Jackie Rose - Slim Chance

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

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….” Bruce 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.