down on his knee. “That is complete and utter rubbish. I loathe peanuts.”

  We laugh.

  “Poppy tells me you are madly in love with a Frenchman. Is this true?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “What a bloody shame! I rather fancy shagging someone with a firm grasp on grammar.”

  Hold up. Did Bishop Raine just say he wanted to shag me?

  “I don’t know what I find more flattering: your expressed desire to shag me or your bizarrely worded praise of my vocabulary.”

  He tosses his hair and laughs.

  “Nice tattoo,” I say, briefly touching the Sanskrit symbol inked on one of his forearms. “What does it mean?”