Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  I dozed off and Luc’s voicemail disconnected me. That could be a metaphor for what’s been happening in my life. I dozed off, became complacent in my relationships, and now my boyfriend won’t talk to me and my best friend is disappointed in me.

  I toss my phone aside, bury my face in Luc’s pillow, and sob. Great, loud, racking sobs, dredged from the darkest, most wounded places in my soul, places I thought healed. In my head, I play snippets of the sad break-up songs on my “For When I Am Blue” playlist. Snippets that speak of heartbreak and surviving by the grace of God. Snippets of Adele, Christina Perri, Toni Braxton, and Katy Perry.

  I should follow the advice of my sisters in suffering: pick myself up, put one foot in front of the other, and go on, but right now lifting my head from the pillow feels like more effort than I could possibly manage.

  I almost don’t hear the wailing guitar riff that is my ringtone.

  “Luc?”

  “Fanny.”

  “Fannnnnyyyy!” I sit up and hug my knees. “I miss you so much, Fanny. You are my best, best, best friend and I miss you. I made a cock-up of my life again. Luc won’t talk to me. Everyone thinks my muffin top is a baby bump. I have to go to a Scottish sheep farm and shovel shit. And I am drunk.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What’s going on, Vivian? Have you been cheating on Luc with Bishop Raine? Are you pregnant?”

  Fanny asking such a preposterous question is painful proof of the yawning gap between us. When I lived in San Francisco, we saw each other almost every day and shared all of our secrets. Back then, Fanny never needed to ask what was happening in my life because she lived it with me—the cool, calm cosmopolitan Ethel to my Lucy.

  Fanny listens to the rambling, weepy, over-dramatic narrative of the blackest moment in my histoire d'amour tragique without interjecting. When I finally finish speaking, she lets out a low, long whistle.

  “You were right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You, ma chérie, have royally cocked-up your life.”

  “Again.”

  “It is becoming a trend.”

  My gaze drifts to the blue velvet ring box on the nightstand. “He was going to ask me to marry him.”

  “I know,” Fanny whispers. “He booked a suite at L’Hotel.”

  The opulent L’Hotel is one of the most famous hotels in the world. Oscar Wilde, Princess Grace and Prince Rainier of Monaco, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor have stayed in the hotel. L’Hotel has a long history as a setting for romantic rendezvous.

  “L’Hotel?” It hurts to breath. “I didn’t know.”

  “That’s not all.”

  Of course that’s not all. Luc, grand romantic gestures Luc, would have planned a breathtakingly romantic weekend to celebrate our engagement. I can’t resist picking at the scab.

  “What else, Fanny?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  Fanny hesitates.

  “Tell me, please.”

  “He contacted the artists who created Le Mur Des Je T’aime and got them to agree to paint a special temporary message on the wall that reads, ‘Marry me, Vivia.’”

  A raw sob bursts from my lips. Le Mur Des Je T’aime, a wall in the 18th arrondissement created by two artists and emblazoned with the words “I love you” in 250 different languages, has become a meeting place for Parisian lovers. I wrote an article about it for the magazine.

  Fanny waits until my pathetic sob simmers to barely audible weeping.

  “Je suis desolée, ma chérie.”

  “What am I going to do, Fanny?” I swipe my runny nose with the back of my hand. “How can I fix this?”

  Fanny is silent for a long time. Finally, she says, “You might not be able to fix this one, Vivian. French men are late to commit, but when they finally do, it’s deeply and completely.”

  That’s my girl. Brutally blunt Fanny.

  “He might have been able to forgive and forget if you were just a fuck buddy, but he chose you to be his wife, the mother of his future children.” Her French accent is thick as she explains the nuances of the French male psyche. “French men have liberal views when it comes to affairs, but they are consummate traditionalists when it comes to marriage. They fall into bed with many, but love only one.”

  “So what are you saying? I should give up? Write our relationship off as a lost cause?”

  I grab a fistful of Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and twist them into a rope.

  “Are you ready to make a grand gesture?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Are you ready to give up your job and brushing elbows with the celebrities to settle down with Luc?”

  “Rubbing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s rubbing elbows with celebrities, not brushing elbows.”

  “Whatever.” Fanny snaps. “Just answer the question. Are you ready to quit your job, fly to France, and beg Luc to forgive you?”

  “Beg Luc’s forgiveness? For what?” I crush the Kleenex in the palm of my hand. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t cheat on him. It was a kiss, Fanny, one stupid over-in-a-flash kiss, that meant nothing. Nuh-thing.”

  “To you.”

  “What?”

  “It meant nothing to you, but that kiss wasn’t ‘nuh-thing’ to Luc,” she says, mimicking me. “A world-famous comedian with a reputation as a lothario shoved his tongue down your throat...in public.”

  “So what are you saying?” I begin shredding the Kleenex to bits. “Is this, like, some strange French sexual custom? You can cheat as long as it is not in public or with someone who is socially inferior? If Bishop had pulled me into some dark private supply room and stuck his tongue down my throat, would it have been okay then?”

  “Probably not.”

  I swipe the Kleenex bits onto the ground and press the palms of my hands to my eyes.

  “What are you saying then? I don’t understand.”

  Fanny exhales slowly. When she speaks again she measures her words, as if talking to a dim-witted child. “I am saying this, my dear stubborn but not obtuse best friend: You have wounded and humiliated Luc, made him look like a—” I hear Fanny snap her fingers, something she does when she is trying to think of an elusive English word “—le mari trompé.”

  “Le mari trompé? I don’t know what that means.”

  “La! It means the husband of an adulteress, a man duped.”

  “Cuckold?”

  “Oui! Cuckold.”

  “I did not cuckold Luc!” I leap to my feet, but the room tilts at a precarious angle so I fall back onto the bed. “Cuckold implies I intentionally deceived him. Fuck, Fanny! I confessed the kiss to him. I did not betray Luc.”

  “I know you didn’t, chérie, but he doesn’t. Someone posted a photograph on Twitter of his fiancée kissing another man and made him a laughingstock. Luc has become an embarrassing hashtag. Hashtag Jilted Frenchman.”

  “I’ll admit, Jilted Frenchman is not a good moniker, but then neither is Fame Whore.” Tears stream from the corners of my eyes into my hair. “I’ve ruined everything special between Luc and me, but I didn’t do it on purpose. I love him.”

  “I know.”

  “What would you do?”

  Fanny snorts.

  “What?”

  “I am the last person to give advice about relationships. My last date took me to some nouvelle Mexican pop-up, ordered a pork and bean dish smothered in onions and an expensive bottle of Pinot Noir. Seriously. Who orders Pinot Noir with Mexican food? He ate his food, chugged most of the wine, belched, and then staggered off to the bathroom. The bâtard never came back!”

  “He stuck you with the check?”

  “Oui.”

  Fanny’s had a rotten string of luck with men. She dated a self-absorbed bodybuilder nicknamed Mick the Midget for three months before dis
covering the mini-rage monster used steroids. After Mick, she dated a gorgeous proctologist who had an abnormal obsession with anal sex. He kept trying to persuade Fanny to give him a little “anal action” by telling her crude jokes, like, “Oral sex makes your day, but anal sex makes your hole weak.”

  I realize again how disconnected I have let myself become from my best friend.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t done a better job at staying in touch. I’ve been a crap friend. You were right when you called me self-absorbed.”

  “Pffft.” I close my eyes and see Fanny waving her petite hand dismissively. “Forget what I said. I was being a jealous, judgmental bitch last night.”

  “You were.”

  We both laugh.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “It’s not important. Let’s finish talking about you.”

  This is a classic evasion tactic Fanny employs to avoid talking about her deeper feelings.

  “I am sick of talking about me.” I switch the phone from one ear to the other. “What’s been happening in your life? What was your mini meltdown really about last night? I mean, besides trying to prevent me from trashing my relationship with Luc?”

  “I don't know.” Fanny’s voice wavers. “I don’t know what I am doing with my life, Vivian. I don’t have a purpose. My career is stagnating. My love life is the mold on top of the stagnant water. You have a purpose, a successful career, and hip new friends. I guess I was jealous and afraid you were replacing me.”

  I feel as if someone whacked me in the chest with a croquet mallet. Fanny never reveals weakness or tender emotions. She’s the toughest, most confident, the most self-contained chick I know.

  “Replace you? You’re kidding, right? You're irreplaceable, ma puce.”

  Ma puce is French for my flea. It’s a term of endearment, but also an allusion to her diminutive size.

  Fanny does one of those laugh-cry things. “But you’ve really bonded with Poppy.”

  “I have, but that doesn’t mean she’s replaced you.”

  “Good.” Fanny’s voice is steady. “Now what’s this about you going to Scotland to shovel sheep shit?”

  I quickly fill Fanny in on the details of my Chick Trip to a sheep farm in the Highlands.

  “Why don’t I meet you in Scotland and we can shovel sheep shit together?”

  “You?” I laugh as I imagine Fanny leaving the comfort of her trust-fund-funded swank apartment for a week in a rustic cottage. “You hate farms and animals and manual labor and footgear without high heels.”

  “Yes, but I love Scotland.”

  “When were you in Scotland?”

  “I’ve never been to Scotland, but I’m certain I’ll love it. Buff men in kilts. Woolen mills with deeply discounted sweaters and scarves. Sipping Drambuie in a smoky pub. Walking the gorse-covered paps in the rain.” Fanny releases a rare, girly sigh. “What’s not to love?”

  “Look at you, waxing poetic.”

  “I’ve been watching Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander on Starz and I’ve developed a wee bit of a crush Sam Heughan, the Scottish actor who plays Jamie Fraser.”

  “You? Watching a romantic drama series on cable television? Okay, who is this and what have you done with my cynical best friend?”

  Fanny chuckles. “It’s your fault! Always leaving those silly romance novels about and making me watch Under the Tuscan Sun two dozen times.”

  “Uh-uh! Don’t even go there. Not Under the Tuscan Sun. That movie is sacrosanct. It is the—”

  “—Holy Grail of all Rom-Com movies. I know. I know.”

  And this is why Fanny is my best friend. She tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. She calls me Vivian instead of Vivia because she believes I am more glamorous than my name, like an old Hollywood screen siren. She is always willing to ride shotgun on my wild adventures. And she respects my Rom-Com Theology, even if she isn’t a believer herself.

  “I miss you, Fanny.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “You’d really use your vacation days to help me shovel sheep shit?”

  “Absolument.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. Fanny will help me sort my life out. Good old, type A, take-charge Fanny.

  “Vivian?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to say something to you but I don’t want to upset you. May I speak candidly?”

  “Do you speak any other way?” I laugh, but inside I am bracing myself for the Fanny one-two punch. “Go ahead. Hit me.”

  It’s what I love about Fanny. She doesn’t know the meaning of pulling punches.

  “Remember last year, when Nathan found out you lied about your virginity and broke up with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what did you learn from that experience?”

  “Not to lie about being a virgin?”

  “Non.”

  “Not to fall in love with a pretentious prig?”

  “Vivian! Would you be serious?”

  I inhale and let it out in one long, cleansing exhalation.

  “I learned that I need to keep it real, to be myself, the self I have always wanted to be, not who I think others want me to be.”

  “Are you keeping it real?”

  Ouch. My stomach clenches as if someone delivered a swift jab to my bellybutton. I try to think of an answer while I catch my breath, but I am saved by the knock.

  “Someone’s at my door, Fanny. Maybe it’s Luc. I’ve gotta go!” I run my hands through my snarly hair in a futile combing effort.

  “Okay,” Fanny says. “I’ll text you my flight information as soon as I make reservations.”

  “No!” I give up finger combing my hair and pinch my cheeks for color. “Big Boss Lady said GoGirl! would pay for your tickets. I’ll text you the deets as soon as I hear back from Travel.”

  Another knock at the door.

  “Gotta go!”

  “À bientôt!”

  I hang up and toss the phone on the bed. Cupping my hand around my mouth, I do a quick breath check. Fab! Only a hint of fish and desperation. No time to brush my teeth, I run to the bathroom, squirt some toothpaste in my mouth, and use my tongue as a toothbrush to scrub my furry, fishy teeth and gums. I use E-mail Diamant Rouge l’Original, thick red clove-scented toothpaste capable of masking the most odiferous oral emanations.

  I stumble over to the door and press my eyeball to the peephole. My heart drops to my feet with a thud.

  I open the door.

  “Hello, Poppy.” I lean against the door to keep upright. “You might not want to come in because I am stinky drunk and you are not.” I look at her expensive pantsuit and shake my head. “You’re always so smooth and shiny. How do you keep from getting wrinkles in your pantsuit? Are you a witch? Are those magic pants? Did Dumbledore teach you a secret wrinkle-removing incantation?”

  Without missing a beat, Poppy waves her hand in the air and says, “Wrinkulus Arresto!”

  Watching Perfectly Pressed Poppy pretend to wave a wand and recite a wrinkle-banishing incantation is frankly funnier than my wasted ass can stand. Once I start laughing, I can’t stop. I laugh until I double over, clutching my aching side.

  When I finally stand and wipe the tears from my cheeks, my breath is coming in ragged asthmatic hiccups. I take several deep, measured breaths, before looking at Poppy.

  She is standing in the hallway, hands on hips, head tilted to one side, eyes narrowed. She looks so much like a grown-up, blonder Hermione Granger that the hysterical laughter I just swallowed, bubbles back up my throat and bursts from lips.

  “W…w…wrinkulus A…arresto!” I repeat, waving my hand over my rumpled leggings.

  “I’m glad to amuse.” A small wrinkle furrows her brow. “It wasn’t that funny, though, Vivia.”

  “Yes it was,” I chuckle.

  “Hmmm.” Poppy breezes past me, leaving a contrail of expensive perfume. She strides over to the desk and
lifts an empty Thatchers bottle. “As I thought, you’re pissed. Wicked pissed.”

  “No I am not,” I say, shutting and leaning against the door. “I was wicked pissed…especially at Turd Boy, but now I am just numbly resigned.”

  Poppy deposits the bottle back on the desk and wipes her fingers on a pristine white hankie she pulls from her pocket.

  “Who is Turd Boy?”

  “Steven Schpiel.” To my horror, spittle flies out of my mouth and lands on Poppy’s perfectly pressed lapel. “Rancid little gossip columnist Steven Schpiel of The Whole Schpiel.”

  “Drunk, Vivia. Pissed means drunk.”

  “Oh! Well then—” I push away from the door, walk to the wingback, and collapse in a most unladylike manner, my legs spread and head lulling back against the wing. “I might be a teensy-weensy bit pissed, but the deliciously anesthetizing effect is beginning to wear off.”

  That I said anesthetizing without stuttering or stumbling is proof of my rapidly approaching sobriety.

  Poppy walks to the sofa and perches herself on the very edge of the cushion. She reaches into her massive designer handbag and pulls out a bottle of champagne and a newspaper.

  “It looks as though I have arrived at the perfect time, then.”

  She hands me the silver-plated bottle.

  “What is this? Why are you handing me a bottle of”—I turn the bottle around and read the label—“Dom Perignon?”

  “To celebrate.”

  “Celebrate? Celebrate what?” I stare at the silver metallic label on the pricey bubbly. “The spectacular end to my spectacular love affair?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “This.” She opens the newspaper to a back page and waves it under my nose. “Read.”

  My eyes take several seconds to focus enough to read the tiny print. It’s a society gossip page.

  “’Heiress Phoebe Stainsbury, England’s Billion Dollar Baby, dropped a Nagasaki-sized bomb Tuesday evening, sending shockwaves through London’s poshest posh set, when she announced her engagement to Tottenham plumber—‘“

  “Not that article!”

  “Why Aussies make the best nannies?”

  “No.” Poppy points to an article on the opposite side of the page, tapping the paper with her long, perfectly polished red fingernail. “This one.”