Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

For instance, Hubert would only be with a woman who was tall, blond, thin, and had large breasts. And was younger. And had a certain kind of face. Classy. He never wanted to be with a model, because he doesn't want to be with a woman other guys might masturbate to.

And personality. You have to really know how to work guys. You have to be able to manipulate them, except "manipulate" isn't really the right word, because it has negative connotations. What you have to do is you always have to be different. You have to be unpredictable. Some days, you're really, really nice and sweet and loving, and other days, you're a total bitch and steely. They keep coming back because they never know what they're going to get.

You have to be able to be aloof, and you have to be willing to make a man jealous. But you can't do any of this unless you have the right physique, because otherwise the guy will just say you're a bitch and who needs it and dump you.

Of course, there are women without the physique who do marry well, but they don't marry men like Hubert.

In fact, right up until I married him, Hubert wasn't totally sure that I was going to marry him. You've seen his face in the wedding photographs. How happy he looked when we came out of the church. Oh. And one other thing. You can never think that your husband, or anyone he introduces you to, is better than you. Just because your husband is a prince does not mean he's better than you are. You could meet a guy who's just won the Nobel Prize, and you have to know that he isn't any better than you are or more accomplished. I've always thought that I was just as good as anyone, no matter what they've done or how many hit songs they've had or how hard they say they've worked. One day, Tanner told me I had no sense of proportion because I wasn't fawning all over his acting career, and I broke up with him on the spot. Life just isn't like that, you know?

I feel better now. I think I can go to sleep.

I am confused.

About a small point, really.

Going back to last year, right after Hubert and I were married.

I asked him for money to buy clothes. "I don't understand," he said.

"Hubert," I said. "I don't have any clothes.”

“What’s all that in your closet?”

"I need new clothes," I said, as tears began forming in the outer corners of my eyes. It was the first time my husband had openly refused me, proof that he didn't love me anymore.

"I never saw my father give my mother money for clothes.”

"She had an allowance," I said, not knowing whether this was true, and also knowing that this statement was very brave indeed, as Hubert would probably take it as a criticism against his mother, which he did.

"What are you saying about my mother?”

“Nothing," I said.

"Then why did you bring her up?”

“I didn't. You did.”

"You brought her up. You said, 'She had an allowance.' Didn't you say that?”

"Ye-e-e-e-s," I said. "But—oh, fuck you," I said mildly, and ran into the bedroom crying. He didn't come in right away the way he usually did, and when he did, he pretended to be getting a tie out of the closet.

"Hubert," I said patiently. "I need clothes.”

"I don't want a bunch of reporters following my wife around and writing stories on how much my wife spends on dresses. Do you want that?" he said. "Do you want to be the laughingstock of the papers?”

"No-o-o-o-o," I sobbed, not wanting to point out that I was already beginning to be the laughingstock of the papers, so what difference did it make? I rocked back and forth on the bed, crying and crying like my heart was breaking, (which it was) thinking, What am I going to do now? What am I supposed to do now?

And now—ha ha—I am sitting here surrounded by strange new clothes. So in other words, everything that I was doing in the last year has finally resulted in getting my way. Which was wearing the same old simple black-and-white pieces I always wore before my marriage, until some fashion reporter wrote: "Can't someone get this princess a new frock?”

Which I didn't have to point out to Hubert, because it was in the Styles section of The New York Times, and that's the section he reads first on Sundays. Believe it or not. (I didn't believe it myself, when I first met him: that and the way he secretly reads all the gossip columns, scanning the items for his name. No matter what is written, he never says anything about it; and his face always remains impassive, like he's reading about somebody else, someone whom he doesn't know.) And yet, there is something insulting about all this. As if Hubert didn't want to spend money on me for the first year of our marriage because he wasn't sure he was going to keep me around.

(I so wish that we could talk about these things openly. I really did believe, when we first got married, that we would talk about everything honestly, but the opposite has occurred: We're like two people on separate islands, with only tin cans and string as a means of communication.) And so I must act slightly displeased by it all. Especially since it's really D.W.'s doing. Including the short hair. I have short white hair, and when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize myself. It's part of their plan to wipe me out and start over.

And my husband is all for it.

"I'm on board," he said. (Ugh. I hate that expression. It's so corporate America, which Hubert is not but likes to pretend he is.) "I'm on board. Ifs good for you.”

"I suppose you'll be wanting me to EXERCISE next," I said.

"Exercise is good for you," he said. At which point I told him that it's very difficult to exercise when you're so doped up you can barely lift your hand to your mouth.

When I said this, he said (suspiciously, I thought), "There is no reason to lift your hand to your mouth unless you're putting food in it." To which I smartly replied, "Actually, you have to lift your hand to your mouth to apply lipstick," and that shut him up for a minute.

We were having this conversation yesterday morning while I was still in bed, and in the middle of it the apartment buzzer began ringing incessantly. I put several pillows over my head, but if s no use. Hubert goes downstairs, then comes back up and says, "Get up. D.W. is here." Instead of staying to comfort me, he goes back downstairs and makes another pot of coffee, like he's some kind of real person (he actually takes pride in this), which I can never help but believe is a total act.

I hear some kind of commotion downstairs, and voices, and Hubert calling, "Come on, sleepyhead, come downstairs." And then D.W/s voice: "Get up! Get up, you lazy thing!" I therefore have no choice but to wrench my drugged and tired bones from the comfort of my bed. I go immediately (do not pass bathroom) downstairs with my hair in a mess, still wearing my silk spaghetti-strap negligee, which is all wrinkled and has tiny stains on it because I've basically been wearing it for four days.

Just as I enter the kitchen, I hear D.W. say, "I declare, Hubert, you get more handsome every time I see you," which nearly sets me off, because who does D.W. think he is, acting like Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind?

Hubert is dressed in a gray suit with a white oxford-cloth shirt and a yellow tie, and unless you're actually married to him, I suppose he does look pretty amazing, pouring coffee into large mugs, smiling and making light conversation about a movie he's seen called The Seventh Sense. "Why didn't I see this movie?" I ask.

He pulls me to him and puts his arm around me. "Because you were sick. Remember?”

"I wasn't sick," I say. "I was only pretending to be sick because I hate movie theaters.”

"That’s right," he says, to me and not to D.W., which actually makes me feel a tiny bit good, "because you think movie theaters are filled with germs.”