Slim Chance

by Jackie Rose

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Annie said. “But hopefully she sees it as gaining another daughter.”

  “Not this bitch,” said Theo. “But your optimism is refreshing, Annie.”

  “Well, she did force herself to hug me,” I continued. “Bruce doesn’t believe me, but I swear it was the first time the woman’s ever actually touched me. Can you believe that? I didn’t realize it till I felt her bony ribs. She was even crying a bit. I wouldn’t say it was exactly nice, because I was uncomfortable as all hell, I won’t lie to you, but it was…I don’t know…almost normal.”

  I was censoring, but just a bit. The first thing Bertie did when we told her we were getting married was give Bruce’s dad The Look, and then she excused herself politely to go see to the roast. I was immediately pissed off for Bruce’s sake, but he seemed more amused by it than hurt, thank God. When she came back out of the kitchen a few minutes later, she was crying—that was when she hugged me—but she smelled like onions, and her finger was bleeding.

  “I don’t think she was really all that surprised,” I lied. “Bruce’s dad knew about it the whole time, so he was probably acting like a freak for weeks beforehand. I’m sure she knew something was up.”

  “Yes, but could she really have expected this?” Theo sighed. “Her precious Bruce, heir to the Fulbright Jam and Jelly empire, marrying a sloppy Italian wench from Brooklyn. Your mother got the prize in this scenario, my dear. Bruce is like your mother’s knight in shining armour—he fixes her toilet, he does her taxes, and he saved you from the shame of spinsterhood. This wedding is the answer to all her prayers. But what do you do for Bertie?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, what does she get out of you? Out of your relationship with Bruce? Nothing but a headache, I bet. You spare the maid from doing Bruce’s laundry, that’s about it.”

  “That’s not true,” I pointed out. “Bruce does his own laundry. And mine.”

  “How silly of me. Of course he does. Just remember though, Bertie’s got plenty of daughters already, so it’s not like she needs our young Martha Stewart over here to accompany her on afternoon shopping dates or to take care of her when she gets old. This is probably a living nightmare for the woman.”

  I was incensed. “For your information, Theo, Bruce likes doing laundry. And Bertie called me the next night and we talked about what kind of wedding we want. So she’s obviously accepting this.”

  “Don’t be naive. She’s got a few tricks up her sleeve, yet,” he said.

  “What about his sisters?” asked Kimby. Bruce’s sisters were a source of endless amusement for all who knew of them. Even Morgan listened with bated breath to tales of their tantrums and addictions.

  “His sisters were okay about it, I guess. They just sort of nodded and smiled. Except for Brooke…”

  “Is that the oldest one?”

  “Yes. She’s the one who wanted to go to help free Tibet until she found out that it was in Asia.”

  Everyone nodded, remembering.

  “Well, Brooke kind of seemed like she was about to cry at any moment, and she kept staring at The Ring!”

  Annie slapped the table. “That jealous bitch!” she said, with an uncharacteristic touch of venom. “She thinks it should be hers.”

  “Bruce’s dad, though—he’s the best. He’s just so happy for us about this. It’s like he has a new reason to live or something….”

  Annie just wanted more details. “And what about the dress, and flowers, and…”

  “She’s only been engaged for a week, for chrissake,” Nicole interrupted.

  “Actually, I do have a few ideas,” I said, reaching into my bag. Thankfully, there’s an excellent magazine store in the lobby of the Kendra White building, so I’d already amassed quite a stack of reference materials. “Martha Stewart Weddings, Bridal Guide, In Style Weddings, Bride—I can’t get enough! I swear, I’m going to keep them all in business this year!” I said, and put the stack on the table.

  Nicole rolled her eyes, but grabbed Martha Stewart Weddings before anyone else could. “What a hideous cake,” she said of the picture on the cover.

  “Oh, please!” shrieked Theo. “It’s fabulous! Marzipan is so hard to work with. You just don’t get it—it’s supposed to look like Wedgewood china. You know, you could do something like this, Evie.”

  “Let’s worry about the cake later,” I said wisely. “For now, let’s turn to the pages I’ve marked for bridesmaids’ dresses. Oh, you’re all going to be so gorgeous, I can’t wait!”

  “Do I get to be a bridesmaid?” Theo clapped his hands. “I’d look precious in that one—I have a flatter stomach than all of you!”

  “No, you idiot, you’re a groomsman,” said Kimby. “And don’t kid yourself, dear. My stomach is flatter than yours.”

  4

  The scale doesn’t lie—three bloody weeks and not a single pound gone. I stared down in horror at the number between my big toes. Even if I held my boobs up—nothing. I’ve almost completely cut out chocolate, and for what? Damn. But I suppose just not gaining any weight could be seen as a relative success. It’s been hell at work, after all. Hell. And we’ve had so many dinners out, with everyone wanting to celebrate and all that. So just getting on the scale right now was pretty brave in the first place, I think.

  But now I cannot hide from the painful truth any longer: I officially had forty pounds to lose by August 18, our wedding day. Make that June 18—two months before the wedding, if I wanted to have my alterations done in time. I glanced down at the scale again. So let’s see, that gives me…about nine months. Plenty of time. But what about The Dress? How can I buy The Dress anytime soon in this state? They’ll be able to take it in, thank God for that, but I’ve at least got to be able to go dress shopping without feeling like a cow. That settles it. Starting today, I’ve got to get serious….

  “Evie?” Bruce was knocking on the door. “I need the bathroom.”

  “Get away!” I barked, and jumped down off the scale.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m not ready yet.”

  “Are you on that damn scale again? You’ve been in there for forty-five minutes. I’ve got to take a shower. I’m gonna be late.”

  I hid the scale back behind the cabinet. He’d kill me if he saw it out again. I put on my bathrobe, opened the door and swept past him in a fury. “You know, you could give me some privacy once in a while,” I yelled back at him. But he just slammed the door.

  Later, when I was blow-drying my hair, he sat down on the bed beside me. “What?” I asked.

  “I’m throwing it out.”

  “No you’re not,” I informed him, and turned the dryer back on.

  He pulled the plug out of the wall. “Yes I am. I can’t go through this again.”

  “You can’t? What about me? I’m the pork chop…”

  “Evie, you’re not fat and I’m throwing that scale out. I can see it in your eyes. You’re going to get crazy again.”

  “But what if I promise not to?” I asked sweetly, and plugged the dryer back in. But he grabbed it out of my hand.

  “You can’t promise something like that. You know what happens to you…”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I knew exactly what he meant, but I kind of like teasing him.

  “Have you forgotten the intervention already? You almost lost all of your friends and I seriously considered tossing you into the East River.”

  Bruce and apparently everyone else in my life labor under the impression that I have some sort of Dr. Jeckyl and Mrs. Hyde thing going on when I’m on a diet. I admit that I might get a little moody (and possibly even abrasive) when deprived of chocolate for too long, but who the hell doesn’t?

  “If you’re referring to that day when you all managed to force me to eat half a cheesecake, of course I haven’t forgotten. And my third chin remembers it too, so thanks for nothing.”

  “But you were so much better after that….” Bru
ce said wistfully.

  “Because I fell off the wagon and my personality’s been dulled by a perpetual sugar high ever since.”

  Bruce shook his head. “I’m not kidding, Evie.”

  “I know. And I really do promise not to get bitchy this time, but you have to understand—I need to lose some weight. As soon as I do, I’ll feel better about myself, and that’ll counteract any nastiness you may experience. But I will try to be good. I promise. Just have a little faith in me, okay?”

  “It’s not you I don’t have faith in, it’s the evil Mrs. Hyde who worries me.”

  I threw a pillow at his head and returned to my blow-drying. I knew Bruce was only trying to make sure that things stay under control, but his attitude was starting to grate on my nerves a bit. His stress was contagious, and I wanted no part of it.

  It’s all to do with his mother, no doubt. Bertie has officially gone into overdrive, and it has been getting progressively uglier with each passing day. The first crisis was finding the perfect location for the wedding. Every hotel, every inn she considers good enough has, of course, been booked solid for decades. After the banquet manager at one upscale hotel in the city (which I hesitate to name because of a pending lawsuit), actually laughed out loud and then hung up on her after she politely inquired about the possibility of reserving a Saturday night this coming June, Bertie called me in near hysterics. “If you were more sensible,” she’d spat, “you’d agree to a longer engagement. Everyone knows that you need at least a year and a half to be able to be able to plan a proper wedding. You can just forget about any getting a decent caterer or photographer. Why? WHY? It’s ridiculous—it’s not like you’re pregnant.”

  I remained silent just long enough to let the possibility creep into her consciousness. After a moment or two, I could feel her panic. Poor thing. Better put her out of her misery.

  “No, of course I’m not pregnant, but—”

  “Well!” she shrieked. “Guess what? You can do it yourselves. Or tell your mother she can do it. I just can’t take it for another second.”

  “All right. I’ll tell her. I’m sure her church up in Bensonhurst is available. I mean, it’s not like anyone in the old neighborhood actually gets married anymore. Her priest will be delighted. You know, he mostly does funerals these days. With a few streamers and balloons, the party room downstairs will look almost as nice as the ballroom at the Waldorf. We might have to clean it up a bit, though, because I think they still hold that doggie obedience school there every Tuesday….”

  “Evelyn, that’s not funny,” she interjected.

  “I’m serious. We don’t want a three-year engagement. Bruce doesn’t care about the best of this or that. He’d be happy if we ran off to Vegas and got married there.”

  She knew I was right. Bruce probably would go for that type of thing. Of course, I would never agree to anything that tacky. But she doesn’t know that.

  “Why can’t you just do it a bit later, like next fall? It’ll give us more time,” she pleaded.

  “I suppose, if we absolutely have to,” I sighed. “But I hope Bruce doesn’t get impatient. He almost flipped out when I told him we were looking at well over two hundred people. And they’re mostly from your side. My side is less than forty. I just don’t want him getting cold feet about a big wedding. Do you?”

  She’d already had three arguments with Bruce about various wedding details, and she could tell his patience was wearing thin. Even worse, how could she tell her friends from the gardening club and the children’s hospital foundation that her only son had eloped to some Elvis-themed wedding chapel on the Strip? My God, what would Mona Davenport think? Her daughter’s wedding last July was at the Plaza….

  “Fine, I’ll keep trying,” she said. “I just want you to appreciate how difficult it’s going to be.”

  “I know you’ll find something,” I assured her.

  At least things would be calming down at work. Friday was Pruscilla’s last day, and Thelma Thorpe, her temporary replacement, was rumored to have the spine of a jellyfish. How these people work their way up is anyone’s guess. Monday morning, the woman could barely make eye contact, let alone tell me what to do.

  “Er, um, just go ahead with what Pruscilla has planned, and I’ll check in with you later,” she said quietly, avoiding my steely gaze. If you ask me, Thelma’s wild shock of yellowy hair certainly doesn’t present the right image for the company, especially considering she heads up the Haircare division. She managed a weak smile, and looked down at the floor. Her skin was red and angry, as if she’d just been scrubbed with a nail brush.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I have a copy of Pruscilla’s Action Plan. Just call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks. And…oh dear…um…you have something in your…your face,” she said quickly, backing away.

  I pulled out my compact. Oh God—a booger! Plain as day. It had probably been there all morning. That hag Andrea from Fragrances stared me right in the eye and told me it looked like I’d lost weight. No wonder there was so much snickering at the coffee cart. Before I could plan my revenge, Mom called.

  “Evie, I have the most wonderful idea. Let’s go to Sternfeld’s tonight and try on wedding dresses,” she said immediately.

  Crap, crap, crap! I’m not ready for this yet.

  “I don’t know, Mom. Isn’t it a bit soon?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about your tummy,” she said excitedly. “There’s still plenty of time to lose a few pounds before the wedding.”

  “No, I mean why now? I didn’t plan to start looking for another couple of months. The wedding’s not until August, and we’re only in October. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?” I hadn’t even had lunch yet and already my waistband was beginning to cut off all circulation to my legs.

  “Absolutely not! I’ve been doing a little research on my own, and I’ll have you know that all the new bridal fashions for the summer are out right now, to give enough time for alterations.”

  “Well, I guess.” I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Martha Stewart says that the mother-daughter wedding-dress-shopping experience is a memory every woman will look back on fondly over the years, remembering it as one of the most cherished moments of her pre-married life (Martha Stewart Weddings, Fall: “12 Timeless Bridal Traditions”).

  “And Sternfeld’s is the biggest bridal store in Brooklyn—maybe even the world!” She sounded like a commercial, so excited she could barely contain herself. “I just know we’ll find something for you there. I called—they come in all sizes.”

  I undid the top button of my pants and breathed out deeply. If she had been beside me right then, it would have been hard not to smack her. “Mom, could you lay off about that, please? It’s hard enough knowing I have to lose so much in so little time,” I hissed into the phone. “I sure as hell don’t need you telling me I need a plus-size wedding dress.” Laetitia Farkle peeped over the wall of my cubicle.

  “Curiosity killed the cat, dear,” I smiled, my hand over the receiver, and shot her one of my nastiest glares.

  “Satisfaction brought him back,” she whispered, and sunk back down behind the divider.

  Idiot. What passes for wit around here would make Oscar Wilde turn over in his grave.

  “Evie, I know you’ll lose the weight,” Mom continued. “And the lady at the store said they can do alterations as you lose. And even if you don’t—”

  “Mom. Please!” I was trying hard to keep my voice down.

  “Let me finish. The lady said they have styles that are flattering for every figure.”

  “I know that already. God! I refuse to do this with you if you’re going to be mean about it. That means no ganging up on me with the saleslady, no insisting I try on something I don’t like, no embarrassing me whatsoever. Can you do that?”

  “I can’t promise anything. All I know is that shopping with you for a wedding dress is like a dream come true for me. Who’d have thought? It’s actually happening for you. I w
asn’t sure it would—” She was starting to sniffle, so I cut it short with a promise to meet her there at five.

  Thankfully, Thelma had elected to remain in her own office across the floor instead of moving into Pruscilla’s, which meant my cubicle would be free from prying eyes for the next six weeks. So my first order of business on this Pruscilla-free Monday morn was to announce our engagement on seven different wedding Web sites, two of which offered free presents—one bar set and one wine-and-cheese backpack—to any couple who signed up for their online gift registries.

  After lunch, I organized my dress folder, which was already overstuffed with pictures ripped out from magazines. I divided them into two piles: Dream Dresses and Just Okay. The Dream pile consisted mostly of Vera Wang ads (Vogue, September: “Gown Goddess: Why Society Brides Love Vera Wang”), along with a few runway shots of gaunt models draped in impossibly narrow but undeniably fabulous couture dresses. But I would definitely settle for anything from the Okay stack—delicate little spaghetti-strapped numbers with antique lace trains, strapless corsets encrusted with glittering Austrian crystals and fairy-princess gowns surrounded in yards of billowing white tulle. I’d been doing my research, and knew the importance of giving the saleslady an idea of my taste in order for her to help serve me best (Bridal Guide, October: “The Do’s and Don’ts of Dress Shopping”).

  The afternoon flew by, and I snuck out early. On my way past the switchboard, I told the girls to transfer all of Andrea’s calls tomorrow to her boss’s extension. “She’ll be out all day at the Scents and Sensibility trade show, so send everything through to Teresa,” I told them. “She’s waiting for some important calls, so she didn’t want them getting routed to voice mail.” Andrea, whose cubicle is tucked away in a back corner, spends at least four hours a day on the phone gossiping with her friends. Once Teresa fields seventeen calls for her by noon, she should start to get the idea. It was a little mean, but so was making fun of a girl’s booger. And if it ever came out, well…who am I kidding? I’d be hailed as a hero—everyone hates Andrea.