Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

"I told you, I don't know him," Maurice says.

"But he won't. And I think he'd be a great boyfriend for me," Willie says.

"Champagne?" I ask, pouring myself another glass as the lobster quadrilles arrive.

Forty-five minutes later they're playing that song "I Just Wanna Fly," and I'm quite drunk, dancing wildly with Miles, when I look over and there is D.W., in a damp tuxedo, smoothing his wet hair and trying to look calm although I can see that he's fuming, and he spots me and marches over and shouts, "Cecelia! What are you doing? Hubert and I have been searching half of Manhattan for you.”

Miles stops and I stop and the whole room seems to stop, expanding away from me, and I can hear Patrice shouting, "I knew it! I knew it was Cecelia all along!" And suddenly a black swarm of photographers descends and I am caught, with one hand in Miles's and the other clutching a bottle of champagne, and Miles jerks my arm and we start running through the crowd.

We run down the stairs with the photographers following us and run outside where it's really pouring now, across the plaza, down more steps, dodging limousines and four traffic cops, right onto Broadway, where a Number 12 bus is just pulling up.

We run up to the bus, waving and shouting, and we get on and Miles has two tokens and we're laughing, walking to the back of the bus, where we sit down and look at each other and crack up, then we look up and everyone on the bus is staring. I hiccup and Miles takes a swig from the bottle of champagne. Then our clasped hands fall apart as we stare out opposite windows, watching the thick streaks of rain against the glass.

"Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Hubert is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading The Wall Street Journal.

"Is there, ah, coffee?" I ask.

"In the coffeemaker," he says, not looking up.

I wander over to the counter and bang some cabinet doors, looking for a coffee cup.

"Try the dishwasher," he says. "Thanks," I say.

I pour the coffee, sit down. "You're up early," he says.

"Mmmnmvhmmm,'' I say. He slides the Post toward me.

I take a sip of coffee. I open the paper to Page Six. The headline reads PRINCESS BRIDE LIFE OF THE PARTY.

And then the copy: "It seems ifs Prince Hubert Luxenstein who is keeping back his glamorous wife, Cecelia, and not the other way around. Cecelia Kelly, the former art dealer, has been laying low ever since her nuptials two summers ago in Lake Cuomo, Italy, at the 200-acre family castle owned by the groom's father, Prince Heinrich Luxenstein. But last night at the fiftieth anniversary of the ballet, the beautiful new princess, sporting a new gamine hairstyle and wearing a gown by Bentley, arrived solo and charmed dinner guests who included ... before making a dramatic exit with new screen heartthrob Miles Hanson.”

I fold the paper. "Cecelia ...," he says. "Do you still love me?”

“Cecelia ...”

I hold up my hand. "Don't. Just don't," I say.

Dear Diary: I think I'm getting better.

Today I get up and put clothes on and have a cup of coffee and read Hubert's leftover papers, and I look at my watch and it is nine o'clock and I suddenly realize that I could do something today. This is such a strange feeling that, for a moment, I consider taking a couple of Xanaxes, but then I realize that, for the first time in—what? years?—I don't want to be high. I am actually thinking about going uptown and—HA—making a surprise visit to my husband's office.

And the horrible thing about it is that the more I think about it, the more compelled I am to do it. After all, Hubert is my husband, and what could be more natural than a wife's going to visit her husband at lunchtime? Especially if she thinks he might be having an affair (which he might be), and especially if she thinks that he probably has other plans for lunch (which he most likely does). This conundrum will force him to choose his wife or the previous lunch plans. His choice will tell the wife just about all she needs to know about her husband, which is a) if he chooses work over his wife, he's a shit and he doesn't love her, or b) if he chooses his wife over his work, he's probably still a shit but he may love her. Either way, I have a feeling that Hubert is going to lose today, and I want to be there to witness it. For some reason, I am wearing a navy-blue hat and navy-blue-and-white-striped gloves when I tap on the receptionist's desk with a gold Dunhill lighter. I also have a cell phone that doesn't seem to work in my bag, along with two old tampons and a crumbly dog biscuit. "H.L., please," I say to the receptionist, who doesn't do anything at first and then says in a cold, bored voice, "Whom shall I say is here?”

and I say, "His wife," and she looks me up and down and says, "Just a minute," and all I can think about is that she hasn't recognized me, for some reason, and this infuriates me and makes me want to KILL her, so I bang annoyingly with the lighter again.

Then I remind myself that I am getting better. She picks up the phone and says to someone, "Is H. there?" and then, as if there's some question about it, she says, "Well his wife is here?" Then she puts down the phone and says, "Someone will be out to see you.”

"What do you mean, someone will be out to see me? Where's my husband?" I say. "I didn't come here to see someone, I came to see my husband.”

"He's not in his office.”

"Is anybody ever in their office these days?”

“Does he know you're coming to see him?”

“Of course he does," I say, realizing that this is beginning to go badly.

"Well, he's probably on the set. Dianna Moon is on the show today.”

"And am I supposed to care about Dianna Moon?" The receptionist seems to look at me for the first time. Her nails are fake, lacquered in red, white, and blue stripes. They appear to be her only distinguishing feature.

"A lot of people ... care ... about Dianna Moon." I remove my gloves, pulling at each of the fingers. "Is that because she ... murdered her husband?" The receptionist looks around nervously. "He died of a drug overdose. And besides, Dianna Moon is a ... hero. The ratings are going to be huge.”

I yawn loudly. "But what has she ever done?" I ask, realizing this is a totally arrogant question on my part, as it could be argued that I've never done anything myself, except for marrying Hubert, supposedly one of the world's most eligible bachelors.

The receptionist glares at me. "I'll just see if I can find H. for you.”

At that moment, Constance DeWall walks through the gray armored door that leads to the secretive maze of studios belonging to The Network. "Cecelia," she says, holding out her hand. "So nice to see you again. Unfortunately, this isn't a good day for a surprise visit. We've got Dianna Moon on the set and she's ... well, she's Dianna Moon.”

"And I'm Princess Cecelia Kelly Luxenstein/' I say, somewhat casually, cringing about the princess bit, knowing that it's the kind of thing that sets people off and makes them ring up gossip columns. "And I'd like to see my husband.”

"Is this urgent, Princess Luxenstein?" Constance says with extreme sarcasm, which I will make her pay for later, perhaps by trying to get her fired. She is, I've heard, a "younger, nicer, smarter" version of me. What I know is that she's madly in love with my husband (just like all those other dummy Harvard graduates), has been trying to get him into bed since she first started as his line producer two years ago, and truly believes he would be better off with her instead of me.

"Does the situation have to be urgent for me to see my husband?" I ask, with equal sarcasm. "It's just that ... we've got a lot of security around.”

"To protect Slater London from Diartna Moon, I assume.”