Finding It (9 page)

“I’m sorry if you’ve felt neglected. I’ve tried to keep in touch with you. I called a bunch of times, but with the time difference and my crazy itinerary—”

“Is Poppy on Facebook and Twitter?”

“What?” Fanny’s abrupt change of subjects confuses me. “I don’t know if Poppy is on social media.”

“Well,” Fanny sniffs. “I hope for her sake she has an active Facebook account. God knows, you can’t be one of Vivia’s friends unless you’re active on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and Instagram.”

Ding! Ding! Sound the bell Mickey; Rocky is down for the count. This unprovoked boxing match has left me dazed and bewildered. I am flat on my back, prostrate and gasping for breath, but Fanny’s still doing her float-like-a-butterfly-sting-like-a-bee victory dance.

“Being a magazine columnist, traveling the world, meeting interesting people. This is my dream.”

“It’s not your dream, Vivian,” Fanny snaps. “Writing a novel about Mary Shelley is your dream—at least, it was before that stupid photo of you and Jett Jericho went viral and you became famous.”

“Okay, maybe being a travel columnist for a chick magazine wasn’t my dream before, but it is now,” I argue, my voice rising. “I am living a dream, and I don’t want it to end. If you were a real friend, you would stand by me—”

“Pffft.”

“Don’t you pffft me!”

“Why? What are you going to do? Send me a strongly worded tweet?”

I let out a low, long whistle to keep from saying something I will regret. She’s starting to piss me off.

“Look, Fanny,” I say, struggling to control my temper. “I get it. You’re not a touchy-feely, I-get-your-pain-sister-kinda gal, but do you have to be so blunt?”

We remain silent for several seconds. When Fanny speaks again, some of the bitter has leeched from her tone.

“I am worried about you, Vivian,” Fanny says, pronouncing my name with her nasal French accent. “You have a good thing with Luc—a great thing—and I am afraid you are taking it for granted. I saw how devastated you were after your breakup with Nathan. It killed me to see you in such pain. I supported you—”

“I know you did, Fanny,” I say, the piss and vinegar gone from my tone. “And I appreciate it.”

Fanny makes a noise low in her throat, a dismissive noise that translates, “Please, it was nothing.”

“The love you felt for Nathan was but a drip in the wineglass compared to what you feel for Luc.” Fanny’s voice is suddenly hoarse. “You might not realize it yet, but it’s true,
ma cherié
. I’ve never seen you as happy as you are when you are with Luc.”

An image of Luc holding a sign with the words “You fill my heart with music, Vivia Perpetua Grant” in the arrivals terminal at the Vienna airport, a musician dressed as Mozart playing the violin behind him, flickers in my brain. Luc. Sexy, smart, sometimes-sappy, larger–than-life romantic gestures, Luc. Luc does make me happy. Crazy happy.

“I love Luc. I do.” My voice is thick with emotion. “But I love my job, too. I might not have imagined myself a travel columnist, but I have always wanted to be a writer and I love writing travel pieces. I am not ready to trade my suitcase for a stroller. You know what they say, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes popping Prozac over the baby carriage.”

Fanny chuckles. “Oh, Vivian.”

“I am not kidding!” Fanny’s verbal jabs have loosened secret feelings I have been too frightened to release before this moment. “My mum could have had a brilliant career as an artist, but she gave up art to marry my father, support him in his career, and raise me. I don’t want to be my mother, Fanny.”

I love my mum, dearly, but I don’t want to follow in her domestic footsteps, suppressing my creative spirit, abandoning my goals, in the name of marital bliss. I won’t be subjugated by any man…not even Luc.

“Your mum is wonderful, Vivian. Truly.”

“Yes, but deep down she’s not happy. She knows she could have had a brilliant career. That’s why she keeps such a frantic, frenetic pace, rushing between Zumba and poetry readings and Bible study. Her creative spirit has withered and cries out for nurturing.”

“Have you ever thought your mum didn’t really want an art career? That if she did, nothing, not a domineering husband or an energetic child, would have kept her from painting?”

I exhale again. This is all too deep, too emotional for Boujis. I can’t ponder weighty life issues to an electropop soundtrack.

“Luc and I have only been dating for a year—long-distance dating. We have had a whirlwind romance—champagne in Chamonix, bootie calls in Belgium—and I’m not ready for it to end.”

“You can’t go on dating long-distance forever, Vivian.”

“Why?”

Fanny sighs. “If you love Luc-ious, forget the Downton Abbey set and get to Paris.”

I grit my teeth. I hate when people refer to Jean-Luc as Luc-ious. It’s a stupid, demeaning name coined by one of my Twitter followers after I tweeted a photo of Luc, tanned and shirtless, sailing off the Amalfi Coast.

“I am still on assignment, working on a story. Jean-Luc will wait.”

“French men don’t wait.”

A Conscious Uncoupling

I sink down and take a seat on the commode. Have I become self-absorbed? I have missed a few of Fanny’s phone calls over the last few months—and I’ve only seen her once since taking the
GoGirl!
gig.

It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know what is going on in my best friend's life, who she is dating, how she spends her Saturdays now that I am not in San Francisco. Fanny is right! I have become a wee bit self-absorbed. Tears prickle my eyelids.

“Vivia? Are you okay?”

Oh shit! It’s Poppy. I don’t want posh, powerful Poppy to see me weak and weeping. I swipe the tears from my cheeks and open the door, the brightest, phoniest smile plastered on my face.

Poppy narrows her gaze.

“If you think you are fooling me with that smile, you really must be away with the fairies.” She tilts her head, and her chic blond bob spills over her bare shoulder. “Whatever is the matter?”

My bottom lip trembles. I can only shrug like some sad six-year-old. Poppy reaches into her Lucite clutch, pulls out her Dior Addict Lip Gloss, and offers the tube to me. I shake my head and tears spill down my cheeks.

“Blimey!” She tosses the lip gloss back into her clutch, puts her arms around me, and pats my back, crooning, “There, there.”

I knew it! I told you my instinct about Poppy was spot-on. Behind her stiff upper lip British exterior beats the heart of a warm, huggy California kinda girl. The kind of girl who invites you to a posh party, helps you score discount Louboutins, and shares her Dior Addict with you. Poppy pats my back one last time.

“I must paint a rather pathetic picture.”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.”

Poppy grins, unabashed, and I can’t help but laugh. Her unflinching, unapologetic manner reminds me of Fanny, which makes me feel somehow better and homesick all at once.

“Thanks,” I say. “I must look positively wretched, because you broke your No Hug rule.”

Poppy grimaces. “Yes, well. I believe I said I don’t do kisses.” She takes the lip gloss out of her bag again and swipes the bright pink wand over her full lips. “Hugs are permissible, once annually, or on extremely special occasions. You just received your annual hug. You’re welcome.”

She has such a serious Churchill-esque expression on her face.

“I am serious.” She turns away from the mirror and hands me her lip gloss. “Now, care to tell me what catastrophic event has you weeping in a loo stall instead of dancing your arse off?”

While I hit the high notes of my tragic opera, Poppy repairs the water damage to my face, dabbing my cheeks with a puff from her compact. I wait for her to tell me to ignore Fanny’s advice, to concentrate on my career, because, after all, she is the CEO of a major hotel chain, but she doesn’t.

“Whenever I am struggling with a difficult decision, I try to follow the advice my father always gave me. Would you like me to share my father’s advice?”

“Yes.”

“When life roars at you, find a quiet place and listen to the whispers in your heart. They will not lead you astray.” Poppy lips quiver.

I sense loneliness settling around her like an Armani poncho.

“What does your heart whisper, Vivia?”

Luc.
GoGirl
! Luc.

Maybe I have a schizophrenic heart.

“Are you kidding me?” I joke. “Who can hear a whisper over Martin’s mad electropop remixes?”

Poppy doesn’t push me.

“Come on, Bishop is worried he offended you. Perhaps you can assuage his guilt.” Poppy tosses her compact back into her clutch and snaps it shut. “Besides, Mandy Cohen wants us to do a shot with her, and Prince Harry just arrived with a new blonde.”

* * * *

Bishop is deep in conversation with some leggy blonde, but he grins when he sees me. The blonde flips her hair back and I realize she is Wynona Pathlow. She’s holding an untouched martini and fiddling with the plastic spear impaling the fat olive in her glass.

I take the flute of champagne Poppy offers me and pretend not to listen to Bishop and Wynona’s conversation

Bishop proselytizes to Wynnie about his call for a nation-wide abstinence from voting to draw attention to the “massive economic disparity perpetuated by a preexisting paradigm which is quite narrow and only serves a privileged few and ignores the disenfranchised and discarded lower class.”

Wynnie appears to be more interested in her olive than Bishop’s plan for a New World Order. And who can blame her, really? When you’re pipe cleaner thin, a single olive must look like a veritable feast. I’ll bet that single olive contains more calories than she consumes in a day. I stare at her hard and send a telepathic message.

Go on, girl. Binge. Eat the olive. You can run a marathon tomorrow to make up for it.

Wynnie looks up, and we make eye contact. She stares right through me. Poor thing. Malnutrition must be impeding her vision.

I have to wrap both hands around my champagne flute to keep from Yelping the nearest Italian joint and having a pizza with extra olives delivered to Boujis in care of Wynona Pathlow.

When Bishop stems the flow of his Niagara Falls-sized monologue long enough to take a sip of his lime water, Wynnie releases her grasp on the olive spear, rises majestically, and leaves without uttering a word.

“Looks like you and Wynnie just had a conscious uncoupling,” I say, referencing the ridiculous phrase the actress used to announce her divorce from her husband, Chris Morgan.

Bishop looks at me and grins.

“You fink?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.”

“Good,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “My divinely inspired though wholly devious plan worked.”

“What plan?”

Bishop finishes his lime water, deposits the glass on a low table in front of us, and leans over to confess his wicked, wicked little secret.

“The former Missus Morgan is an insufferable prig who believes serving on the board of a homeless charity nulls and voids her grossly lavish lifestyle.”

“Harsh.”

“Reality is often harsh, luv,” he says, leaning back and crossing his long, lanky leather-clad legs at the ankles. “Wynona lives in a self-perpetuated, self-gratifying, delusive fantasyland wherein dispensing wisdom to the masses on where they might purchase pricey monogrammed knickers qualifies as a philanthropic act.”

“Isn’t it hypocritical to criticize a system that has brought you untold fortunes and fame? You fault Wynona Pathlow her lavish lifestyle, but I remember reading you flew to India first class, cruised Jaipur in a Mercedes Benz, and rented an elephant to serve you peanuts or something.”

“Balderdash!” Bishop slams his fist down on his knee. “That is complete and utter rubbish. I loathe peanuts.”

We laugh.

“Poppy tells me you are madly in love with a Frenchman. Is this true?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “What a bloody shame! I rather fancy shagging someone with a firm grasp on grammar.”

Hold up. Did Bishop Raine just say he wanted to shag me?

“I don’t know what I find more flattering: your expressed desire to shag me or your bizarrely worded praise of my vocabulary.”

He tosses his hair and laughs.

“Nice tattoo,” I say, briefly touching the Sanskrit symbol inked on one of his forearms. “What does it mean?”

Bishop explains the significance of the symbol and asks me if I have any tattoos.

The blush that stains my cheeks is reflexive. Although a year has passed since my wild night in Cannes, when, fuelled by copious champagne cocktails and Jett Jericho’s compelling philosophy, I staggered into a tattoo parlor and came out inked.

“Oh-ho!” Bishop cries gleefully. “Methinks I smell a tramp stamp.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Out with it.” He makes a regal rolling gesture with his hand. “Regale me with the tale of your descent into debauchery, sparing none of the sordid details.”

With Poppy listening, I tell Bishop Raine about one of the most humiliating events of my life.

“I lied to my ex-fiancé and told him he was my first lover. A few days before our wedding, we were at our favorite wine bar when we ran into Travis Trunnell, an arrogant jackass I slept with while I was in college.”

Bishop waggles his eyebrows and grins. I can almost hear the “Yeah, baby, yeah,” in his head.

“Travis brought his drunk, idiotic college roommate to the wine bar with him that night. Drew.” I wrinkle my nose when I say his name. “Drew remembered me and told Nathan, my ex, all about my late night booty call with ‘his boy’ Travis.”

“You dirty girl!” Bishop crows.

“Not really,” I protest, my cheeks warming. “Nathan ended our engagement. Naturally, I was devastated, but my best friend convinced me to go on the honeymoon anyway.”

“Did you?” Bishop asks.

“Did she?” Poppy grins and raises her champagne flute in tribute. “Abso-bloody-lutely.”

We clink glasses.

“I was on the beach in Cannes, nursing my broken heart and a few champagne cocktails, when I met Jett Jericho. He gave me this whole speech about transformation and regeneration, about going down in flames and rising up from the ashes.”