Finding It (14 page)

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 discovering 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.”

I gently place the bottle of Dom Perignon on the table and read the title aloud.

“Altered Reality: Boujis, Raine, and Brava….”

Poppy grins at me over the top of the paper.

“Go on,” she urges. “It’s all good. I promise.”

The society piece runs for one column and offers a squeaky-clean, bright-as-a-soap-bubble take on the glam Brava/Boujis party. I speed read the article, skimming over the less pertinent details, until I come to an anonymous quote that makes me snort.

“Is this true?”

“Is what true?”

“The bit about one of the bobblehead bitches dating Bishop before his marriage to Kitty Kat?”

“Excuse me? Bobblehead bitches?”

“Those two electropop-loving, Robert Palmer groupie throwbacks that spent the evening making snarky comments and rolling their eyes.”

“Katrine and Bianca?”

I roll my eyes. Of course their names would be Katrine and Bianca, not bourgeois names like Tina or Michelle.

“Yes.”

The article says Katrine Kline is a back-up singer who worked with several famous pop stars. Of course she’s a singer! She couldn’t be a maggot farmer or a zit-popping esthetician, even though either one of those would be an appropriate vocation for her.

“Are you the anonymous source who said, ‘Poor Katrine! She came to the party hoping to get back together with Bishop, but he was only interested in promoting his next film’?” I can’t contain my cackle. “‘Her flirt-fail was truly cringe worthy.’ Did you say that, Poppy?”

Poppy grins. “I can neither confirm nor deny it.”

I vault off the chair and throw my arms around Poppy, crushing the newspaper between us.

“No hugs, remember?” Poppy laughs and tries to pull away. “You received your annual hug, you greedy cow.”

“Right.” I step back. “Sorry.”

“Keep reading.”

Taking the paper from Poppy, I settle back into the wingback chair and finish reading the article. The columnist references the Kiss Heard ’Round the World, explaining it away as another one of “Raine’s attention-seeking showman antics” and describes me as the unwitting victim to his over-zealous greeting.

Poppy’s quote jumps from the page. She identifies me as a
GoGirl!
columnist and says I am madly in love with my French boyfriend, Jean-Luc de Caumont.