I am staring at my MacBook screen, waiting for Deidre to answer my FaceTime call, and daydreaming about the sleepover, envisioning fun bonding activities and staying up all night talking with my new girls, when someone in a terrifying mask and frilly white mobcap suddenly appears on my screen.
“Deidre?”
“Emma Lee!”
“Lawd have mercy!” I cry. “What are you wearing?”
“This?” She plucks at the ruffle of her frilly white apron. “It’s a Victorian bib apron. I made it using a pattern I discovered in an old manual written for nineteenth-century domestics.”
“Your face, Deidre!” I laugh. “What are you wearing on your face? You look like the psychotic creeper in Halloween.”
“Blimey! I forgot I was wearing my mask.”
She pulls the cap off her head and removes the mask. A thick green paste is smeared over her cheeks and forehead.
“Why were you wearing a Halloween mask? You weren’t thinking of stalking and killing Northam’s teenage babysitters, were you?”
“What?” She reaches for her phone. The picture tilts and blurs, and then her paste-covered face fills my entire screen. “Stalk? Kill? Why would you think such a thing?”
“I was making a lame reference to a horror flick.” Something tells me Deidre doesn’t watch horror flicks. “A serial killer named Michael Myers escapes from an asylum and stalks the babysitters in his hometown wearing a supercreep white mask, like the one you were wearing.”
“He wore a Victorian toilet mask?”
Ew! Toilet mask? Ew! What could possibly be happening with Deidre’s digestive system that requires her to wear a full-face mask when she visits the toilet? Even though I don’t think I want to know the answer to my question, I ask it anyway.
“What is a toilet mask?”
“Madame Rowley’s Toilet Mask, also called a face glove, was worn by Victorian ladies of refinement to aid in the beautification and preservation of their skin. When used in concert with certain potions and lotions, it promised to give even the oldest, most tired flesh the resiliency and freshness of youth. Would you believe some women applied thin slices of raw meat to their faces before donning the mask?”
I think I might be sick. Y’all, Deidre is wearing some old Victorian woman’s meat mask. That is so nay-nay. What if she gets E. coli or Ebola? I am pretty sure you can get one of those diseases from handling raw meat.
“You’re not afraid you might catch a disease from wearing someone’s discarded beauty implement?”
I don’t even want to know what William Curtis, village germophobe, would say if he knew one of his neighbors spent her evenings with her face strapped into a nay-nay old mask she picked up in some flea market.
“I wasn’t wearing an actual Victorian-era beauty mask.” She snorts. “That would be mad!”
That would be mad? Because answering a FaceTime call in a Mary Poppins apron and Michael Myers face mask isn’t mad enough?
“I assume your toilet glove—”
“—face glove.”
“Right, face glove,” I say, wondering if all my conversations with Deidre Waites will leave me feeling like I tumbled down a rabbit hole. “Listen, Deidre. I invited Hayley Bartlett over Saturday night for a little glam session, and I wondered if you would like to join us?”
Deidre squeals. The picture blurs, there is a loud thud, and the next thing I see is Deidre’s lollipop-patterned legs.
“Bloody hell!” The picture blurs again before Deidre’s white-paste-covered face appears on my screen. “Sorry about that! I would be delighted to join your glam session, Emma Lee. What would you like me to bring? Zinc oxide and lotus flour extract paste guaranteed to whiten, brighten, and correct complexional imperfections? Victorian toilet masks for everyone?”
My heart lurches. Sweet Miss Watling and her precious pearls, too! What is the polite response when your guest offers to bring you a meat mask as a hostess gift?
Deidre snort-laughs.
“I am just taking the piss out of you, Emma Lee,” she snorts. “I bought this mask on Etsy from an artist who specializes in Victorian reproductions. He lives in Piscataway, New Jersey. There is no way he could send two masks by Saturday. Besides”—she props up her phone and steps back, affording me a wider view of her room and the creepy mask lying on the dresser behind her—“I am having serious doubts about the efficacy of Madame Rowley’s Toilet Mask. It makes my face perspire and itch.”
“It’s totally worth it. You have beautiful skin.”
No lie. One of the first things I noticed about Deidre—after her creative use of candy canes as hair pins—was her smooth, translucent skin.
“Thank you,” she says, swiping her finger across her cheek. She holds her finger up to the camera. A glob of paste is stuck to the tip. “It’s the zinc oxide, lotus flower paste. Zinc oxide is good for whitening the skin. Queen Victoria used a similar formula. I have been testing out various nineteenth-century beauty rituals for a piece I am writing.”
“You’re a writer?”
I noticed an iron sign near the church designating Northam-on-the-Water as the winner of the “Best-Kept Small Village in Gloucestershire.” If Her Majesty the Queen handed out awards for Most Literate Small Village in the United Kingdom, I reckon there would be two iron signs standing in the churchyard. Everyone I have met participates in book clubs, writes articles, publishes books, or quotes bloody Shakespeare.
“Writer? Me? Hardly.” Deidre snorts and looks away. This time, the snort is more of a snort-scoff than a snort-laugh. “I have a blog. I post bits about Queen Victoria.”
“That’s impressive.”
“My mum doesn’t think so.” She begins speaking in a warbly voice. “Who do you think you are, John bloody Keegan, standing behind a lectern at Cambridge? Lucy bloody Worsley, narrating Victoriana for BBC Four? You manage a village candy shop, miss. Chocolate buttons. Wine gums. Jelly bears. Licorice allsorts. Leave the history to the historians.”
Ouch. That’s harsh.
“I would love to read your blog.”
“You would?”
“Abso—” I almost mimic Bingley by ending with bloody-lutely “—lutely.”
“I’ll send you the link as soon as we ring off.” She smiles so broadly, two giant cracks appear in her face paste. “By the way, how did you get my number?”
“Bingley gave it to me.”
She moves the phone closer.
“Bingley?” Her voice rises, and she grabs her phone, holding it so her face fills my entire screen. “Ha! Ha! Very funny. Bingley Nickerson.”
Is it me or does Deidre sound excitable when she talks about Bingley—more excitable than her already elevated baseline of excitability?
“Deidre?”
“Yes?”
“Do you like Bingley Nickerson?”
“What?” She snorts. “You mean like-like?”
“Yes!” I laugh. Isn’t it nice to know like-like is a universal phrase for when a girl feels more than friendship for a boy? “Do you like-like Bingley Nickerson?”
She flushes, and it look as if someone drew big, bold circles on her cheeks using a stick of tarte Cheek Stain in True Love. One April Fool’s, Maddie swapped my tube of tarte Cheek Stain in Blushing Bride and I walked around looking like Wendy, the mascot for the hamburger fast-food chain.
“I don’t like-like Bingley.”
“Yes, you do!”
“No, I don’t!” She reaches for something offscreen, and a second later she is wiping the paste from her face with a disposable makeup cloth. “Besides, Bingley is . . .”
“What?” I wait for Deidre to finish her sentence, but an awkward pause stretches between us—the first awkward pause of our easy, free-flowing new friendship. “Bingley is what, Deidre?”
“Bingley is . . . clever.”
“You’re clever.”
“Me? Clever?”
Deidre seems surprised by my compliment—genuinely surprised. When you spend you
r life surrounded by girls (especially sorority girls), you learn how to spot a faux-surprised reaction to a compliment—you know, the faux-surprised reactions that are bait meant to snag bigger, fatter, juicier compliments? You think I look pretty? Really? I just spent six hours at the hair salon having my brows waxed, lashes tinted, hair highlighted and trimmed, and another hour at MAC getting a full face, but I wasn’t sure I looked good.
“Sure!” I smile. “Victoria’s Candy Emporium: First in Candy and Colonialism? That is wicked clever.”
“Thank you,” she says, brushing away my compliment like gingersnap crumbs on a tea tray. “Bingley is a different sort of clever, though. He is like a flame, a bright, dazzling flame, drawing people like moths with his witty commentary and interesting stories.”
Deidre might say she doesn’t like-like Bingley, but her tarte-y cheeks are telling me a different story. The cheeks don’t lie, y’all.
“Deidre?”
“Yes?”
“What do you know about Knightley Nickerson?”
“What do you want to know?”
Does he always smell like a pine forest? Does he have a reputation for being a player? How long did he date Annalise Whittaker-Smith? Is he in love with her?
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “Whatever.”
“Emma Lee?”
“Yes?”
“Do you like Knightley Nickerson?” She leans in so her face fills the screen and waggles her eyebrows. “Do you like-like him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“What’s ridiculous?”
“He’s old.”
“He’s not that old.” She’s right. He’s not that old. “How old are you, Emma Lee?”
“Twenty-five in February.”
“It’s May.”
“Next February.”
“Well, there you go.”
I shake my head, confused.
“Where am I?”
“Knightley was four years ahead of Bingley in school. Bingley is the same age as me, twenty-six, which means Knightley is thirty.”
“OK?”
“Knightley’s age passes the dating equation test.”
“Dating equation?”
“You can date anyone who is at least half your age plus seven; any younger and you are a pedophile.” She pronounces pedophile with a long A instead of short E—pay-duh-file. “Knightley is thirty years old. Half that plus seven would be twenty-two. You are twenty-four going on twenty-five, which means he would not be a pedophile if he dated you.”
“Whew.” I pretend to wipe my forehead and flick perspiration from my fingertips. “I was worried Knightley might be a pedophile. Thank you for putting my mind at rest.”
“Does Knightley know you fancy him?”
“I don’t fancy Knightley.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for starters, he’s Miss Isabella’s son.”
“So?”
“Miss Isabella has been like a fairy godmother, breezing into my life and changing things for the wonderful.”
“Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo, I think you like-like you know who!” Deidre sings, waving a tube of mascara like a wand. “Scallama do methink a boo, Emma Lee and Knightley-poo. Put ’em together and what have you got? Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.”
“And you think you aren’t clever,” I say, laughing. “I doubt Bingley Nickerson could compose a Disney tune on the fly.”
“It’s hard to kick free from the current when you are swimming in the river Denial, isn’t it, Miss Bibbidi?”
I laugh. “It sure enough is, boo.”
The door behind Deidre opens. Mrs. Waites shuffles into the room, squinting behind a pair of Coke bottle–thick eyeglasses. Her cardigan is misbuttoned. She looks directly into the camera lens and a smile flickers at the corners of her mouth, but then she starts moving her head all around like one of those bobblehead dolls and blinking her eyes.
“Deidre?” She flails her hands through the air. “Is that you, Deidre?”
“I am here, Mum.”
“Deidre,” Mrs. Waites says, still groping at nothing. “Are you there? Is anybody there?”
I feel like the worst kind of sinner for thinking this, y’all, and I swear, one hand on my heart and the other on the Bible, swear, the good Lord can strike me dead if I am lying, but I wonder if Mrs. Waites might be exaggerating her level of dependency to keep Deidre at her disposal. Last night, at Miss Isabella’s dinner party, Mrs. Waites appeared needier when Deidre was chatting with guests closest to her age.
“Hello, Mrs. Waites,” I say, raising my voice. “It is nice to see you. I hope you are having a good evening.”
“Who is there?” Mrs. Waites opens her mouth and squints her eyes so tight she looks like Mickey Rooney when he played Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, one of the most cringeworthy performances ever because of the offensively stereotypical way Rooney portrayed an Asian man. “You didn’t tell me you were inviting a guest home, Deidre.”
“Be right back, Emma Lee,” Deidre says, before grabbing one of her mother’s arms and leading her out of the room. “It’s Emma Lee, Mum. We are talking on the FaceTime. . .”
She returns a minute later, flushed and out of breath. I tell her my little margarita-and-makeup-themed soirée is a sleepover. She squeals. I ask if she will be able to find someone to stay with her mother, but she says her mother is fine on her own, that she only needs help when she is moving about the village. I remind her to bring her jammies and we disconnect.
Poor Deidre! She is on the losing side of the toss whichever way the coin lands. Either Mrs. Waites is optically challenged and requires as much care as a toddler, or she is a talented actress with serious attachment issues. It is quite a burden for someone so young.
I grab my MacBook, walk over to the couch, and flop down, nestling into the down-filled cushions and resting my feet on the edge of the ottoman Bingley style. I balance my MacBook on my stomach and formulate an action plan to transform my Little’s life from drab to fab.
First, I will help her become the fierce, empowered woman she is meant to be by encouraging her to turn her blog into a book. That will help her gain financial independence and allow her an outlet for her stifled creativity.
Second, I will be her Big. I will give her the support and encouragement she craves, the support and encouragement her mother seems incapable of giving her. And I will ease her caretaking burdens by helping care for her mother.
Finally, I will find my Little a man. No, not a man. I will find her the man—the man created by God Almighty, delivered to this earth by a host of heavenly angels, and divinely selected to be Deidre’s soul mate. It is my moral obligation, my sacred duty as a Big.
Chapter Sixteen
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Did you know Queen Victoria set the white bridal gown trend? She wore a white satin gown for her big day because she thought the fabric showed off her lace trim and veil. Just like Meghan Trainor, old Vic was all ’bout that lace, ’bout that lace. The train of her gown was ten feet long and made entirely of Devonshire lace. Her shoes were white-satin ballerina slippers with laces that wrapped around her ankles—proving Audrey Hepburn wasn’t the first style icon to opt for flats, ladies. Victoria’s wedding slippers are on display in the Northampton Museum and Art Gallery in Northampton, England. My friend, Deidre Waites, writes a superinteresting, superhilarious blog about Queen Victoria. Check out We Are Not Amused, y’all.
I have mixed feelings for Queen Victoria. On the one hand, I dig that she was so hopelessly in love with Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha that she defied convention, as well as parliamentary and public opinion, and asked him to marry her. You go, royal girl! Forget the haters, get down on one little knee and ask Albert for his hand in marriage. She was also interested in technology, encouraging advances in transportation, medicine, communication, and photography. If she were alive today, I think she would be a social media sensation, snapping selfies at her many
palaces and starting trending topics, #MonarchyMonday. Victoria was also a romantic who tried her hand at matchmaking. What’s not to love about a romance-addicted queen with talent for making marvelous matches?
On the other hand, she was short-tempered, stubborn, spoiled, and downright callous about the Irish Situation. A nasty potato blight ravaged the potato crops throughout Europe. Potatoes were a staple of the Irish diet. Do you know what Queen Victoria did when she found out tens of thousands of Irish were starving to death? She sent two thousand pounds. Two thousand measly pounds! Her satin wedding dress with the ten-foot lace train probably cost more than two thousand pounds! Shame.
Then, when Prince Albert died, she went nuttier than a heaping helping of Tara’s pecan pie. She turned his rooms into a mausoleum and forced the servants to continue their morning ritual of delivering hot water to the prince’s bathroom. Pecan pie nutty, y’all.
And the way she treated her children, especially her oldest son, poor Bertie, I can’t even . . .
I have spent the evening reading Deidre’s blog and learning loads more about nineteenth-century history than I ever did in my World History classes. We Are Not Amused is written from Queen Victoria’s perspective, with snarky asides and hilarious advice on marriage, motherhood, and how to masterfully manipulate a prime minister.
It’s nearly nine thirty, or half nine as they say here in England, when I click out of Deidre’s blog. It’s probably too late to text a friend who isn’t a bona-fide bestie, but I can’t help myself.
Text to Deidre Waites:
I was right. You are wicked clever. Your blog is sooo smart and sooo funny. I can’t remember when I enjoyed reading about history.
Text from Deidre Waites:
You are too kind.
Text to Deidre Waites:
Girl, I am not being kind. You are a good writer. Have you considered turning your blog pieces into a book?
Text from Deidre Waites:
Thank you, but I doubt anyone would want to read it.
Oh, Deidre. Deidre! Ye of little faith and many doubts! This. This is why God has chosen me to be your Big, my dearly, doubting Little. He wants me to infect you with a bit of my highly contagious confidence.
Badly Done, Emma Lee Page 14
