by Jackie Rose
“What’s wrong with her apartment?” The thought of some strange man in Mom’s apartment made my stomach turn.
“Nothing, but it’s obviously not the Ritz. I can see where this is going, Evie, and I don’t think it’s fair of you to make things hard on her. Remember, this is what you’ve wanted for a very long time, that your mom would have someone, but now that’s it’s happened, you’re freaking out. It’s normal, and I understand it’s weird for you—”
“But there’s something not right about this guy,” I interrupted. “I can feel it.”
“Claire said he’s really nice, and I trust her, so let’s not make a big deal out of this,” he said.
“But you didn’t hear her when I said that we wanted to meet him. She was making all kinds of excuses.”
“She’s just shy, Evie. And nervous.”
“Do you think she’s embarrassed? Maybe he’s an ugly freak. Maybe he’s got a trunk growing out of his face like the Elephant Man. Maybe he’s four feet tall…” The grim possibilities crowded my brain.
“Maybe she’s embarrassed of you,” Bruce said. “Didn’t you throw up on her last boyfriend?”
“No, I did not throw up on anyone. I’ve never done that.”
“Maybe not. But you threw up when I proposed,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Did I? Did I Bruce? Thanks for reminding me. I’d almost forgotten.”
He rolled his eyes. “I just meant that you have a nervous stomach.”
“Any excuse to bring it up. You’re never going to let me live it down, are you? Yes, I threw up. I threw up at the thought of marrying you, Bruce. There. I said it. If you like, I’ll admit it to you every day for the next fifty years, if we make it that far.”
Bruce threw his fork down and pushed back from the table. “I’m tired, Evie. And I’m tired of this,” he said. “Can we just go home, please?” His big brown eyes stared right through me. Now you’ve done it. My big mouth had ruined yet another perfect evening. You’d think I’d know better by now, but once I start I just can’t seem to stop.
“But it’s your birthday,” I told him, and grabbed his hand. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve hung out around here.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you want to walk around? Hold hands? Get some gelato or something?” I was desperate. This was supposed to be a night to relish in our coupledom, to get back to the way we were. Luna and Mulberry Street had worked their magic on us before. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Sorry isn’t just a word, Evie. If you don’t mind, I’d really rather just go home.”
15
Albert turned out to be a very big loser, though not exactly in the way I’d expected. He didn’t have boils all over his face or overly long arms or missing teeth. His looks really weren’t that bad at all, unless you consider a man with white socks to be undatable (for the record, I do, but I’d have to cut Mom some slack—after all, she still wears acid-washed jeans). No, Bruce and I both agreed that Albert’s flaws were purely character-driven in nature. Which is better in one sense and worse in another, I suppose.
At least if a man is ugly, you know he’s going to try hard to compensate for his looks in other ways. Plenty of girls I know have dated guys they would have spat on in high school simply because there are no cute ones left in New York who aren’t married, dead or gay, although Theo complains bitterly that all the hot gay ones are taken, too. Even Morgan dated a fairly ugly guy once, and he wasn’t even rich. He was three inches shorter than her and had an orange beard, but he truly was the sweetest thing (Elle, October: “The Myth of the Male Model: Why Real Guys Are Better in Bed”). In the end, she realized she was only with him to get back at Tom, whom she’d dumped for staring at himself in the mirror constantly and stating publicly what a gorgeous couple they made. In the end, she did the right thing and sent Redbeard on his way—revenge is not a reason to date anyone for longer than three or four weeks.
There were plenty of reasons I could see not to date Albert aside from his fashion sense, not the least of which was his annoying habit of saying exactly everything that came into his head. Plus, he ate the entire meal with a toothpick in his mouth. I was thankful we’d decided to meet at Mom’s for dinner and not in public somewhere.
As soon as we walked in the door, Albert came right up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “You must be Evie,” he said, looking me up and down, then shouted, “Hey, Lilly, she’s not fat!”
Mom scuttled in from the kitchen, frantically wiping her hands on her apron. “Now, Albert, you must have misunderstood me. I never said that—I mentioned that Evie’s lost some weight recently,” she sang nervously.
“Well you look fine to me, honey,” he said to me, then tucked his arm around Mom’s waist and pulled her close. “In fact, you’re the spitting image of your mother, and it’s no secret what a fine-looking woman she is.”
He didn’t go so far as slapping her on the ass, but I could tell that he wanted to. Was this a joke? My stomach rumbled disagreeably.
Instead of running to the bathroom and throwing up like I wanted to, I just shot Mom a dark look and said, “This is Bruce.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bruce smiled.
“I’ve heard lots of good things about you, son,” Albert said and shook Bruce’s hand vigorously.
“That’s some grip you’ve got there, sir,” Bruce said when he got his hand back. A vein in his forehead throbbed angrily.
“A firm grip is my trademark. A weak handshake signals a weak constitution.”
“Shall we have drinks?” Mom asked, ushering us into the living room.
I certainly needed one. Liquid courage was the only way I’d be able to handle a boor like Albert for an entire evening without completely losing it.
“I’ll have a scotch, Lilly,” he said, and Mom dutifully trotted back to the kitchen. He spoke to her as if they’d been married for twenty years.
Aside from the toothpick thing, which was really quite impressive once you got past how gross it was, Albert distinguished himself with a string of insightful observations over dinner, including, “Bruce, a smart guy like you should be in the computer business—let me see what I can do” and “Lilly, this meat loaf is enough to make a man curse his own mother’s cooking.” He also told me that he thought I’d look much better without so much makeup on (as if). Mom flipped her hair about a thousand times, and made a complete idiot out of herself.
By the time Albert downed his third after-dinner drink, things started to get a little too friendly for my taste.
“As long as we’re being honest here with each other, and I think we are, I was a little afraid to meet the two of you,” he confided. “Lilly worried it was too soon. Don’t get me wrong—I knew you’d like me…but what if I didn’t like you!” He laughed loudly and slapped Bruce on the side of the knee.
“Stop it, Albert!” Mom giggled from the kitchen.
“Mom, why don’t you leave the dishes for later and come in here and sit with us,” Bruce called in to her. He knew that if she was close at hand, I’d be less likely to blow my top.
“No, no, I’m kidding. You two are nice kids,” Albert went on. “Maybe we can have a barbecue over at my son’s place. The whole family.”
Before I could come up with a reason not to, Mom came in with a tray of coffee and biscotti and sat down next to Albert. He put his hand on her thigh.
“Why don’t you tell the kids a little more about what you do,” Mom said to him. Was she completely oblivious to what a fool she was making of herself, allowing this cad to paw at her like some horny teenager? It took all my self-control not to slap the filthy old bastard across the face. Instead, I kept telling myself that I was supposed to be happy for Mom.
“Like I told you already, I sell computers. Not much more to it than that. If you’re wondering how an old man like me got into the computer game, then all’s I can say is—my son’s the boss!”
We laughed polit
ely, but Mom roared.
“Casella Computers—ever heard of it? We’ve got eleven stores now, all over the five boroughs. There’s one near NYU, Evie. We sell to all the students. I manage the one in Queens. I been telling your mother she ought to get one—a computer, that is, not a store!” More laughter from Mom. “Then she’d be able to e-mail that sister of hers out in London. Maybe for Christmas, eh?”
“Oh, Al. You’re too generous,” she said. “You’re too good for me—”
“I wouldn’t say that, Mom,” I interrupted.
Bruce pinched me hard, sensing danger.
“What?” I said to him. “She could use a computer.”
But Mom hadn’t even heard what I’d said. She was batting her eyelashes at Al.
It was all I could do not to throw up on the both of them.
By the end of May, I had a problem of an altogether unanticipated kind—my dress was too big on me. Too big on me! Somehow, I was still losing a pound or two a week. Jade was amazed, and I was confused. Elated, but confused. The numbers on the scale seemed vaguely unreal—123 sounded more like an address on Sesame Street than what I, Evelyn Mays, lifelong fat chick, actually weighed. My formerly too-big boobs had gone from a small D to a big B, so the dress was gaping in the chest a little. The seamstress told me that I’d better not lose another pound, or else she couldn’t be held responsible. Music to my ears.
The rest of my wardrobe was similarly baggy. Thankfully, I did have the foresight to apply for a Saks Card (Barneys turned me down) before most of my credit problems made their way onto the radar. Since it technically wasn’t a regular credit card, and didn’t have that high of a limit, there was no reason to feel guilty. But it was shiny and new and desperately in need of attention. So with forty-seven pounds gone in less than six months and only three pounds to go before I could stop, I treated myself to a small shopping spree. Luckily, Bruce was out of town until Monday, so I wouldn’t be forced to justify all the bags.
Since part of taking responsibility for one’s finances involves tracking how much money one spends and on what (Cosmopolitan, April: “Five Steps to Financial Freedom”), here’s my list:
1 pair Theory stretch capri pants, hot pink (size 4!)
1 pair original low-rise Earl jeans (size 6)
1 Earl jean jacket, indigo (small)
1 Moschino Jeans rhinestone stretch denim skirt (size 6)
2 DKNY square-neck T-shirts, chartreuse and magenta (medium)
1 ABS miniskirt, pumpkin (size 4)
1 D&G silk shantung tie-front shirt, watermelon (medium)
1 DKNY geometric print halter top, blue and white (medium)
2 D&G jersey bustiers with built-in bra, black and white (medium)
1 Tse classic cashmere sweater set, on sale, rose blush (small)
1 Frankie B low-waisted denim shirtdress (size 6)
1 Betsey Johnson ruffled gingham sundress, pink (size 6)
2 Ralph Lauren bra-and-panties sets, lime and lemon (34 B)
1 Saks Fifth Avenue fitted ¾-length jersey, purple horizontal pinstripes (small)
1 pair fake Gucci sunglasses with orange lenses
1 pair Miu Miu open-toe faux-alligator platform pumps, caramel and red
I’m not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing, but that one little trip maxed out the card instantaneously. There was no more damage to be done. Of course, by that point, I was obviously already completely insane, and cared not one bit for the consequences of any of my actions.
Morgan came over on Friday after work to see me model all my new stuff. Actually, she didn’t really care about my purchases, but she did want to show me the dress she’d bought for the wedding. It was gorgeous on her, black and slinky, but with good coverage. Morgan was smart like that—she knew enough not to steal my thunder. Not that she really could anyway, since everyone knows that a bride is always the most beautiful woman in the room. To be fair, though, wedding day or not, Morgan will always have better bone structure than me. But I have thicker hair.
“The best part about all this is that I finally figured out a way to pay for everything all on my own!” I told her.
“I think I saw a hooker wearing those shoes down in the Bowery,” she said. “They make you look like you’re trying too hard to be tall. You’re five foot four—you can’t wear four-inch heels.”
She doesn’t know the first thing about fashion so I let it go. “For months, the solution was staring me right in the face, Morgan, but I never saw it—the money we’re going to get for our wedding! Bruce’s parents have tons of rich friends, and they’re all invited.” It was shocking that it had never occurred to me sooner (Bridal Guide, May: “Retirement Planning vs. Your First Home: What To Do with Your Wedding Money”).
Morgan sighed skeptically. “What if you don’t get as much as you think you will?”
“Trust me—I know these people. Not appearing cheap in front of their friends means a hell of a lot more to them than a measly few hundred bucks. When you add it all up, we’re looking at tens of thousands of dollars!”
“You’re an idiot, Evie. You don’t actually think Bruce will go for this, do you?”
“That’s the beauty of it, Morgan—this is exactly what the money’s there for, to help us get set up and start our new lives together on the right foot. Bruce won’t mind because he hates the idea of being in debt. He’ll be delighted to wipe the slate clean and start fresh. Then, when I finally get a raise, or find a better job, I’ll be able to get ahead of the game.”
And that’s exactly how I would present it to him. Even if he didn’t agree, which he surely wouldn’t at first, at least I’d be able to say that I had a sincere plan. Anyway, resistance was futile by that point: I was powerless against the shopping, powerless against that damn dress, powerless against my personal trainer. There was nothing to do but succumb to the forces that were acting upon me and indulge in all that was wrong and evil in the world.
“If you say so, Evie,” she laughed. “You’ve really worked this out.”
“Yes I have. Which is why I can’t imagine a better way to celebrate my new, fat-free life than indulging in a few choice items such as these.”
It was wildly liberating to realize that things weren’t necessarily as bad as I thought they were. For a while there, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen with all that money stuff. But finally, after years of hard work and heartache, I now had the body and the bucks (sort of) to explore my true fashion sense. And nothing was going to stop me. Especially not knowing better.
Morgan took in the bags and tags and clothes strewn all over the bed and floor, and said, “Evie, I’ll go you one further—you need more than new clothes. I’d say you deserve an entirely new look.”
“My new clothes are my new look,” I said.
“No, I mean a real new look—a makeover, like the one you gave me before I went to Berkeley. I’ll never forget it. You said, ‘Never underestimate the power of highlights, Morgan.’ And you were right.”
My God, she spoke the truth. For months, I’d been so consumed by getting rid of my fat ass, that I hadn’t given so much as a thought to the rest of me.
Morgan’s whole life changed after that makeover. It gave her the confidence to go from a skinny, unpopular strawberry-blond geek to a fiery redhead who knew what she wanted and exactly how to get it. She completely reinvented herself on the other side of the country, and that makeover was the starting point. Truthfully, I considered it to be one of my greatest accomplishments.
Maybe a new look would do the same for me. I could definitely use the boost. Because no matter how many pounds I lost, I still felt somehow incomplete. I guess I just needed a few finishing touches, a clean break from the old me. Maybe then I would feel like I actually belonged in that dress instead of some kid trying on a Halloween costume. Morgan, despite her stylistic nihilism, had hit the nail on the head.
“And you never would have got layers, either, if I hadn’t suggested it,” I reminded her.
“Who knows where you’d be today?”
“Exactly. So what are you waiting for? Beautician, layer thyself! I’ll call my mother—she can get you in to her place tomorrow.”
Morgan knew I was impressed that her mother went to Louis Licari. “But you need to book six months in advance,” I practically shouted. “He’s colorist to the stars!”
“She let her guy use her beach house last weekend. He owes her.”
That left me only a few hours to consult the literature. Thankfully, I knew exactly where to look (In Style, May: “From Meg to Madonna, From Julia to J. Lo: Today’s Hottest Celebrity Hair”).
Even an untrained eye like Morgan could see that new hair would be the most crucial aspect of my makeover. Makeup was the easy part—I just went to Saks, where the Lancome counter gives customers free lessons in makeup application and color selection with any purchase over $175. But my coif needed more than a department-store freebie.
I’d never really bothered much with my hair; I was used to it long and plain and boring, with the usual trim and blow-dry every six weeks and a plain-Jane single-color rinse every two months. No matter what, it was always drab brown, with varying degrees of reddishness. And the only time I’d ever cut it short was on a regrettable whim senior year. Bruce and I had only been dating for a few months, and he mentioned that he thought I’d look good with short hair like Winona Ryder. Like an idiot, I went out and chopped it off. In theory, it should have worked, because I have delicate features, too, but I didn’t account for the fat factor. Instead of irresistibly cute and waif-like, the pixie do left me disproportionally pear-shaped, with nothing on top to balance out my big butt below. It took two years to grow out, and I’m never making that mistake again. Besides, long hair is in again (Vogue, April: “Extend Yourself: Autumn Runways Fall for Long Hair”).
This time, there would be nothing to worry about. I knew they’d do right by me at Louis Licari. At three hundred and fifty bucks for a cut and color, they’d better.
