My life sucks.
If s always sucked, if you want to know the truth. D.W. laughs harshly. "I've seen that act before. And you don't deserve an ounce of sympathy. I've never seen anyone who's been given so much fuck up so spectacularly. Get yourself together. Go do a line of cocaine or something.”
"I'm going home now. And I'm going to forget we ever had this conversation.”
"I wouldn't do that, my dear," D.W. says, gripping my hand. Ah yes. I'd forgotten how strong D.W. can be, even though he's a faggot.
"You're hurting me," I say.
"That’s absolutely nothing, my dear, compared to the amount of pain I can inflict upon you and am perfectly prepared to do so.”
I sit back down. Light ANOTHER cigarette. GOD.
I have to quit smoking one of these days. When I get pregnant. "What do you want, D.W.?" I ask, although I have a pretty good idea. "You know I don't have any money.”
"Money?" D.W. sits back in his chair and starts laughing. He's laughing so hard tears came out of the corners of his eyes.
"Don't insult me," he says.
"You're like that character in All About Eve. Addison DeWitt, The Evil Queen," I say.
"Why don't you order something to eat?”
“I'm not hungry. You know that.”
"I'll order something for you.”
Why is he torturing me? "I'll throw up. I swear to God, D.W. I'll vomit.”
"Waitress," he says.
He moves his chair closer to the table. I move mine back. "All I want," he says, "is to be very, very close to my very, very good friend Cecelia. Who is now about to relaunch herself as the queen of society. Backed, aided, and abetted, of course, by her very, very good friend D.W.”
I sit back in my chair. Cross my legs. Swing my foot. "I'll do nothing of the sort," I say, mashing my cigarette on the floor.
"Oh ... yes ... you ... will," D.W. says calmly. "Oh ... no ... I ... won't.”
"Are you aware," D.W. says, "that there's a Princess Cecelia tell-all book in the works? The writer is a very, very good friend of mine, but I have to say he's quite an excellent investigative journalist. The book would be—well, let’s just say that 'embarrassing' would be the least of it.”
"Are you aware," I say, "that I have now been married for over one year, so therefore whatever you want to say about me makes absolutely no difference?”
“Are you aware," D.W. says, "that your marriage sucks and your husband is constantly considering filing for divorce?”
"My husband is madly in love with me. He won't let me out of his sight.”
"And where is he tonight?”
"You know my philosophy, D.W. I always bite the hand that feeds me.”
"Is that so? Well, take a good look at yourself, dear. You're a mess," D.W. says. "You can hardly afford to have your name raked through the mud. Think about it. The photographers camped outside your door again, people going through your garbage, your face on the cover of the tabloids. You barely escaped last time. Just think of the .. . schadenfreude.”
“I think ... I need ... a Xanax," I whisper.
"Oh, you'll need much more than a Xanax by the time they're through with you. I should think you'll be on Librium by then. Which, incidentally, is what they give to schizophrenics. Just in case you're not up on your pharmaceuticals.”
I slump in my chair.
"If s not that bad," D.W. says. "All I'm asking is for you to attend a few parties and a tea every now and then. Chair a couple of committees. Wear some designer dresses. Maybe a fur. You're not against fur, are you? And then maybe host a trip to India, but by the time we arrange it, India might be passe, so maybe someplace like Ethiopia. We'll do some photo shoots, get you signed on as a contributing editor at Vogue. If s only the sort of life that every woman in America dreams of.”
"D.W.," I say. "Society is ... dead.”
"Nonsense, my dear," he says. "You and I are going to revive it. We'll both have our place in the annals of history.”
I wish I were in Massachusetts, riding around in the back of someone's car.
Smoking a joint. Listening to Tom Petty.
"Come, come," D.W. says. "It's not like I'm asking you to be a homeless person. No one's asking you to urinate in subway stations. You've had a nice long rest, and now it's time to go back to work. Because that's what women in your position do. They work. Or did someone forget to tell you that?" He picks up his knife and smiles into the distorted reflection of his mouth. "People are relying on you, Cecelia. They're relying on you not to fuck up.”
"Why?" I ask.
"Here's what I want you to do," he says. "Number one. Start putting on a happy face. Happy, happy, happy. Weren't you voted Most Popular in your high school class?”
"No.”
"But you were voted something," he says. "No," I say definitely. "I wasn't.”
"You showed me your yearbook, Cecelia. Years ago. I remember the evening. It was right after Tanner dumped you.”
"Tanner never dumped me. I dumped him. Remember? For my husband.”
"Rewrite history with other people, my dear. I was there. Now what was it?”
"Most Likely to Succeed," I whisper.
But there were only forty people in my high school class. And ten of them barely graduated.
"And you have," he says. "You can't use it.”
"You have to stop being so afraid of everything. Really. It's embarrassing.”
"I'm just so ... tired.”
"So go to bed. Number Two. We have to find you a charity. Something with children, I think; maybe encephalitic babies. And then maybe some lessons cooking or Italian, because everyone's going to be summering in Tuscany next year, and we should hook you up with some new spiritual trend thing ... like druids. Druids could be very, very big, and you look like someone who could worship trees and get away with it.”
D.W. holds up his martini glass. "To you, my dear. We're going to turn you into ... into America's very own Princess Di. What do you think?”
"I think/' I say, not even sarcastically, "Princess Di is dead.”
"That’s irrelevant," he says. "Her spirit lives on.”
“And so is Princess Ava. Dead.”
"So is Marilyn Monroe. And Frank Sinatra. Who cares? They're all dead. You've got to stop being so negative. Don't you wake up some mornings and think, 'By God, we did it.' We accomplished our goal. You're a princess. A real princess.”
"No," I say glumly. "I always knew it would happen.”
Along with a lot of other things, I suppose.
"You're never to say that. Ever again. To anyone," D.W. says. "Good God, Cecelia. That’s why you're so bad at this. You've got to stop telling the truth. When someone asks—and they are going to ask, you've managed to avoid doing interviews so far, but you're going to have to start very soon—you're to say that you had no idea who he was when you just happened to sell him that painting in a gallery—”
“But I did sell him that painting in a gallery.”
"That’s not die point. Destiny only works in Arab countries. In America, destiny makes you sound ... calculating. Which," he says, finishing his martini, "we know you are. But nobody else has to know that. Now about those S. sisters ...”
"No," I say. "They freak me out.”
"Why? They're young, beautiful, rich, and married. Everyone wants to be their friend.”
I glare at him. I want to put my head in my hands, but I'm too tired. I can't explain anything. What it was like sitting there in that big empty room—it had two Regency couches and a coffee table and a fireplace with a marble mantel—with that S. sister. The one who was married off at eighteen. "Cecelia," she had said. "Have you had a lot of lovers? You look like someone who has.”
"What's a lot?" I said cautiously. I didn't understand. What did she want from me? I hadn't gone to private school in Europe.