Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

"Oh Cecelia," Lucinda said, handing me the bottle. "Don't you understand? It isn't, and it's never going to be.”

But it wasn't until the end of our holiday, when we went on that "fishing expedition" in Montana and I was dirty and my hair was frizzy and I was sleeping in a cabin with a scratchy army blanket and getting up at five in the morning and not having any decent place to take a shit, much less a shower, and Hubert and I had hardly anything to say to each other, that I opened the bottle of pills and shook one into my hand. It was small, white, and oval. I took one, then another.

I immediately felt better.

And I continued to feel good; even after we drove twenty miles in the rain to that honky-tonk bar Hubert had found in the guidebook and he danced with that waitress with the frizzy hair and saggy tits (she was only twenty-five) and I consumed six margaritas, I continued to maintain an aura of laissez-faire.

And Hubert was convinced he'd made the right decision in asking me to marry him.

Isn't that what if s all about?

"White or yellow?" Dianna asks, and I snap back and say, "What?" and we break out laughing because it seems we are on something like our tenth bellini.

"Xanax," she says.

"Blue," I say. "Yellow is for homosexuals.”

"I didn't even know there was a blue," she says, putting her hand over her face and laughing at me through her fingers. "Hey, guess what? I ate dog food too. I made Norman eat dog food. Come to think of it, I made Norman do a lot of things.”

“Don't start crying again," I say.

"Oh sweet Jesus. Norman. Norman," she wails. "Why did you have to go and die and leave me a hundred and twenty-three million dollars?”

“Why Norman?" I ask.

Then we have to pee, so we stumble upstairs, and sure enough, Juliette "that little girl from Vermont" follows us into the bathroom. Dianna takes one look at herself and stumbles back, screaming, "I need makeup," and Juliette slips in and whispers, "Hi," and before anything else can happen, Dianna grabs Juliette's Prada handbag and shakes it upside down, and sure enough, a pile of MAC cosmetics spills out, along with a junior Tampax, a brush containing a tangle of hair, and a condom.

"Oh Juliette," I say. "Don't you even use Ally cosmetics?”

"I use Ally cosmetics," Dianna says, carelessly smearing lipstick all over her lips, "and look at me. I've gone from crack addict to society lady. And guess what? You can too.”

"Cecelia," Juliette says meekly, "you're coming to my wedding, aren't you?”

"I wouldn't miss it," I say. "Even though I hardly know you.”

"But isn't that the great thing about New York?

It doesn't matter," Juliette says. "I mean, everyone is—”

"I'm gonna conquer this town. Just the way I conquered Los Angeles," Dianna says.

"You're coming too, aren't you?" Juliette says to Dianna.

"Ask my publicist," Dianna says.

"Oh. Well, I've got a publicist too," Juliette says. "D.W.”

"So get your publicist to call my publicist. Let the publicists figure it out." And with that, we leave Juliette in the bathroom, wiping her tube of lipstick with a tissue.

The phone is ringing when I walk through the door of the loft, and sure enough, if s Dianna.

"Hi sugarpuss," she says. "That's what I used to call Norman. Sugarpuss.”

"Well, hi there," I say. "Hello Norman.”

"Are you lonely, Cecelia? Because I sure am. I sure am lonely," Dianna says.

"I guess I'm lonely. Yeah," I say.

"Well, we won't be lonely anymore. We're going to be best friends.”

"That’s right," I say, the champagne beginning to wear off.

"Hey. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out. Maybe we could go shopping tomorrow. I've still got the limo and the driver. Hell, I've always got the limo and the driver. Sometimes I forget, you know?" My husband is having an affair. With Constance. "Hey Dianna," I say, looking out the window as a bus from the Midwest deposits a gaggle of tourists onto Prince Street. "Is it true what they say? That you killed your husband?”

There's a pause, then Dianna gives a short, loud laugh. "Well, let me put it this way. If I didn't, if s the kind of thing I would do, isn't it?”

"Is it?”

"Well ... I'd know how to get it done. If that's what you're asking. And just remember. It's a lot cheaper than divorce.”

She laughs and hangs up.

I'm going away.

Sitting in Dr. Q.'s office, watching the dirty gauze curtains fluttering in the breeze coming off of Fifth Avenue, I think about yachts and movie stars in satin dresses and Louis Vuitton hatboxes like the one I just bought for the trip even though I don't have a hat, and Dr. Q. interrupts this reverie with one word: "Well?”

"You can see in through those windows," I say.

Dr. Q. puts down his yellow legal pad and looks out. "Is that a problem?" he asks. "You've been here for—what?—a year and a half now, Cecelia, and you've never mentioned it before.”

Like I never mentioned Hubert's affair with Constance. Until a few days ago. Right after I told Hubert I was going to the Cannes Film Festival with Dianna.

"Maybe I'm getting paranoid," I say, half attempting a joke.

"You are paranoid," Dr. Q. says, looking down at his legal pad. "We all know that's why you're here.”

" 'We?' Who's 'we'? What is this? Some kind of conspiracy?”

"Me, your husband, the press, or should I say 'the media,' and probably this D.W. character you're talking about all the time ... should I go on?" Dr. Q.

says in kind of a bored voice, so I say no, and then add suddenly, "Maybe I use my paranoia as a sort of weapon. Did you ever think about that, Dr. Q.?”

“Do you?" he says. "Use your paranoia as a weapon?”

Shit. I don't KNOW.

Dr. Q. sits staring at me, the way Hubert stared at me when I told him I was going away. Without him. But he couldn't say anything about it, just as he couldn't say anything about the four pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage I purchased after a boozy afternoon with Dianna, not to mention the several pairs of shoes, handbags, and dresses. "I need to get away," I had said. "I have to think.”

"I need to get away," I say to Dr. Q.

"What will," he says, "going away do for you?”

“Nothing," I say. "But it will get me away from my husband. Did I mention that I think he's having an affair?”

"You mentioned that"—Dr. Q. flips through his legal pad—"months ago. Along with that tell-all book.”

"So?”

"So the point is ... all of this is probably in your imagination.”

"I think I can distinguish between fantasy and reality.”

"Can you?" he says.

"I SAW him with her.”

“Were they ...”

"WHAT? Doing it? No. But I could tell. By the way they acted.”

"What does he say?”

"Nothing," I say, swinging my foot. "But he doesn't deny it.”

"Why won't you at least DENY it?" I had screamed. "Cecelia," Hubert said coldly, "that kind of assertion doesn't merit a response.”

He can be so cold, my husband. Underneath the beautiful manners is absolutely ... nothing. "He's definitely having an affair," Dianna said later. "Otherwise, he would have denied it." Well, we ALL know that, don't we?

I can tell this session is going absolutely nowhere, so I say, pretty much out of the blue, "I have a new ... friend, " suddenly realizing how PITIFUL this sounds, just like when I was four years old and I told everyone I had a friend, but it was only an imaginary friend named Winston. I'd tell everyone I was going to play with Winston, but in reality I was going to my favorite mud puddle, where I tried to float bugs on matchstick covers.

"And this friend ...”

"Is real," I counter, realizing that this, too, sounds insane, so I quickly cover it up with, "I mean, I think we're going to be friends. We're friends now, but who knows how long it will last.”