Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

When I'm with him, I don't feel ... significant. I want to be everything to him. I want to be essential. I want him to be unable to live without me, but how can I be these things if he won't let me?

And if he won't let me, what am I doing with my life?

Naturally, these thoughts put a horrible expression on my face. At least I think they do, because this morning, when I'm lying in bed and Hubert comes into our stateroom supposedly looking for sunscreen, he turns to me and says, in a tone of voice that I can only interpret as RUDE, "What's your problem?”

I know my response should be "Nothing, darling," but I'm tired of mollifying him. Instead, I say, "What do you mean, what's my problem? What’s your problem?" and I turn over.

"Whoa," he says. "Maybe you should go back to sleep and try waking up again.”

"Yeah," I say. "Maybe I should." Then he leaves the room.

I HATE him.

I jump out of bed, pull on my bathing suit, and storm up to the top deck.

Dianna is there, drinking coffee and polishing her toenails, which, as we all know, is verboten on this boat because the nail polish could spill and ruin the teak decks. As we also all know, Dianna doesn't give a shit. She's already caused thousands of dollars' worth of damage to the boat by walking around in spike heels and greasing her body with tanning oil, leaving indelible footprints that the crew keeps pointlessly trying to scrub away. "Hey, I could buy this boat if I wanted to," she keeps reminding them. But the point is, people like Dianna Moon never do. "Hi sugar," Dianna says, not looking up. "Want some coffee?”

"Coffee makes me vomit. In fact, everything makes me vomit.”

She looks up in alarm. "I don't, do I?”

"No," I say, resignedly. I move to the railing, leaning over the side. The wind ruffles my hair slightly.

This Dianna Moon business—her self-absorption, her prodigious insecurity—is getting to be too much.

"Do I look fat?" Dianna asks, and I automatically respond, "No," although the truth is, Dianna is a bit fat. She has the kind of body that will be matronly at thirty-five, no matter how much she diets or exercises.

"Are you going to Hubert's aunt's house today?" SHIT. Princess Ursula. I'd totally forgotten about her and nod glumly, remembering that Princess Ursula hates me. Once, at a funeral, she came up to me and said, "Oh Cecelia, you're such a natural at funerals, because you always have a sour, downturned expression on your face.”

And these are my relations?

"Do you think," Dianna says, examining her large toe, "that Lil'Bit Parsons will be there?”

This is such an unexpected question, so out of left field, that I say nothing as the terrible feeling of other people knowing something I don't descends upon me like a shade blocking out the sun. "Lil'Bit Parsons?" I croak.

"I don't want to upset you, but I read in the Star that she's in Europe. Vacationing with her two kids." Dianna screws up her face as I begin hyperventilating and stumbling around the deck, unsure as to whether or not I'm going to throw up, and she says, "There was a picture of her in ... Saint-Tropez?”

"That fucking BASTARD," I say, somehow getting ahold of myself and tripping down the stairs and into the galley, where Paul, the captain, is talking in whispered tones to the cook, whose name I can never remember.

"Where's my husband?" I ask.

Paul and the cook exchange looks. "I think he's on the aft deck. Getting ready to go scuba diving.”

"That's what he thinks," I snap, making my way to the back of the boat, where Hubert is pulling on a dive skin.

"Hi," he says nonchalantly.

"What are you doing?" I ask coldly.

"I'm going to scuba dive into the port. I thought it'd be cool.”

"That’s a smart idea," I say sarcastically. "Maybe you'll get ground up by a propeller.”

"Oh for Christ's sake," he says, rolling his eyes. "You just don't give a shit about me, do you?”

“Leave me alone, huh?" he says, pulling the dive skin over his shoulder.

"I am so sick of your shit," I scream, running to him and hitting him until he grabs my wrists and pushes me roughly away. "What the FUCK is your problem?" he says.

I reel back, stunned. Recovering somewhat, I say, "I want to talk to you.”

"Yeah? Well, I don't want to talk to you.”

Has my husband ever spoken to me like this before? "I HAVE to talk to you," I say. "Right now.”

"You just don't get it, do you?" he says, shoving his feet into a pair of flippers.

"Get what?" I demand.

"That I am sick and tired of you trying to control me all the time. Okay? Just let me be. Just let me do my thing for a change, okay?”

"Your thing? All you do is your thing.”

For a moment, he says nothing and we stare at each other hatefully. Then he says, "What do you want from me, Cecelia?”

I want you to love me is what I want to say, but can't.

"I came on this vacation for you, okay?" he says.

"You wanted to come on Dianna Moon's yacht and we're on her yacht. I'm here. You're always complaining that we never do what you want to do. And when we do it, it still isn't enough.”

"Then how come we have to go to Princess Ursula's this afternoon? We always do what you want to do.”

"Princess Ursula is family, okay? Do you think you can understand that concept?”

"It's not that.... “

"Oh yeah? Well, what is it? Because I'm getting pretty sick and tired of your attitude.”

Oh God. Why do these arguments always go nowhere? Why can't I make myself heard?

"You're seeing Lil'Bit Parsons again, aren't you?" I say triumphantly.

That stops him dead. "Wha ... ?" he says, but he looks away quickly, and I know I've got him. "Give me a break," he says lamely.

"You are seeing her. I know everything. She's in Europe, vacationing with her kids. She was in Saint-Tropez.”

"So?”

"So you snuck out and met her," I say, even though I have no actual knowledge of this incident and can't even recall when it might have happened. "Stop this," he says.

"You saw her. You're guilty.”

“I am not going to discuss this, Cecelia.”

"You're not going to discuss it because I'm right. You saw her again. Why don't you just admit it?”

“I said, I'm not going to discuss this.”

"Well remember this, buddy," I say. "The last time you didn't want to discuss it, it was in ... all ... the ... NEWSPAPERS," I scream. So loudly that I feel like my head is going to explode.

Hubert looks at me (sadly, I think), then jumps into the water. I turn and pass Paul and the cook, who have the fucking temerity to give me their wimpy half smiles as if nothing at all has occurred. I wonder how I can bear living like this, and I go up on the deck and thank God Dianna is there. I sit down and put my head in my hands.

"There are photographers on the dock," she says. "There's going to be a great photo of Hubert shoving you," she says.

"Definitely cover of Star magazine," she says. "I can't take this," I say.

"She's never going to give up, you know?" Dianna says. "She's a movie star. And movie stars can't stand to be rejected. She can't believe he chose you over her. She'll be tracking him down until the day he dies, baby. And even then she'll be elbowing you out of the way at the funeral. Just like Paula Yates." She yawns and rolls over, spilling the bottle of nail polish on the deck.

One of the things you learn about being married is that you don't have to continue every fight to the death. You can take a little break. Pretend that nothing has happened. I've found this works with Hubert, who, I'm beginning to realize, gets confused easily. Which is probably why he ended up dating Lil'Bit Parsons in the first place. She completely manipulated him.

And so, when he returns to the boat, water streaming off his dive skin (which shows off all the muscles in his body, including his washboard stomach), Dianna and I are laughing and drinking champagne as if nothing in the world is wrong. I pour him a glass of champagne, and he is relieved, thinking that maybe the fight is over.