Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

D.W. looks around the restaurant and slaps my hand. "You naughty. I did have a tiny bit of work done. But everybody does these days. You know, times have really changed. Everybody is photographed. I mean, the awful people whose photographs appear in magazines ... but I don't have to tell you about that. Now P., she does it the right way. Do you know that nobody's, I mean nobody's, picture appears in the society pages without her approval? And, of course, they have to be the right sort of person. She has the highest standards. She can spot quality a mile away.”

P. is that editor at Vogue. I yawn loudly.

"Did you see that featurette they did on you last month? The one where they analyzed your hemline lengths? That’s why the long skirt is so big this season.”

"That was only because," I say, tapping my ash on the floor, "the hem on that skirt came unraveled and I was too lazy to have it sewn back up.”

"Oh, but my dear," D.W. says. "Don't you see? That attitude, that insouciance, it's genius. If s like when Sharon Stone wore the Gap turtleneck to the Oscars.”

I fix D.W. with an evil eye. I've been trying to get rid of him for two years, but every now and again I have this AWFUL feeling that D.W. is never going to go away, that people like D.W. don't go away, especially not when you know them the way D.W. and I know each other.

"I threw up today. And I still think someone is trying to poison me.”

D.W. lowers his martini glass. "We know you're not pregnant," he says, with this cozy intimacy that gives me the creeps.

"And how do we know that?”

"Come on, my dear. You're not pregnant. You never have been and you never will be. Not with your body fat hovering at thirteen percent. Your husband may be stupid enough to buy that crap, but I'm not.”

“Fuck you.”

D.W. looks around the restaurant. "Keep your voice down. Unless you want to see yet another item in Star magazine—Princess Cecelia engaged in a lover's spat with the older man with whom she's secretly having an affair.”

I start laughing. "Everyone knows you're gay.”

“I was married. Twice.”

"So?”

"So as far as the press is concerned, my dear, I might be anything.”

"You're a psychopath, D.W. And people are starting to figure it out.”

"And you don't think they haven't figured out the same thing about you?" D.W. motions for another round of martinis. "Princess Cecelia. Maybe the most hated woman in America.”

"Hillary Clinton liked me.”

"Take a deep breath, my dear." D.W. pats my hand. He has horrible ringers that narrow to little points. "Maybe not the most hated. I believe that at one time, people hated Hillary Clinton more than they hate you. But certainly, it must have occurred to you by now that all those horrendous photographs are not a mistake.”

I light another cigarette. "So?”

"So there's a little game played in the offices of photo editors across the country: Let’s publish the worst possible photograph of Cecelia. I believe they have a pool going and the photographers are in on it too. The pot may be up to ten thousand dollars now.”

"Shut up. Just shut up." I close my eyes. And then I do what I'd trained myself to do years ago, when I was a kid. I start to cry.

My life sucks.

If s always sucked, if you want to know the truth. D.W. laughs harshly. "I've seen that act before. And you don't deserve an ounce of sympathy. I've never seen anyone who's been given so much fuck up so spectacularly. Get yourself together. Go do a line of cocaine or something.”

"I'm going home now. And I'm going to forget we ever had this conversation.”

"I wouldn't do that, my dear," D.W. says, gripping my hand. Ah yes. I'd forgotten how strong D.W. can be, even though he's a faggot.

"You're hurting me," I say.

"That’s absolutely nothing, my dear, compared to the amount of pain I can inflict upon you and am perfectly prepared to do so.”

I sit back down. Light ANOTHER cigarette. GOD.

I have to quit smoking one of these days. When I get pregnant. "What do you want, D.W.?" I ask, although I have a pretty good idea. "You know I don't have any money.”

"Money?" D.W. sits back in his chair and starts laughing. He's laughing so hard tears came out of the corners of his eyes.

"Don't insult me," he says.

"You're like that character in All About Eve. Addison DeWitt, The Evil Queen," I say.

"Why don't you order something to eat?”

“I'm not hungry. You know that.”

"I'll order something for you.”

Why is he torturing me? "I'll throw up. I swear to God, D.W. I'll vomit.”

"Waitress," he says.

He moves his chair closer to the table. I move mine back. "All I want," he says, "is to be very, very close to my very, very good friend Cecelia. Who is now about to relaunch herself as the queen of society. Backed, aided, and abetted, of course, by her very, very good friend D.W.”

I sit back in my chair. Cross my legs. Swing my foot. "I'll do nothing of the sort," I say, mashing my cigarette on the floor.

"Oh ... yes ... you ... will," D.W. says calmly. "Oh ... no ... I ... won't.”

"Are you aware," D.W. says, "that there's a Princess Cecelia tell-all book in the works? The writer is a very, very good friend of mine, but I have to say he's quite an excellent investigative journalist. The book would be—well, let’s just say that 'embarrassing' would be the least of it.”

"Are you aware," I say, "that I have now been married for over one year, so therefore whatever you want to say about me makes absolutely no difference?”

“Are you aware," D.W. says, "that your marriage sucks and your husband is constantly considering filing for divorce?”

"My husband is madly in love with me. He won't let me out of his sight.”

"And where is he tonight?”

"You know my philosophy, D.W. I always bite the hand that feeds me.”

"Is that so? Well, take a good look at yourself, dear. You're a mess," D.W. says. "You can hardly afford to have your name raked through the mud. Think about it. The photographers camped outside your door again, people going through your garbage, your face on the cover of the tabloids. You barely escaped last time. Just think of the .. . schadenfreude.”

“I think ... I need ... a Xanax," I whisper.

"Oh, you'll need much more than a Xanax by the time they're through with you. I should think you'll be on Librium by then. Which, incidentally, is what they give to schizophrenics. Just in case you're not up on your pharmaceuticals.”

I slump in my chair.

"If s not that bad," D.W. says. "All I'm asking is for you to attend a few parties and a tea every now and then. Chair a couple of committees. Wear some designer dresses. Maybe a fur. You're not against fur, are you? And then maybe host a trip to India, but by the time we arrange it, India might be passe, so maybe someplace like Ethiopia. We'll do some photo shoots, get you signed on as a contributing editor at Vogue. If s only the sort of life that every woman in America dreams of.”

"D.W.," I say. "Society is ... dead.”

"Nonsense, my dear," he says. "You and I are going to revive it. We'll both have our place in the annals of history.”

I wish I were in Massachusetts, riding around in the back of someone's car.

Smoking a joint. Listening to Tom Petty.

"Come, come," D.W. says. "It's not like I'm asking you to be a homeless person. No one's asking you to urinate in subway stations. You've had a nice long rest, and now it's time to go back to work. Because that's what women in your position do. They work. Or did someone forget to tell you that?" He picks up his knife and smiles into the distorted reflection of his mouth. "People are relying on you, Cecelia. They're relying on you not to fuck up.”