Mad Girls In Love
Page 44
“What a waste,” I said, dropping the bottle at my husband’s feet. On my way out the door, I glanced nonchalantly over my shoulder. “By the way, dear. I won’t be cooking supper tonight. You might wish to order takeout Chinese.”
Je me démords, I thought, slamming the door behind me. My heart was thumping, but I kept on walking. Behind me, Louie’s door opened and he yelled my name. I ignored him. I was letting go, giving up.
I drove back to our stucco house and hurriedly packed two suitcases, taking care to grab a memento—a Spode teacup that my mother had given me and my old rosewood box that held all of my letters to Jennifer. I drove to the airport and caught the next plane to Atlanta. While I stood in line at the Delta ticket counter, I kept glancing at the monitor, studying the departure list. At first, I thought I might try living in Paris but I really only knew a few phrases of French and didn’t need the added stress of a foreign language. So I jetted off to London, the city of Shakespeare and Dickens and Jack the Ripper, not to mention Henry VIII and all of his frustrated women. As I waited to board, I felt like a refugee—not from an oppressive, third-world government, but from love and my own checkered past.
During the long flight, I put on the earphones. Elton John was singing “Blue Eyes.” Louie used to say that was my song. I switched the channel to hard rock. Somehow I fell asleep and dreamed that I was living in an English country house. Stained-glass windows, portraits of dukes, dark Jacobean furniture, a secret garden and secret passageways.
Pushing my cart through customs, I suddenly realized that I didn’t know a soul on this side of the ocean. I hadn’t even read Henry James. I glanced over my shoulder. If I turned around now it might create a scene with the customs officials, so I decided to wait patiently in line and then work my way back to the departure lounge. Although I had been through Heathrow many times, suddenly it looked dated, trapped in the Mod 1960s. Everything was brown and shabby. Even the air felt old and oppressive, almost difficult to breathe; then I realized the air was full of smoke—the British were all puffing on cigarettes.
Why, of all places on earth, had I picked London? A mood like mine needed Barbados, not Britain. And why should I leave home? I hadn’t broken any vows. I pictured myself as a gay divorcée in Florence. Well, I didn’t speak Italian, either. And I could be a single woman anywhere, even in New Orleans. Then I remembered what was waiting for me there, Louie and the home wrecker; but no, the woman wasn’t in our home—yet—and besides, Louie had wrecked our home.
If I returned to New Orleans, he would renounce the woman in a showy, dramatic way. Louie was marvelous at reconciliations. He was the best. Anything you want, baby. Two weeks in Paris, chinchilla coat, BMW. Once, he’d given me a bouquet of sweetheart roses and dangling from the card was a three-carat diamond in a swirled platinum setting. Love for sale, that was his mantra. But it wasn’t going to work this time.
“Next!” called the customs official.
I squared my shoulders and pushed my cart over the yellow line. I handed my passport to the man and he stamped it with a flourish. Without glancing up, he said, “Welcome to London.”
Bitsy and Letters from Home
I checked into the Rubens Hotel and walked around London in a daze. I kept thinking that Louie would try to find me. The city wasn’t at its best in late October, and for ten straight days, I never once saw the sun. It was dark when I woke up, which was unsettling, and then the sky would lighten a bit, gray at the edges, plunging into darkness by midafternoon. I began to wonder if I was suffering from that new condition, Seasonal Affective Disorder.
A week later, I moved to a bed and breakfast in Mayfair, a white row house with black wrought-iron railing. My room overlooked the garden, and I spent hours curled up in the window seat, contemplating my dilemma. Maybe Louie could get help. Or perhaps I was the one who needed to change. I could try and fix whatever was wrong. But no, I was through with Louie. I couldn’t go back.
I made a pact with myself to stick it out for at least six weeks, and if I was still miserable, I’d reevaluate my situation. But until then, I simply could not feel sorry for myself. Next, I phoned my mother and made her promise not to tell Louie where I’d gone. “He’s called here every day,” she told me. Then she wanted to know about the other woman, and how I’d sprayed her and Louie with champagne. “Oh, I wish I could have done that to your father,” she said.
After I’d settled into the Mayfair house, the landlady, Mrs. Sturgis, invited me for tea. She perked up when she found out that I was a designer. “My dearest friend is looking for someone freelance. She has a rather dreary flat not too far away, in Green Park. Might you be interested? Actually, I know several people who are looking for designers—if you’re talented, of course, and if the price is right. In fact, this place could use a little remodeling. Perhaps we could work something out—no rental fee in exchange for your services. Would that interest you, my dear?”
It certainly would. I rang up Mrs. Sturgis’s friend, and made an appointment to stop by her flat. We walked through the dark rooms, and I felt discouraged. This flat reflected my mood, and I was afraid I might only add to the gloom. All the walls were gray, and the windows were hidden by heavy draperies. We stopped in a glass conservatory, which the owner, a middle-aged attorney, or whatever the English called them, had filled with attic rejects. “What would you do with this flat?” she asked. I thought a moment, then I said, “Your colors need updating. Jewel tones are all the rage, but they’d be too dark. I see yellow walls in your bedroom, and maybe the living room, too. I’d pull down the draperies in every room, especially in the conservatory. The views are too lovely to hide.”
She hired me on the spot. I threw myself into floor plans, colors, and fabrics. For a while, I stopped thinking about my problems, but as the news of my separation spread through the family, I was bombarded with letters. My mother’s notes were fragrant with her drugstore perfume. Aunt Clancy’s notes were speckled with cat hairs. I couldn’t bear to throw them away, so I stored them in the old rosewood box. Once a week, I sat on the floor and spread the letters around me. I’d put them in order and reread every single one, finding comfort in the voices from home.
October 22, 1983
Dear Beauty,
I didn’t know where to mail this letter, so I forwarded it to your mother. I am assuming you’re in Crystal Falls, even though she denies it. Please, Beauty—I beg you to give me one more chance. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll hire all male nurses. I’ll have my pecker removed. I will be waiting for your phone call. I have so much to tell you.
Your loving husband,
Louie
October 28, 1983
Dear Bitsy,
As much as I hate what Louie has done, I wish you hadn’t run off like you did. I read in the paper that one of the cabinet ministers over there resigned in DISGRACE after his pregnant mistress revealed all. They usually do. I will try and call you again tonight, but I hope I don’t get the time zones wrong.
Love,
Dorothy
October 30, 1983
Dear Bitsy,
The reaction to acute stress is called “fight or flight.” It’s a survival mechanism. You put up a good fight for your marriage. It didn’t work. So this time, you flew away. I’m proud of you. I always knew you were a strong woman.
Love,
Violet
November 1, 1983
Dear Beauty,
I am worried about you. Please write just to let me know you’re OK. I am seeing a psychiatrist. He says I am depressed and gave me a prescription for Elavil. I know you must be thinking that I was unfaithful because I didn’t love you, but that’s not true. You are my life, my one true love.
All my love,
Louie
November 17, 1983
Dear Beauty,
You’ve been gone for four weeks, two days, twelve hours, and thirty-three minutes. I haven’t heard anything from you, not even a postcard, and I’m starting to worry.
Are you all right? Please call or something.
This morning I poured a cup of coffee and walked out into your garden. I sat down on the bench and tried to pull myself together. It is nearly Thanksgiving and your roses are still blooming. I am taking this as a sign that your love for me is just as enduring. I remember when you planted those bushes. You were kneeling, and a streak of black dirt was smeared across your cheek. As I watched, my heart began to pound. And I took you inside and laid you on the bed and told you how much I loved you. I still do. I always will.
Love,
Louie
December 7, 1983
Dear Beauty,
I thought I was having a heart attack today. I started having chest pains and tachycardia. When I got to the emergency room, my pulse rate was over 150. On my way home, I was listening to the radio and heard about an airplane crash in Madrid. Thank God you didn’t go there. Or did you? Please give me a sign. I’m falling apart without you.
Love,
Louie
January 1, 1984
Dear Mother,
Thank you for the totally awesome cashmere sweater. Even Grandmother liked it. But my favorite was the camouflage outfit. Where did you find it? Grandmother called all over the place, but every store was sold out. I gave my dad a new putter, and he thought it was way cool. I gave Regina a vomiticious red velour robe but she hasn’t taken it from the box. She stays in her room all the time, crying and watching soaps. Are you, like, going to divorce Louie or just stay separated? If you stay in London, can I come and visit?
Here are my New Year’s resolutions:
1. I will sponsor a child in Somalia or Ethiopia for less than 60 cents a day
2. I will quit spying on people
3. I will stop slicing up Regina’s Estée Lauder lipsticks with razor blades.
4. I will open doors for the crippled and smile at retards.
Love,
Jen
TO MY VALENTINE
February 14, 1984
Dearest Beauty,
My heart will always belong to you.
Love,
Louie
April 1, 1984
Dear Bitsy,
Your mother and your aunt have closed ranks and will not disclose your address to me or Louie. I don’t blame them. Louie told me his side of the story, and it was too sordid to be a lie. The girl on his desk was a pharmaceutical rep for Eli Lily; her name is Danita Hollaway.
I don’t mean to defend him, darling, but he swears that this woman had been throwing herself at him for a long time. She just wore him down. I don’t know why he put everything on the line for a woman that meant nothing. But I do know that he loves you. I have never seen him in such torment. He is a shattered man. Please find a way to reach him. At least let him know you are still alive.
Love,
Honora
May 4, 1984
Dear Beauty,
We met six years ago today. I know you’re living over in England because I got a letter from your solicitor. I do not want a divorce. I’ve done horrible things, and if I could undo them I would. But I can’t. All I have is the future. Please call, so we can figure this out. I promise I won’t start bugging you with calls, or hop on a plane and show up on your doorstep. But I want you to hear me out.
By the way, I’m still having tachycardia and chest pains.
Love always,
May 20, 1984
Dear Beauty,
Happy anniversary. I will always love you, kid.
Your husband,
Louie
September 11, 1984
Dear Mother,
I am, like, so totally excited. A local writer came to our school and talked. I might like to be a writer. That would be way cool, and I wouldn’t have to leave home. On the other hand, I love dressing up, and I might want to work at a majorly cute boutique. Somebody asked how much money a writer made. The woman fell out laughing. I raised my hand and asked how she got her ideas, and she said I wet my finger and stuck it in a light socket. Well, her hair did look fried. But I just thought she’d given herself a home permanent. My teacher gasped and told the writer to leave. Then she told the class to never try that! For the rest of the period, she made us write a paper. Here is mine.
What I Did on My Summer Vacation by Jennifer Wentworth
I spent the summer strolling on the salty, smutty sand. It was like so awful and so awesome all at once. The stinky smelling sea swept squalor over my shoes. “Ewww!” I cried. I hate to go barefoot due to the filthy shells, seaweed, and pond scum. But I love the ocean. Talk about awesomosity. The stupid sunbathers brought their chairs and coolers and striped towels to our private beach, ignoring the totally awesome signs we’d posted. They stuck umbrellas into the solid sand and smeared themselves in suntan oil. They were so bogus. They didn’t supervise their kids. My grandmother started to call the police, saying she’d paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for this beachfront property, but before she could dial, the sturdy seagulls swooped down and shit on the strangers. That was, like, total Ewwness, which is not to be confused with sheep. Ewwness is a state of Ew and pertains to all things Ewwie. I laughed when the trespassers screamed and scattered. I was, like, slap me or something.
October 26, 1984
Dear Beauty,
The Brits transplanted a baboon’s heart into 15-day-old human infant. I wish I could transplant forgiveness into yours. You’ve been gone one year and nine days.
Love always,
Louie
November 6, 1984
Dear Bitsy,
Well, it’s election day here in the States. I have enclosed a taped message that I’m sending to Nancy Reagan, not that she deserves one. Hope you are staying warm.
Love,
Dorothy
Nancy,
I wasn’t going to contact you ever again. BUT I changed my mind. I was eating chocolate and watching the election results. Well, well, well. Your man won by a landslide today. Now you will have oodles of $$ to buy another suit for yet another swearing in. Well, I have to run. It’s time for another Godiva truffle. Yes, I admit it, I’m a chocoholic, but don’t YOU expect me to Just Say No.
Very Insincerely,
Dorothy
January 2, 1985
Dear Bitsy,
We had a real nice Christmas. I just loved the tartan scarf and the shortbread. Clancy Jane gave me The Official Preppy Handbook, and I’m enjoying it. I gave her cat slippers and a T-shirt that says “To Err Is Human, To Purr, Feline.” I hope you liked the blouse. I got it at a ritzy-fitzy garage sale, but it still had the price tag attached. Your mother-in-law sent eight huge boxes filled with your clothes, shoes, and pocketbooks. Let me know what you want me to do with them. It’s time for me to go and watch Moonlighting. I am dying for Bruce and Cybill to boink.
Love,
Dorothy
January 12, 1985
Dear Mother,
Thank you for the awesome dictionary. I haven’t had time to look up any big words because of what’s going on at home. Grandmother and Chick think I’m a total mall chick. They wanted me go to Hilton Head for the holidays, but I’m in love with Patrick Little and needed to stay here. Regina like totally locked me in my room and called me a juvenile delinquent. She can eat shit and die. Please come and get me. I have NOTHING to do but read back issues of Seventeen.
Love,
Jennifer