Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  “Like heaven. I want to hit Burger City first and have a double cheeseburger with fries and root beer and …. Hold that thought, I need to throw up.” Running to the toilet, I’m overcome with sympathy for anorexics. All this hurling is making my throat raw and irritated. Why in the world would anyone choose to do this on purpose?

  Sitting on the floor with my head resting against the porcelain god, I start to cry. I am so sick and so happy and so overwhelmed and so delighted at the same time that the only escape for all these pent up emotions is tears. Gut wrenching sobs pour out of me as Elliot runs to my side, “Mimi, what happened? Are you are okay?”

  With snot running down my nose and vomit on my shirt, I answer, “I’m just so happy. Thank you, Elliot, thank you for making my life perfect.”

  The look of shock and horror on his face make it clear he doesn’t know if I’m being sarcastic or not. And while I am one hundred percent sincere in my gratitude, I can see where he might not be.

  Elliot helps me into bed and covers me up, “Why don’t I call Francoise for you while you have a little lie down? I’ll wake you once you have an appointment time.”

  My eyes are closed and I’m fast asleep by the time he leaves the room. I dream about house hunting with my future husband. So far, we’ve put it off because we’ve been so busy getting ready for the wedding. Rather, everyone else has been so busy getting ready for it. I’ve been too sick and Elliot is hard at work on his next thriller, Double Jeopardy. Our original plan was to buy a house in Pipsy and an apartment in New York City. That way we could be near family and I could continue working for Parliament in Manhattan. But soon after discovering I was pregnant, it became clear I didn’t have the necessary fortitude to grow life and hold down a job. For the first time in my adult life money isn’t an issue, so with Elliot’s persuasion, I agreed to leave my job until after the baby is born.

  One of Renée’s whoop de doo society friends hooked us up with her husband who is the premier real-estate agent in Hilldale. He’s been sending preliminary listings for us to look at and I’m astonished by what he thinks our requirements are. My current little yellow house in Pipsy would be perfect for us and the baby, maybe a little snug but still, pretty darn ideal. Blaine, I swear that’s his name, thinks we require at least ten thousand square feet and a pool. Elliot seems to agree with him. I was surprised by that until I learned he’s 17th in line for the throne. If some unimaginable holocaust hits the royals, I could be living in Buckingham Palace. That’s enough to make any middle-class girl from Pipsy sick to her stomach.

  My pregnancy dreams have been fantastically absurd. Just last night I dreamt I was abducted by aliens that all looked like Prince Charles, at various ages. They all wanted to rub my bunion and feed me crumpets. That would have been fine and dandy, except when I threw up on one, he turned into a six foot lizard who licked me with a forked tongue.

  Have I mentioned the smells? My nose has become bionic. I can detect skunk before the malodorous aroma has even been released. Elliot’s cologne, that I once found the most intoxicatingly manly fragrance in the world, is now up there with the stench of unwashed feet. He’s been a good sport about not wearing it but I can tell he misses it. I’ve caught him taking a whiff every now and again out of the bottle.

  My doctor assures me I will feel better than ever once I hit my second trimester. If that isn’t true, I’m going to see what I can do about being put into a medically induced coma until this nightmare is over. No time to worry about that now though. My subconscious must start obsessing over meeting Elliot’s parents and impressing them as the perfect vessel for their illustrious line. Crap.

  Chapter 3

  I don’t know why, but I’ve started envisioning Elliot’s mother looking like Patsy from that old sit-com Absolutely Fabulous. You know tall, painfully thin, beehive up to the heavens, cigarette perpetually dangling from her lips. I know this won’t be the case and it’s not.

  Victoria Fielding, Countess of Derbyshire, looks no more like good old Pats than I do. There is nothing BBC America about her. She is solid Masterpiece Theater and I have the worst fear I’m going to soil her shoes, which are a feminine version of her husband’s tasseled loafers. Much to my relief, she’s not wearing tweed or carrying a shotgun for the hunt. She’s sporting a lovely neutral cashmere twinset with matching trousers. Her deep auburn hair is so elegant and ladylike I feel like a hooker in comparison. A double strand of pearls hangs from her neck and her earrings probably cost more than my car.

  Elliot’s dad, the earl, appears to have just stepped off the set of Upstairs Downstairs. He’s as handsome as Elliot but way more uptight in his bearing. He looks like he’s just caught a hint of Limburger cheese. His name is Archibald and I haven’t a clue what to call him. Archie, Dad, Your Lordship, Pops?

  We’re having brunch at The Hilldale Country Club, where until recently, my sister, Muffy, was the female tennis pro. Her ex-husband was the men’s tennis pro until word got out that he was serving more than tennis balls to many of the members’ wives. I don’t think that’s the reason they fired him as much as the fact that it became public knowledge. However, that is the reason he’s Muffy’s ex and not current other half. At any rate, I’m not a member of the country club, nor is Elliot, but they were more than happy to accept his brunch reservation in hopes he will join their renowned assemblage in the near future.

  We’re standing in what can only be described as the salon. Mere mortals might refer to it as the lobby but there is nothing mere or mortal about this setup. Huge chandeliers hang overhead from twenty-eight foot ceilings. Stuffed loveseats and winged back chairs are clustered together for various conversation areas. Fresh flowers abound and it is all I can do to keep my meager breakfast of dry toast and tea from coming up on me.

  Trying to express my delight at meeting my future in-laws, I smile brightly and declare, “I’m so pleased to meet you both!”

  The earl tilts his head to the side and murmurs, “Indeed.” At the same time the countess offers, “Quite.” What the hell? It’s like meeting Elliot all over again. These Brits are so reserved and uppity I have no idea how to proceed.

  Elliot kisses his mother’s cheek then shakes his father’s hand in greeting. It’s like a Wild Kingdom episode. If you listen closely, you can hear the snooty voiceover of the show’s host. “The animals at the top of the pecking order are only allowed to show the politest amount of interest in one other. Note, they do not embrace, that is for the more common of the species.”

  The earl allows a genuine smile to touch his lips upon laying eyes on his son and announces, “Elliot, we are delighted to see you.” Notice he does not say, “We are delighted to see you and your charming fiancée.” He says, “We are delighted to see YOU, period.”

  Elliot counters, “Let’s see if our table is ready so we can catch up.” While I have never dined at the country club before, I can tell you this, the staff is bending over backwards to make sure that we are given the best table and are seated with the proper amount of pomp and circumstance, enough to make any royal feel welcome. I’m ready to whip Edith Bunker out and suggest someone give her a nice rub but manage to hold back for fear of horrifying my dining companions.

  The earl orders an Armagnac, the countess, a flute of champagne. Elliot requests black coffee and I simply ask for water with no ice and no lemon. Our server suggests we view the buffet before ordering off the menu. The tension is so thick you’d need a machete to cut through it. It’s only after our drinks are served that my future mother-in-law deigns to speak to me. “So, Mimi, is it?” I nod to acknowledge that she’s got my name right. “How is it that you and Elliot are on your way to the altar so quickly after meeting?” Then, just in case she hasn’t made me uncomfortable enough, she adds, “We were expecting his betrothal to Beatrice. This is quite another matter.”

  What I want to say is, “For crap sakes, Your Highness, could you pull the stick out of your rump long enough to be civil?”

  Ell
iot is wise enough to intercept and not give me free reign in my response. “Mother, Father, Beatrice and I are no more than good friends. I wanted to be there to help her during her breast cancer struggles, nothing more.”

  The earl answers, “Very noble of you son. How is dear Beatrice?”

  Elliot tells them her cancer has returned and that she’s back in London. He adds, “She’s fallen madly in love with the chap who came out to fix her washer machine.”

  The countess gasps, “How unexpected! Well, I’m delighted for her that she’s found companionship, no matter how common, in the midst of her ordeal.” I swear to God, she glances my way when the second half of that sentence spews forth. Then she looks straight at me and asks, “How did you and my son meet, Miss Finnegan?”

  Miss Finnegan? Is that what she’s going to call me? It’s like I’m interviewing to clean her toilets, not marry her son.

  Elliot, in fear for his mother’s life, answers, “Mimi and I met at her office. Her PR company is dong the press for Double Jeopardy.”

  The earl pipes in with, “How impressive to own one’s own company at such a young age.”

  I choke on my water and reply, “It’s not my company, sir. I just work there.”

  If you listen closely you can hear crickets chirping because the table has gone dead quiet. Elliot eventually contributes, “Mimi and I travelled to New York City together and we fell in love there.”

  His mother wonders, “Didn’t you want a longer engagement so we could have announced the occasion properly?” By properly, she must mean sending liveried servants to deliver engraved invitations for a party at the Royal Gallery, where the impending union would be announced by a troop of panty hose wearing town criers. That’s when it hits me, Elliot’s parents have no idea I’m pregnant!

  Elliot and I share a glance that encompasses an entire telepathic conversation.

  Me: What the hell? You didn’t tell them?!

  Elliot: Darling, you don’t understand. This is big news for them.

  Me: Listen, butt head, you’re marrying me! Fix this, NOW!!!

  Elliot: Yes, dear.

  Elliot clears his throat, “Mother, Father, we have some wonderful news! Mimi is expecting our child.”

  This decree is received with the same degree of excitement one would expect if they had just learned their country home had been invaded by al-Qaeda and turned into a brothel. Lead balloon much? Yup.

  The countess is the first to regain speech, “Oh, dear. Well then, I see where there’s reason for some haste.” She looks to her son and shares her own clairvoyant conversation.

  Countess: Dear Lord, Elliot. Why on earth did you impregnate the girl?

  Elliot: I love her, Mother.

  Countess: But she’s so common. And American! It’s a dreadful shock of which I’m not sure I’ll recover.

  Elliot: You’ll love her when you get to know her, I promise.

  Countess: When pigs fly.

  The earl seems to regain some decorum and raises his snifter in the air, “To my first grandchild.”

  Elliot raises his coffee cup, “Here, here.” The countess doesn’t even pick up her champagne.

  I excuse myself to use the ladies’ room, which translates into needing fresh air before I scream. By the time I return, our breakfast has been served and everyone seems to have moved on to discussing a rousing cricket tournament the earl is sponsoring at his old alma mater. I just pick at my fresh fruit bowl and count the minutes until I can go back to bed.

  “I think that went well.” Elliot offers once we get into the car.

  I look at him like he’s grown a second head and demand, “On what planet did that go well?”

  “Mimi, darling, my parents aren’t like yours. They’re more…” he pauses while he searches for the right word, “reserved.” What he means is they’re more refined but he’s smart enough not to say it out loud.

  “Your mother more than insinuated she wished you were marrying Beatrice and not me. Then she made it clear she wasn’t even happy about the baby. That’s going well?”

  “Yes,” he replied, “but my father toasted his first grandchild. Certainly that’s a nice gesture.”

  “Are they seriously going to stay here until the wedding? That’s six whole days! What on earth are we going to do with them?”

  Elliot responds, “They’re my parents, Mimi. They understand we’re getting ready for the wedding and don’t expect to be entertained constantly. But we will include them for family meals and wedding preparations. It will give them a chance to get acquainted with your family as well.”

  Saints preserve us. No good can come from this. My family is Irish, after all. I can see my father pointing out the many sins of the English and maybe even parading out quotes from Angela’s Ashes. My mom can show the countess how to make an Irish stew and then we can all sit and stare at each other like foreign bacteria under a microscope. This is going to be the longest week of my life.

  Chapter 4

  It’s only five days until the wedding and today marks the end of my first trimester. It’s like a switch has been flipped and I feel fabulous! I’m more refreshed than I’ve ever been. Rightly so as I’ve spent the better part of the last three months sound asleep. And I’m starving! For the first time since my sophomore year in high school, I weigh less than one hundred and fifty pounds, which if you ask me is quite impressive as I’m 5’11”. No delicate flower here.

  I roll over and give Elliot a wake surprise he hasn’t had since the nausea took over. After a lovely hour of getting reacquainted, in the biblical sense, I hop out of bed and demand, “Take me to breakfast. I’m ready to make up for lost time!”

  Elliot and I take a quick shower, get briefly sidetracked and don’t get to The Cracked Egg until three minutes before they stop serving breakfast. I’m famished and ready to devour everything I’ve been missing out on. I can’t decide what to order, so Elliot suggests I get anything that sounds good and eat whatever I want. His idea does not require a lot of persuasion.

  We’re snuggling together side-by-side in the red Naugahyde booth by the window, when who should we see walk by but my little sister, Muffy, and her new beau, my high school friend, Kevin Beeman. Kevin and I became reacquainted about five months ago when we ran into each other at a Weight Watchers meeting. Kevin’s wife left him the year before, announcing she was pregnant with his business partner’s baby. So in one fell swoop he lost his wife, his job and all meaning to life. He spent the next several months feeling sorry for himself and eating his body weight in Cocoa Puffs. You’d never know it to look at him now. He’s lost forty-eight pounds under the guidance of my physically fit sister and looks a lot like his super cute high school self, only better.

  Muffy and Kevin see us too and make their way into the restaurant. They get caught behind the waitress delivering our seven breakfasts. Elliot is having eggs Benedict and I’m having the farmer’s omelet, pigs in the blanket, a short-stack, oatmeal, a bagel with cream cheese, and waffles with strawberry syrup and whipped cream.

  Elliot explains, “The nausea has passed and we’re celebrating. Care to join us?”

  Muff and Kevin slide into the booth across from us and my sister asks, “Can we share yours or do we need to order our own?”

  The look of panic in my eyes has Kevin holding up his hand to ask the waitress for menus. He knows me so well.

  Muffy announces, “We just got confirmation, The Buff Muff will be open in time for Christmas!” In addition to being a couple, Muffy and Kevin are also business partners. They’re opening a tennis club in Hilldale. She’s the brawn and he’s the brains, not unlike that old song by the Pet Shop Boys.

  Kevin’s smile is radiant as he grabs Muffy’s hand, “We’re on our way, baby!”

  They couldn’t be cuter or more deserving of one another. They’ve been together the same amount of time as Elliot and I. I’m hoping theirs is the next wedding.

  Muffy announces, “After breakfast, I’m heading over
to Renée’s for my last fitting. Meems, you’re going to love the bridesmaid dresses!” My bridesmaids are all three of my sisters and my old Weight Watchers leader, Marge. Marge appears to be a bit of an unlikely candidate as she’s fiftyish and a bit matronly, but she held me together during a particularly rough time in my life and I wouldn’t be where I am without her. I wanted to invite Elliot’s sister to stand up with us as well, but he assured me it wouldn’t be her thing. Having met his parents, I’m a bit relieved not to have her in the wedding party. I can just see her pinched face looking like she was trying to unsuccessfully pass a giant turd.

  I ask, “What color are they anyway?” then mention, “I need to stop by Renée’s later for my fitting, too.”

  “Oh Meems, they’re so unexpected. Not at all the traditional bridesmaid dresses you see that are all one color and boring. They’re a yellow and gray floral with a brownish background, totally stunning!”

  I choke on my waffle, “What? I told Renée explicitly I didn’t care what they looked like so long as they weren’t yellow, gray or brown! Now you’re telling me they’re yellow, gray AND brown?”

  Muffy’s eyes start to dart around the table looking for reinforcements from the men but she soon discovers they’re too afraid of me to participate. Then in a soothing voice, like she’s trying to talk a mental patient off a ledge, she adds, “Don’t make any judgements until you see them, promise?”

  I promise, but I’m still pissed. I feel the beginnings of a real Bridezilla moment and realize with the wedding only five days away, I’ll probably just have to live with it. But I’m not happy.

  After breakfast, Elliot and Kevin decide to catch a workout while Muffy and I go over to Renée’s house. Renée’s home is exactly what our Realtor envisions for us. It’s a three story brick edifice guaranteed to impress. With a large fountain in the center of the circular drive and ivy growing up the side of the manse, it’s quite imposing. I pull my six year old red Honda up to the front and storm the staircase before Muffy can catch up. I don’t ring the bell like a proper guest, either. I just slam through the front door and yell, “Renée Marie Finnegan-Bouvier, where the hell are you?”