Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

"Germs and sick people," I say.

"She's such a princess," D.W. says. "I always told her that if she didn't marry you, the only other person she could have married would have been Prince Charles.”

"I'd be dead then," I say.

"That would be a terrible tragedy. Not just for Hubert, but for the world," D.W. says unctuously.

"I'd like to be dead. I don't think it would be bad at all," I say, and I can see Hubert and D.W. exchange glances.

"Besides," I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee even though coffee is yet another one of the FORTY MILLION things in the world that makes me VOMIT, "if I hadn't married Hubert, I would have married a movie star.”

I hand my cup of coffee to D.W. "Try it.”

“Why?" he asks.

"Just try it.”

D.W. and Hubert exchange glances.

"If s coffee," he says, and hands it back to me. "Thank you," I say. I cautiously take a sip. "I just wanted to make sure it wasn't poisoned.”

My poor, poor husband. He ditched the European girl and got something much worse. Something crazy. Which he has to ignore.

"But you wouldn't be happy," Hubert says, again trading glances with D.W., "because a movie star wouldn't love you as much as I do.”

"Well," I say, "since you love me zero, what difference would it make?”

"Oh, come, come," D.W. says.

"What do you know?" I ask hatefully. And I look over at Hubert and see that closed-down look has come over his face. Again. For the millionth time. He empties the rest of his coffee in the sink and rinses his mug. "I've got to be going.”

"He's always going to that stupid office," I say casually.

"Studio," D.W. says. "When a man is the executive producer of a hit TV show on a major network, he goes to a studio.”

Hubert kisses me on the forehead. "Bye, kiddo," he says. "You two have fun today.”

I look at D.W. balefully.

"Don't," he says. "Don't say anything stupid. Especially after that completely pointless display.”

My poor husband.

I run into the living room and grab Mr. Smith, who is sniffling around the couch, and run for the door, passing the kitchen where D.W. spots me and shouts out, "Keep that beagle away from me!" And I run down the stairs, still clutching Mr. Smith, who has absolutely no idea what is going on, and I run onto Prince Street, where Hubert has just gotten into the limo (he supposedly told them he didn't want a limo, but The Network insisted). I knock on the window and Hubert lowers the glass. He looks at me like "Oh God, here's my crazy wife standing on the street barefoot in a wrinkled old negligee holding a beagle in her arms," and he says (pleasantly enough), "Yes?" And I say, "You forgot to say good-bye to Mr. Smith.”

He says, "Good-bye, Mr. Smith," and leans out and kisses Mr. Smith on the nose. Ifs all so cute, and I actually think I might be okay for the next couple of hours, but then I hear that telltale click, click, click behind me, and I turn, and there's that photographer in full combat fatigues, snapping away and yelling, "Smile!" and the limo takes off, and I hold Mr. Smith (who is struggling viciously now) over my face and run crazily down Prince Street, finally taking refuge in a news shop.

At which point the proprietor of this dirty shop with its overpriced cigarettes has the nerve to say, "No dogs. No dogs in the store." And begins waving his arms like he's just been attacked by an infestation of fleas.

I'm about to hurl a string of invectives at him (and, in fact, have opened my mouth to do so), when I see IT: the cover of Star magazine, which features photographs of a couple of actresses and ME, with my mouth open, wearing baggy shorts and a tank top, arms and legs akimbo. The photograph was taken a few months ago at a celebrity basketball game that Hubert not only made me attend but insisted I participate in (which ended up working in my favor, because I was such a horrendous basketball player and yet so high strung under the stress of competition that Hubert said I never had to do anything like it again), and underneath the photograph the caption reads: Princess Cecelia, 5'10" 117 lbs. And this raft of falsehoods is topped off with the headline: STARVING TO DEATH?, which really pisses me off because I'd actually eaten two hot dogs that day.

I grab Mr. Smith and the Star, and I run down the street and back up the stairs and throw open the door to the loft. D.W. is sitting in the living room, calmly sipping a cup of coffee and perusing the photographs in New York magazine. I collapse onto a chair, hyperventilating madly.

"Really, Cecelia," he says. He looks at his watch. "If s eight-forty-three. Don't you think you ought to get dressed?”

I really do not know what to say to this, so I fall to the floor, shaking and clawing at my throat, until D.W. throws a glass of water on my face.

Riding uptown, wearing sunglasses and a head scarf and clutching Mr. Smith to my chest, I felt the sinking weight of depression, like someone has placed a board piled with cement blocks on top of my body. When I'm in this state I find it hard to move, difficult to make even the slightest gesture—like lighting a cigarette—and sometimes, since I spend so much time alone in the apartment, I end up sitting for hours and hours, occasionally on the stairs or on the kitchen floor, staring into space. I don't want anyone to know how bad it is, so I lie and say, Oh, I've been reading magazines all day or running errands, like picking up a spool of thread at the dry cleaner, but quite often I find myself scratching "help me help me" on the palm of my hand with an old ballpoint pen, but by the end of the day, I have invariably washed it off. My thoughts always run along the same lines, like a small electric train going back and forth, back and forth: Everyone hates me and may or may not be laughing at me behind my back, waiting for me to fuck up, to say something stupid (or anything at all, because when people are judging you that closely, almost anything you say sounds stupid) or give them an evil eye, so they can run to their friends and colleagues and say, "I met Princess Cecelia and if s true what they say. She's a bitch.”

And then everywhere you go, people look at you like they expect to hate you, and their reactions are like stones, hitting you again and again until finally you shut down, you stop, you put your arms over your head and then you begin to slowly disappear.

D.W. is drumming his nails on the armrest. "I've been married .../' he says. "Twice.”

"Yes," I say blandly. "I know/' in a small voice, truly upset now by that photograph in Star and the accompanying article that accuses me of being an anorexic, which I'm NOT, but what I am is so complicated that I can't begin to explain it to myself.

"I've been married," D.W. says again, "and the one thing I've found is that the superficialities of marriage are the most important. In other words, pleasant conversation at breakfast, amusing banter at parties, and a compliment once or twice during the day matter more than whatever one is actually feeling, which, frankly, no one really cares about anyway.”

I nod mutely, wondering why it is that D.W. and I have the same conversations over and over again, so that I don't even have to point out that D.W.'s last marriage ended so horrendously (in a war on Page Six) that his wife, who is at least eighty now but has had a dozen or so face-lifts and always wears rose-colored sunglasses, will leave a party if his name is mentioned.

"In fact," D.W. continues, oblivious, "I would say that the superficialities are the most important thing in every aspect of life. I mean, who cares that you're really a piece of shit if you're sitting at a dinner with lovely flowers and a fabulous person on your left and a fabulous person on your right, and the photographers are taking your picture, and your socks, for God's sake, are cashmere, and you're smiling just so, and the photograph ends up in the society pages of Vogue. That’s what really counts, isn't it? Of course, you probably wouldn't understand that because, like all people with mental problems, you're completely obsessed with yourself. You don't really care anything about me, or the fact that that dog of yours is liable to dribble on my Prada suit at any moment.”