Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (14 page)

“Only
slightly,
madam.”

“I see, well, I'm so sorry, Louie! We'll keep it down. Could you please send the offended party a bottle of Veuve Clicquot along with my sincere wishes?”

“Yes, madam!”

“My sincere wishes that they suck my cock in hell?”

“Madam?”

“Only teasing. Just give them the bottle and tell Mrs. Starling she won't be needed on the museum's Jubilee Committee after all.”

“Very good, madam.”

“Oh, Addi, don't.” Ellie clucks.

“Louie, where's my martini? Quickly, before I ship you back to whatever banana republic you escaped from!”

“Addi!” Ellie frowns. “Louie's from
Costa Rica.
Aren't you, Louie?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Oh, please.” Addi sighs. “Like anybody knows the difference. You've seen one monkey fucking a banana in the jungle, you've seen them all.
Trust me.
Louie,
where's
my martini?”

“Right away, madam.” Louie bows and hurries off.

Louie doesn't return to our table.

Mara brings a round of martinis and several three-tiered silver trays filled with little tea sandwiches—watercress-cucumber, chicken curry, and egg salad—with their crusts cut off. There are also miniature pastries, tiny éclairs, finger-size Napoléons, and apricots dipped in chocolate. Before we can eat, a flustered woman hurries over from the table across the room. “Addison?” She smiles.

“Mrs. Starling?” Addi says without smiling. She keeps her eyes on the three-tiered tray, carefully selecting pastries from the plates.

“Um . . . thank you!” Mrs. Starling says. “For the champagne!”

Addi says nothing. She just studies an apricot.

“Um . . . Louie said something about the Jubilee Committee?” Mrs. Starling says. “I'm still on it . . . right?” Her cheeks are flushed.

Addi sighs. “No,” she finally says. “I'm afraid not.”

Mrs. Starling catches her breath. “But, I've already been—”

“There's simply no room anymore,” Addi says. “There was, but now . . . there's not.”

“There's not? But how? Who—”

“Jennifer here got the last slot,” Addi says, and smiles at me. “Have you two met?”

Mrs. Starling looks at me, terrified.

“Actually, if you'll excuse us, Mrs. Starling, we must catch Jennifer up on all the Jubilee details. It's such a big party! Oh. I do hope we weren't being too loud?”

Mrs. Starling shakes her head. “No . . . I—”

“We weren't bothering you?”

“No, not at all . . . we just heard . . .
shouting
and wanted to make sure you were
all right.
”

“How sweet!” Addi says. “Actually,
your
party seems quite loud.”

“My party?” Mrs. Starling looks back at her table. “We've just been playing bridge.”

“Don't you think you'd be more comfortable in the lobby?” Addi asks.

“The . . . lobby?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“If you'll excuse us, Mrs. Starling. Jennifer hasn't made all her final decisions, so . . .”

“Of course.” Mrs. Starling crosses the solarium and sits down at her table. A moment later, all the women gather up their cards and purses and various belongings . . . and leave.

“Bitch,”
Addi says.

Ellie rolls her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“No, you see, that woman is
a bitch.
All she and her cronies do is complain. Now, if she'd come over here and been
a cunt
. . . I would've handed over the Jubilee crown.”

“Oh really?” Ellie says.

“Absolutely.”

“Sorry.” I raise my hand. “What is the Jubilee?”

“The museum's big annual donor party and art auction,” Ellie says.

“Oh. Okay . . . am I really on the committee?”

“
On
it?
Honey, you're
the head
of it.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Starling was the committee chairperson.”

Finally, Addi sighs and says, “Well. It's time to get Tallulah from her therapist.”

“Who's Tallulah?” I ask.

“That's Fiona's current name,” Ellie says.

“
Fiona.
” Addi rolls her eyes. “She's seven years old and just told me she wants to switch therapists. This one doesn't seem
emotionally reliable
enough
. That's what she said.”

“Fiona sees a therapist?”

“And her own acupuncturist, her own nutritionist, and an on-call dream interpreter for night terrors. Every single hyperactive nutbag in her class has their own team of specialists. It's unbelievable. When we were little, our mother didn't reach for some specialist every time we got a hangnail.”

“No,” Ellie says flatly. “She reached for a bottle of white wine instead.”

Mara brings the check and Addi quickly signs it.

“Did you want me to . . . I mean, should we split it?” I ask, and Addi looks at me so strangely I don't even recognize her expression at first.

“Absolutely not!” she says, her face changing from whatever expression it was to a look of haughty amusement. “Splitting the bill.” She sighs. “Maybe you
are
a guest.”

We stagger out the front doors. There's a round of air-kissing, cheerful name-calling, and friendly insult-hurling. Many cunts were had by all.

Then Ellie drives me home. I lay my head back on the seat's headrest, alcohol thrumming through my blood. “I'm not used to drinking this much,” I tell her.

She says I'll get used to it. I might, but my liver never will. Ellie apologizes for her sister's behavior, but not overly. She says Addi's a complicated woman.

I'll say. I was charmed by her, then repulsed, intrigued, angered, and finally . . . I felt deeply grateful that she stood up for me. Ellie says Addi's got a heart of gold. She might come across as crass, foul-mouthed, and bullying sometimes . . .

“Sometimes?”
I croak. “Sorry, I was only supposed to think that. Not say it.”

Ellie smirks. “It's true she has a hard exterior. Inside, though, she's uncommonly kind and protective. She paid for all of Mara's dental work, and Louie, that maître d'? She stopped the INS when they tried to deport his family. Then she used God knows what channels to buy them all green cards.”

“That sounds difficult and . . . expensive.”

“Well, Addi has more money than the Pope,” Ellie says. “She can afford it. She won
thirty-two million dollars
in her divorce settlement.”

I open my eyes. “How much?”

“Exactly. So like I said, the dumb bitch can afford it.”

“No, Ellie, no!
You're
the dumb bitch,” I tell her, giggling. “She's the stupid cunt. Remember? Me too. I've been crowned a stupid cunt too . . . so back off, bitch!”

We both titter with laughter. Ellie sighs. “
I'm
not quite so lucky. It doesn't even matter if I want to leave . . . Rick and I have a prenup; if either of us leaves, we both lose everything. Enough to drop down several income-tax brackets. The stocks, the house, not to mention the kids . . . it's all tangled up.”

“Like badly cast fishing lines
. . .” I say softly.

She looks over. “Like what?”

“It's a line from a Katherine Anne Porter story. ‘
How I have loved this house in the morning . . . before we are all awake . . . and tangled together, like badly cast fishing lines.
' ”

“Beautiful.” Ellie sighs. “And true. You know a lot about literature?”

“No. I wanted to be a writer once, but not anymore.”

“No?”

“Not really.”

“Do you and Brad have one?” she asks.

“One what?”

“A prenup.”

“Oh. We do. But—”

“Let me guess.” Ellie pulls into my driveway. “You'll never actually
use
it.”

“We won't.” I smile and start laughing at myself. “God, I sound like an idiot, don't I.”

“No more than any of us did in the beginning.”

“I know, I sound drunk and like an idiot but I'm seriously serious, Ellie. Seriously. Brad and I are good. We are. We only signed that prenup for his parents, who are . . . Jesus, they're awful.” I sit up wide-eyed and stare at her. “Shit! Tell me I didn't just say that out loud!”

“I think they're awful too,” Ellie says. “But you know what? Addi and I like you. We're going to help.”

“Really? How? Can you crucify Brad's mother? Shit! Sorry.”

“Go in and sleep it off.”

“Thanks for the ride, Ellie . . . and the tea and everything.”

“Bye, hon. Be careful.”

I'm almost to the stairs when I lurch back to her car window. “Seriously, though,” I tell her. “I will
never
get a divorce.
Ever.
I promise, just you and me . . . just one stupid cunt to a dumb bitch. Okay?”

“I know you won't.” She sighs. “That's what we all said, isn't it.”

I wave as her white Land Cruiser ambles off down the street like a friendly elephant. Then I go into the house and up to the bedroom, where I fall facedown in the mountain of piled-up clothes in my closet. I sleep there with Ace curled up beside me.

My first lunch at the Cuntry Club is over.

It was so fabulous, it nearly killed me.

11

Army Wives

M
y brain is the captain; my body is the war zone.

I size up what can stay and what must go, carefully delineating enemy territories, like my ass, my thighs, my bingo-lady arm fat. Everything must be invaded, conquered, nipped, tucked, cut off, sanded down, or plumped with injectable filler.

Addi sets up my first appointment with the Tin Man and I drive over to her sprawling Excelsior megalomaniac mansion, where we're supposed to have lunch and then drive together to the clinic. I'm going for assessment and she's going for a quick eyelid scruffing. I'm already twenty minutes late when I ring her doorbell, having struggled more than usual with my outfit, which I'm not happy with. It's a pale plum Ann Taylor suit and makes me look dumpy.

Addi answers the door wearing a short red kimono and drinking white wine.

“Sorry I'm so late,” I tell her. “There was a huge accident on the freeway.”

“Don't talk to me about accidents!” she snaps. “Talk to my maid.”

I take off my jacket and pull off my boots.

Addi starts to say something and stops short. “Jesus, what're you wearing?”

“This?” My cheeks pink. “I just wore something old.”

“How old? That thing looks like it lost a Republican caucus in 1983.”

“Well, it's just a—”

“Can you please just . . . I can't even concentrate because of what my maid just did. I'm so angry I want to scream. Come look at this.”

She leads me through the foyer and an elegant living room with vaulted ceilings, duck-egg-blue walls, long yellow satin couches, and other assorted Chippendale furniture. She marches me into her gourmet Mediterranean kitchen, which is three times the size of mine, and opens a silverware drawer. “Here's your accident,” she says. “Look!”

I peer into the drawer.

“Can you believe it?” she says.

“No. I . . . can't.” I have no idea what she's talking about.

“See! Jennifer can't believe it
either,
Juanita! Everything is just tossed in here!”

A young Filipina maid cowers in the corner, carefully slicing ingredients for salad.

Addi's nostrils flare at her. “Did you finish slicing the figs?”

Juanita looks down at the cutting board.

“Juanita!” Addi snaps. “This is your last chance! Do you understand me? Toss my good silver in with the day silver one more time and you'll be back in Manila within the week! I couldn't possibly recommend you to anyone, understand me?”

The maid nods quickly.

I clear my throat. “You know, my maid's afraid of our coffeemaker. Can you imagine? She's terrified of it!”

“What?”
Addi looks over at me.

“My maid can't make coffee. Can you imagine?”

“No. I can't.” She looks back at Juanita.

“So where's this closet everyone's talking about?” I ask her. “I bet mine's . . . bigger!”

Her head snaps back toward me. “Bigger?” She smiles. “Not likely, you stupid cunt. Want some wine? I'm drinking Bordeaux.”

“Really?”

“Jesus, why do people get all
judgy
about wine!”

I frown at her glass and shake my head. “Oh, no, it's just—”

“Okay, fine. I'll open a bottle of red. You are
such
a snob. Ellie was right about you.”

“What?”

“Would the Château Lafite Rothschild meet your high standards, m'lady?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “Sounds good.” It does
not
sound good. I don't like to drink at eleven in the morning; it knocks me out. I'll get tired. Still, I'm already learning it's easier to go along with what Addi wants . . . or at least to pretend to. I wander out into the dining room, looking at all the large oil paintings on the walls, hoping Addi will follow me and we'll avoid another Juanita tirade.

“Jesus, Jen,” she says. “Wait up!” She sweeps into the room in her red kimono and hands me a glass of wine. “Here's your wine, Queen Cunt.”

We sit down in the dining room at a long polished cherrywood table and Juanita brings us cold duck salad with goat cheese and figs. We're sitting there eating our salads and talking and I'm looking right at a large antique cabinet on the other side of the room when suddenly the cabinet door opens. I shriek when a little Asian man steps out holding a pair of shoes. He quickly looks at us and then darts into the kitchen. I look over at her. “What
was
that?”

“He's just my silver polisher.”

“Your silver polisher?”

“He comes once a week and works in the cupboard so I don't notice him.”

“Why was he holding a pair of shoes?”

“Because I told him to take his shoes off before he got into the cabinet. I don't want footprints tracking all over the place. God, it's already getting late. Drink up, QC, and I'll go throw on some clothes.”

“What's ‘QC'?”

“Queen Cunt!” She smiles. “Congratulations. You know they needed a queen.”

I sit at the table and sip my wine as she goes upstairs and changes.

I can't imagine living in this huge house alone.
Wait, she has a daughter . . . where's little Fiona?
I wonder. She probably lives in a closet under the staircase.

Juanita comes to clear our plates and with a lowered voice I tell her I'm sorry that Addi yelled at her. Juanita just stares at me. Suddenly we hear Addi coming back and Juanita drops a fork, which skitters under the sideboard. Panic floods her eyes and she freezes momentarily before dashing back into the kitchen, just as Addi saunters in wearing an all-white velour tracksuit with a bright red scarf knotted at her neck.

“What was that?” She stares suspiciously at the table. “Was Juanita in here?”

“Nope. Haven't seen her.”

“She's not supposed to come in here unless you call her. Did you call her?”

“Nope. Addi, this wine is delicious. Have some!”

“Well, it should be delicious, dummy. It cost two thousand dollars a bottle.”

I nearly choke. My face goes red as I desperately reach for the water.

“Hurry up and let's get you changed,” she says. “It's getting late.”

“Changed? Into what?”

“Well, you're not wearing that to the clinic. You look like an extra on
The Brady Bunch.
”

“I thought you said . . . never mind.”

I follow her to her truly magnificent closet and she hands me a pistachio-green Christian Dior tracksuit. “Christian Dior makes . . . tracksuits?”

“Under a pen name, of course. All the big designers do, so we rich bitches have something to wear after plastic surgery.”

“It's so soft! Is it velvet?”

“Nope. One hundred percent mink,” she says proudly. “Mink that's been pulverized and reconstituted into paper-thin fiber. It's haute couture . . . that looks like Tommy Hilfiger.”

“Wow.” I stare at the tracksuit like I just discovered ice cream.

The label says Cardinal Window.

“Get it?” Addi says. “Cardinal Window . . . just like Christian Door!”

I slip into my new best friend, the pistachio tracksuit, and it feels like bunnies are hugging me. Then we hop into Addi's sleek black Mercedes and head for the clinic.

Unlike her methodical sister, Addi drives like a drunk stuntman who's upset about something. She tears down the driveway before my door is even closed, and as we're lurching onto the street she cranks the stereo up so loud it makes the windows vibrate. She waits till we're shrieking at top speed onto a freeway entrance to reach across my lap and dig out a pair of big black sunglasses. We fly past a cop car, which I point out, and Addi shrugs. “They wouldn't dare touch me. I got a deal with the governor. I pay for the Policeman's Ball every year.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? So they can't touch me!”

We arrive at Medi-Spa, which is part clinic, part hospital, part spa . . . and all expensive, as Addi says. “Now, I signed you up for a few more things,” she says as we go inside. “The trick is to get things done
before
you need them.”

My jaw drops when I see the treatment price list. A facial starts at $500 here. That's more than my car payment. Plus, Addi signed me up for the Titanium Package, which will take two weeks to complete and will cost . . . “Seven thousand dollars?”

I look up at the perfect chesty blonde named Cristal behind the desk.

“It's standard pricing,” she says.

“Christ, just sign the form already,” Addi says.

“I don't know. I better ask Brad first.”

“Why, so he can say
no
? Jennifer, the
first
rule of marriage is that forgiveness is far easier to get than permission.”

“I thought it was something about honesty.”

She makes a face at me. “You know, I can't figure out if you're funny or just . . . stupid.”

“Little from column A,” I say, “little from column B.”

“Jennifer, you'll never get permission for
anything
. But you'll almost always get forgiveness
if
you look fabulous. Screw honesty! Men want to believe we're sexy naturally. Trust me, Brad doesn't want to know you're getting your anus bleached or your pussy steam-cleaned.”

“
I
don't even want to know that.”

“Jen, you have to start taking charge. If you don't keep your ship in shape, Brad'll row off with some little dinghy, and don't give me some bullshit about it not being fair,
life's
not fair and nobody asked you to be here, so shut up and just wax your damn pussy.”

“Wow.” I nod at her. “That should be a bumper sticker.”

“Jen, you need to play this game if you want to stay in it. Plus, do you know how hard it was to get you this appointment? Medi-Spa isn't even taking new clients right now. The waiting list is
two years long
. Do you really want to wait that long before you look fabulous? More important, does Brad?”

“Okay.” I look at her and I take a deep breath. “Okay. Let's do it.”

 

Cristal hands me what amounts to a work order form and I sign away seven grand. It's terrifying. Brad's gonna hate this. Unless of course bleached anuses are really his thing.

Time will tell.

I get my first procedure done that day. A skin technician studies my face, a giant eye swimming overhead like a huge squid staring at me through a thick clear plate of magnified glass. Then a team of nurse-technicians and skin specialists go to work on me. They start with deep cleansing and move merrily along to Dermaplaning, which is exactly what it sounds like. They use a blade to scrape your face and peel the top layer of skin cells off.

Then I get microdermabrasion and a chemical peel, where “mild acid” is spread on your face and allowed to set, burning off unwanted layers of your epidermis. After that is fractional resurfacing. They use a powerful laser to zap unwanted freckles and age spots. I'm concerned when I see smoke rising from the zap-it gun. The doctor says smoke is normal.

What is not normal, apparently, is hair. Hair is only allowed in two places on the female body: the scalp and, to a minimal degree, the eyebrows. All other hair is unwanted, unseemly, unsightly, and embarrassing. Every crack and crevice must be as soft and bald as a baby's butt. This is accomplished by using a gruesome battalion of red-hot lasers, which feel like lit cigarettes being pressed onto your bare pudenda. I'm told the burning sensation usually remains for mere minutes . . . but sometimes it lasts for weeks.

Next stop: anal bleaching. Population: one. I have to get up in a gynecologist's chair and put my feet in stirrups so the nurse, Brunhilda Von Rough Hands, can daub cold bleaching solution on the old “chocolate starfish,” which is a name she finds unamusing. Maybe that's why she warns me about the bleach solution feeling cold . . . but not about it burning. When the searing white-hot sensation hits me, I yell at her to stop. Actually I yell, “Starfish is burning! Starfish is burning!” She says not to worry. It's a normal situation.

I contend to the jury . . . it is not a normal situation. At all.

I get my vaginal steam bath next, figuring I should get all the paid violations over with. But I quite enjoy it. You squat on this ergonomic rocking-chair thing and position your hoo-hah over a big steaming bowl of boiling tea. It's pungent stuff, some blend of mugwort and wormwood, which sounds like a British crime-fighting duo to me, or a medieval venereal disease. The tea also smells like hot chimp feces, which is pretty uncool, but I fall asleep in the chair and afterward, my pussy feels like it's been to Las Vegas. Best of all, the steaming plumps the whole package up. So Brad will feel like he's trying to jam a watermelon into a pudding cup.

Finally I meet the Tin Man himself, a silent Polynesian doctor with a perfectly bald head. He uses injectable fillers to plump up the lines around my mouth and give my lips and cheeks a lift. He recommends liposuction for my belly, butt, and legs. I say no thank you. That's a major medical procedure and I'm not ready to wrap my brain around that yet. He just nods politely and says, “Your brain might not be ready for liposuction, but the rest of you is.”

He gives me prescriptions for Lunesta, alprazolam, and Trimexa, so I can sleep at night, chill out during the day, and lose weight 24/7.

Better living through pharmacology!

I meet Christopher for lunch and he starts squirming when I tell him about all the procedures at my spa visit. Especially when I tell him I had my yacht club steam-cleaned.

The thought of it makes him want to retch.

“It was awesome!” I tell him. “You don't know, you don't have a yacht club.”