Tales Of A Drama Queen

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 1

I got the fancy cheese grater from Williams-Sonoma. I got the obscenely fat, three-wicked candle his sister gave us. I got the cut-out New Yorker cartoons, saved against a rainy day for eventual decipherment. I even got the instant ear thermometer (I never get sick, but I knew he would miss it).

All was taken in manner of the break-up scene in The Jerk, where a drunk Steve Martin stumbles out the door, pants around his ankles, grabbing whatever catches his eye. Was proud at the time that I shrieked like a harridan for his sister’s handwritten instructions about burning the candle, then deeply disappointed to read simply: “Burn no longer than one hour. Enjoy!” Have been preoccupied on flight to Santa Barbara wondering what happens if I burn longer. Explosion? Toxic fumes?

For the first time, I drink real Bloody Marys on the plane, not virgins. Concern over Death Candle melts away in cloud of drunken amiability. I delight my neighbor, a genteel old lady wearing a Laura Ashley frock, with details of my breakup with Louis. Her eyebrows beetle when I call the Iowan floozy a scheming slut. Could she be from Iowa? I assure her I don’t think all floozies from Iowa are scheming sluts.

Am pleasantly surprised when old lady says there are extra seats in back, smiles kindly, and leaves in a waft of grandmotherly perfume. I scoot to the window seat and lay my head against the cold plastic wall.

Start to cry as I fall asleep to thoughts of my big, expensive, perfect wedding. And my small, cheap, flawed future.

I wake when the plane touches ground. There’s a scattering of applause, and for a euphoric moment I think it’s for me.

I was dreaming about trying on clothes in an endless, utopian version of the Better Dresses department of my childhood department store. The dressing room is large and shell-pink, filled with Donna Karans, Armanis, Guccis, Diors and pre-Stella-McCartney-bail Chloes. Everything I put on makes my body look like Halle Berry’s. When did I get such a perfect ass? I can’t stop turning and admiring it in the mirror. Like an old Labrador lying down for a nap, I turn and admire, turn and admire, searching for the best of all possible views.

Reaching for the price tag on a Missoni sheath, I can’t quite make out the numbers. I ask the manager (who, oddly, is my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Bott) to help me. He says, “You never were a good reader, Elle,” presents me with a gold Neiman Marcus credit card (not Robinson’s after all) and says, “Take it all, you gorgeous thing.” The beautiful young salespeople applaud.

I open my eyes, smiling modestly, to find a middle-aged couple across the aisle clapping. Because the plane landed. As if a safe landing is more important than a perfect ass in a Missoni.

I straighten in my seat, a crick in my neck, cranky from my nap. Doesn’t help that shopping orgasm was all a dream. And that my feet have swollen to the size of pineapples, and won’t slip back into my boots, forcing me to leave them unzipped.

I peer out the mini-window at the Santa Barbara airport. Looks like a Spanish hacienda. I’ve only been home once since college and the hacienda makes me feel nostalgic and young again—can’t wait to impress my friends and family with all the brilliant things I learned at Georgetown, plus tales of my fabulous attorney fiancé and high-society Washington lifestyle. Cheered, I wander down the stairs toward the tarmac, half-expecting the whir and flash of paparazzi cameras.

It’s all wrong. I’m blinded by runway lights, suffocated by fresh air, struck with sick-making vertigo. I clutch the stair-railing as I’m ambushed by the truth: I’m no longer twenty-one, all I recall from Georgetown is my relief at having graduated, my family doesn’t live here anymore, my fabulous fiancé dumped me for an Iowan floozy, I never had a lifestyle—and now I don’t even have a life.

I start crying again, and the grandmotherly old lady lays a gentle hand on my arm and brushes past, muttering “move it, you feeble lush.”

Resolve in future to keep my airborne Marys virginal.

I’ve lined up my seventh suitcase (of thirteen, but some are quite small) in the baggage claim tent, when Maya bounces up. She’s as cute as she was in high school, with a short tousle of blond curls, huge green eyes and a petite teenage body that belies her twenty-six years. She’s my opposite. I’m taller, with long dark corkscrew hair, and more curvy than petite.

She smiles at me, and I feel dirty, tangled, big and miserable. She sees my unzipped boots and unstable expression and opens her arms. I fall into them, weeping.

“Oh, Elle.” She giggles. “You’re just the same!”

Chapter 2

He’s perfect. Brad. Maya’s boyfriend.

It was ever her way. In high school, she had a string of cute, smart, loving boyfriends. My string consisted of the geeky boys in my fourth-period chemistry class. Bunsen-Burner-du-Jour and I would get drunk on Saturday night, fool around, then pretend we hadn’t touched each other on Monday. I got a C-in chemistry.

Perfect Brad. Charming, handsome, always says the right thing. Not in an Eddie Haskell way, but as if he really cares. For someone like me, who’s fairly certain no one would hold a funeral if she died, the effect is…effective. Okay, it’s cataclysmic. But I decide not to fall in love with him, on the grounds that it would be incestuous—and, honestly, if you’re living with Maya, why switch to Elle?

He is waiting when we get home from the airport. He gives Maya a welcome-home kiss, and me a nice-to-finallymeet-you peck on the cheek. He offers a nightcap. I take a ladylike slug of bourbon while they sip wine.

“You must get a good price on alcohol,” I say, because Maya owns a bar downtown with her father.

She yawns before agreeing. “Yep. We drink wholesale.” She sits on the couch with Perfect Brad, curled into the crook of his arm. It’s late and I know they’re ready for bed, but I don’t want to be alone. I knock back my bourbon so I can ask for another before they finish their wine and leave me.

They look so content and normal that I don’t know what to say. The price of liquor was my only conversational gambit. And I’m afraid that Maya’s going to ask about my life: what happened to Washington, what happened to Louis, what happened to the aborted wedding and the non-existent career? Certain she’s going to pounce, I distract her with Fodors-type questions about new restaurants in town.

“There’s a neat tapas restaurant on the Mesa,” she answers. “And a couple new Mexican places on Milpas. Superica’s still there, but the line’s around the block. L.A. people discovered it, so—”

I blurt: “The breakup was fine.”

She looks at Perfect Brad. He refills my glass. They’ve been talking about me.

“Good,” Maya says. “I’m glad.”

“I mean, perfectly amicable, reasonable, mature…”

“Okay, Elle. What happened?” she asks.

See? I knew she was going to ask.

“We realized we’d been growing apart. We had different goals, different priorities.” Like I wanted a wedding, and he wanted an Iowan. “It was very, he was very, I was very, we were very…civilized!” I gesture wildly with my drink, and a bit sloshes out. I clean the side of my glass with my tongue. Klassy. “Anyway, there’s nothing to say, really.”

They look at me, faces wreathed with pity and sympathy. I manage not to bawl.

“What about the wedding?” Maya gently asks. “We were all set to come…”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing.” I dismiss it with a wave of my hand. “But it was going to be beautiful. The flowers were hot-house peonies, the linens pale peach, the confetti cannon was rented.” Tears come to my eyes. “I’d even hired Mr. Whistle to cater.”

“Mr. Whistle?”

Yeah. Mr. Whistle.

It happened at Citronelle, in Washington, D.C.

I love Citronelle—the glass-front kitchen, the witty food, the elegant people. Plus it’s fun to say chef Michel Richard’s name with a cheesy French accent: Meeshell Reesharrrd.

I sat at one of the few tables with a view of the kitchen, sipping iced tea and watching one of the cooks fry shitakes, waiting for Louis. I’d come from Mr. Whistle’s, where he and I had discussed the wedding menu. The oppressively expensive menu I couldn’t afford. In fact, Mr. Whistle was this close to canceling my catering reservation. He’d run my credit card—never a good idea.

Which brings us to Louis, who is an attorney and makes buckets of cash. His buckets were the only reason Mr. Whistle had agreed to see me. I’d left him with a promise that I’d return after lunch with Louis and his platinum card.

Problem: Louis didn’t know he was paying for the wedding.