Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

"But I am worried about you," he said. "Then why don't you stay home and keep me company?" I asked.

Well, fuck him. That was obviously the wrong thing to say as well because he just shook his head, patted me on the leg, and went away.

I HATE HIM. What does he want me to do? Who does he want me to be? Who am I supposed to be, here, please? Will somebody PLEASE tell me?

Went to see Dr. Q. at one-thirty. He kept me waiting for three minutes and forty-two seconds, which is almost four minutes and completely unacceptable. Two and a half minutes is the cutoff for ANYONE.

I always tell everyone I won't be kept waiting for more than two and a half minutes unless I'm the one who's keeping them waiting. That’s one of the reasons why I refused to be on the cover of that stupid Vogue magazine, because that idiotic woman said, I'll have someone call you right back and I said, What do you mean by right back and she said, In five minutes and she called back in eighteen and I said, Sorry, I'm not interested. Plus, I have my other reasons, which are that I hate that woman (I hate her so much I won't even say her name), but more about that later.

So, this is typical, the person who was before me eating into my appointment time with Dr. Q. is some forty-year-old woman wearing sweatpants. They're not even Calvin Klein. And she's holding a tissue.

Why do women always cry in shrinks' offices?

"Well," Dr. Q. says. I think he notices I'm being extremely cold and standoffish. "How are you today? Do you still think that someone in the family is secretly poisoning you?”

"What on earth makes you say that?”

"That," he says, flipping through his notebook, "is what you said yesterday.”

"I did throw up this morning.”

“I see.”

Then I don't say anything. I just sit in the chair, drumming my fingernails on the metal arm.

"I see," Dr. Q. says again.

"And what exactly is it that you see, Dr. Q.?”

“I see that you're wearing a head scarf again.”

“Your point?”

"You've been wearing a head scarf and black sunglasses for the last two weeks.”

I give him a withering smile.

"So ... How does it make you feel when you wear a head scarf and dark sunglasses?”

"How do you think it makes me feel, Dr. Q.?”

“Why don't you tell me?”

"NO," I say. "Why don't you tell me?”

"That would, ah, defeat the purpose of our ... visits.”

Ugh. Dr. Q. is so THICK.

"It makes me feel safe," I say. "From the family poisoner?”

Sometimes I want to kill Dr. Q. I really do.

D.W. called. I haven't talked to him for three months. I've been avoiding him.

HELP.

I used to write that on all my books when I was a kid. I used to wrap my books in brown paper bags and then write my name on the front in different colored Magic Markers. I used to dot my I's with circles.

D.W. knows too much.

Of course, he calls at the most inconvenient time. Right in the middle of The Karen Carpenter Story, which I'm watching for something like the fifty seventh time. The phone rings just at the part when Karen finally moves into her own apartment and her mother finds the box of laxatives. D.W. has on that sugary voice I hate sooooo much. "Hello, my darling," he says. "What are you doing?”

"Shhhhh," I say. "Karen is just about to lie to her mother and tell her that she won't take laxatives anymore, and her mother is actually going to believe her. Can you believe how dumb that woman is?”

"And then ... ?”

"And then Karen is going to get down to seventy eight pounds and have a heart attack after she eats Thanksgiving dinner. In other words, she is basically killed by turkey meat.”

"How fabulously ... charming," D.W. says. "I'm really in the middle of something, so what do you want, D.W," I say, which I know is horribly rude, but if I am rude, maybe he'll get the message and go away for another three months.

"What are you doing later?”

"Oh, later?" I say carelessly. "I think I'll snort a few lines of cocaine and take a few Xanaxes and make crank phone calls to my husband's office. And then I'll walk the dog for the tenth time and scream at a couple of photographers. What do you think I'm doing?”

"You know, you're really a funny, charming girl. That's what no one realizes about you, and if s a shame. If only people could see the real you ...”

There is no real me anymore, but who cares? "Do you think my husband is having an affair?" I ask.

"Oh, come on, my dear. Why would he have an affair when he's married to one of the most beautiful women in the world?" Pause. "Do you think he's having an affair?”

"Not right now," I say. "But I'm just checking to make sure I'm not crazy.”

"You see?" D.W. says gleefully. "This is what happens when you lose touch with your old friends.”

• "We haven't lost touch—”

"And That’s why I absolutely insist on seeing you for dinner tonight.”

"Don't you have some fabulous gala to attend?”

“Only a small soiree in a store. For a very worthy cause. But I'm free after eight.”

"I have to see," I say. I put the phone down and walk slowly through the living room, up the stairs to the master bath. I take off all my clothes and step on the scale: Weight, 117.5 pounds. Percentage fat, 13. GOOD. I've lost a quarter of a pound from the morning. I put my clothes back on and go downstairs. I pick up the phone.

"D.W.?”

"Thank God. I thought you'd died.”

"I'm saving that for next week. I'll meet you at eight-thirty. At the R. But only you. And DON'T TELL ANYBODY.”

I wear Dolce & Gabbana workout pants and a Ralph Lauren Polo sweatshirt, no bra, and when I walk into the restaurant, I remember that I haven't brushed my hair for three days.

D.W. is sitting at the wrong table.

"Oooooh. You look so ... American. So ... gorgeous. I always said you were the quintessential American girl. The American girl begins and ends with you," he says.

"You're at the wrong table, D.W. I never sit here.”

“Of course not. But those pants, darling. Dolce & Gabbana.”

I walk to the back of the restaurant and sit down. D.W. follows. "You should only wear American, dear. It's soooo important. I was thinking about putting you in some Bentley.”

"Bentley hasn't had a client under sixty in fifty years.”

"But I'm making him hot. He's going to be hot, hot, hot again. Those young S. sisters are wearing him.”

I roll my eyes. "I want a martini," I say. "You don't have any pills, do you?”

"What kind of pills? Allergy pills? I don't know ...”

"Can I get off on them?”

"Oh my dear, what has happened to you? You're turning into a little Courtney Love. I sooooo wish you'd become friends with those lovely, lovely S. sisters. They adore you. And think of the parties you could throw together. Toute New York would be abuzz. It would be just like the old days.”

Why can't I be like those darling S. sisters?

They are perfect. They never give anyone trouble.

Not even their husbands. They're twins, and one of them (I always get them mixed up, and so does everyone else) got married when she was something like eighteen. She invited me over for tea once, and I went because my husband said I had to go. "My husband married me because of my hips," she said, even though I hadn't asked her. "I have childbearing hips," she said. "What can I do?" I wanted to ask her where she'd gone for brainwashing, but I couldn't. She seemed so sad. And so lost. And so tiny in a large checkered dress from Valentino. "How is it that you've never lost your hair, D.W.?" I ask, lighting a cigarette.

"Oh. You're such a card. My grandfather had a full head of hair when he died.”

"But don't you think ... that you had less hair three months ago?”