The Diamond Lane (37 page)

“We've lived together for four years,” said Mouse.

“It's your
wedding
night,” said Mimi.

“Do you wish you hadn't lived together?” asked Ivan.

“No, why would I wish that?”

Ivan was silent. The camera whirred. She thought she saw Eliot smirk beneath his mustache.

Dani returned with a dozen buff bras. She lined them up, a row of satiny beige sea anemones marching down the gleaming counter two by two. Mouse held one up by the straps. She was surprised to find she wasn't embarrassed; she had no problem pretending this was not underwear. It bothered her that Ivan also seemed to have no problem pretending this was not underwear. He stood with his arms crossed, the headphones down around his neck.

“This one's good,” she said. She reached inside her purse for her wallet.

“You've
got
to try it on,” said Mimi. “I can't believe you're not going to try it on.”

“Maybe you'd like to go with more décolletage. This one has a little padding, a front closure.”

“I don't need any padding.”

“What about a Merry Widow? Tony, the groom, wants –”

“Has your fiancé asked you to get something special?” asked Ivan.

“I have a saucy little Merry Widow in point d'esprit stretch lace with detachable garters. I think it'll suit you, honey.”

Mouse tried not to roll her eyes.

“Why are you rolling your eyes?”

“Ivan, this is
ridiculous
.

“Shopping for things for your wedding or –”

“– it comes in aubergine, champagne, and ebony –”

“– the questions! I thought we talked about this. Just let the camera roll, for God's sake.”

“The camera is rolling. As co-producer you should be concerned that we're wasting film.”

“Listen,” said Eliot, “if ya don't mind me putting in my two cents. We're tryin to establish your character through your reactions to the intimate apparel, okay? They're like visual correlatives for the way you think of marriage. It also says a lot about the virgin/whore duality in contemporary relationships.”

“What?”

“That's what I was going to suggest,” said Mimi, smiling at Eliot. She waved a hanger with a few strands of red and black lace floating from its arms. “Come on, Mouse. It's your
wedding
. Be daring. I'll try on one, too. Ivan loved the one I had for our wedding. Remember, you –”

“CUT!” said Mouse.

“Tulip-shaped cups, also slightly padded. Did I tell you it came in ecru, too?” said Dani.

“Don't cut it,” said Ivan.

“I think it might be confusing for the audience to have Mimi addressing you offscreen,” said Mouse.

“I used to be married to that one,” said Mimi, flapping her
hand at Ivan. “It was the mistake of my life, but we did go to the Virgin Islands Club Med for our honeymoon.”

“Does your sister's failed marriage make you nervous?” asked Ivan, calmly pressing on.

“If you want to go with a body brief instead, I do have something with a little underwire support and a high-cut bottom. It's a nice floral stretch lace that goes under anything. Some women prefer a body brief if they're going to go with thigh-high stockings.”

“You can see why I divorced him,” said Mimi. “I'd like the tulip Merry Widow. In red.”

Mouse knew if Ivan had his way the camera would follow them right into the dressing room. This was out of the question. This documentary was about a wedding, not the tyranny of lingerie. Mouse and Mimi both agreed that there was nothing to be gained by showing Mouse hobbling around nude and knock-kneed, boobs flapping mightily, trying to tug the body brief up over her hips without ripping it. Sound was one thing. Mouse and Mimi would be happy to remove their tiny cordless mikes from their shirts and reclip them on a lacy strap. But the camera, no.

Ivan was left standing in the hallway, the camera trained on the closed dressing room door, listening. Dani stood behind him, wringing her hands.

Although she would never admit it, Mouse had never understood lingerie. Naturally, The Pink Fiend had accused her of being a freak. Women were supposed to love lingerie, even though it cost a small fortune, made you feel self-conscious, was generally uncomfortable, and never looked as alluring on you as it did on an airbrushed model, which, in turn, made you more self-conscious and, ultimately, miserable. At least this is what Mouse had deduced. Most of the time she never wore underwear. When she did, she went in for standard white cotton. She wore bras you could buy in a box at the drugstore.

Mouse stood in front of the mirror, modeling a black stretch-lace body brief, her hands on her hips. In the center was
a diamond-shaped sheer mesh insert. The cups were also sheer, adroitly trimmed with more black lace to hide the main attractions. The legs were cut high, setting off the hollow sides of Mouse's thin haunches, still tan from a stint of nude sunbathing in Malindi. She fussed with her hair, ran her hands down her stomach and over her hips. Yes, it cost a fortune, but, Mouse thought, I have a fortune. She jutted out her hip experimentally. “This is ridiculous,” she said.

“Do you need another color or size?” asked Dani though the door.

“What is ridiculous?” asked Ivan.

“She looks incredible,” said Mimi. She stood behind Mouse in her red Merry Widow, staring at Mouse.

“Really?” said Mouse.

“You have just the bod for this kind of stuff. I'm thin, but wide.” She turned sideways and sucked in her stomach. “I'm just too feminine for this time in history. I should have been born when Renoir was around. Plus, I have all these moles. I used to think they were freckles.”

“Does it offend your feminist sensibility?” asked Ivan. “Do you feel as though you are a turkey dressed for Thanksgiving? A calf fatted for the slaughter?”

“All of those,” said Mouse, rolling her eyes at Mimi.

“I told you he was nuts,” Mimi whispered.

“Speak up, girls. Even though you're miked you need to speak up,” said Ivan.

“She said you were nuts,” said Mouse.

Mimi pinched her arm. Silence from the other side of the door. Mimi and Mouse giggled into their hands.

They tried on everything the obsequious Dani brought them. Bustiers and fluted tap pants and lace camibras, silk gowns and satin teddies. They wore their little slippers and asked for a tray of champagne and cookies.

Mouse tried on the saucy little aubergine spandex Merry
Widow with string bikini and stretch stockings. “I look like a whore,” said Mouse, not unhappily.

“Of course you look like a whore. That's the whole point. I wish I looked like a whore. I look like one of those saloon girls from the Wild West. All I need is a hat with a big feather in it.”

Mouse wondered how she ever got the impression these things were uncomfortable. Everything was soft and stretchy and smelled rich. She looked at her stained and faded jeans abandoned on the chintz-covered Hepplewhite chair in the corner and thought they should be picked up with a large set of tongs and taken immediately out to the dumpster in the alley. Suddenly she felt foolish. The concept of lingerie was against everything she believed in, yet here she was enjoying herself.

On impulse she threw open the dressing room door. “Why not?” she thought, momentarily forgetting that showing Tony footage of her traipsing around in a saucy aubergine Merry Widow and string bikini in front of Ivan's camera was not likely to win him over to the cause.

Mimi clamped her arms over herself. “What are you
doing
?” she shrieked.

“What the well-dressed bride is wearing this year,” said Mouse. She glided up and down the short hallway that led from the dressing rooms, elbow crooked, palm up, hips swinging. “Here we have Mouse FitzHenry modeling a delightful Merry Widow by…” She lifted up her arm to look at the label.

“Giuseppe of Firenze,” said Dani Lynx. “It looks fabulous.”

“Giuseppe of Firenze. Notice the delicate panel of French lace and the delicate underwire…”

“Hubba-hubba.” Eliot chewed on his mustache, training the camera on Mouse as though he was covering an event of world significance.

“Well,” Mouse said, stopping before Ivan. “Whaddya think?”

“CUT,” he said.

“What are you doing? I thought you wanted to film in the dressing room –”

“– I ask the questions,” he said. “You do not address me. I am not here.”

“I thought I was the co-producer.”

“When you are on-camera, you are the subject.”

Mimi lurched into the hallway, determined not to be left out. She had changed back into the red Merry Widow and was struggling with the zipper. “Don't you want to get both of us? Two sisters? Just make sure, I need to be filmed from the side –”

“– go back,” said Ivan.

“Forget it,” said Mouse. “The show's over.”

“No, I like this. Perhaps, though, you should see if Mrs. Lynx has that same thing in white. We want to emphasize the totemic quality of the white.”

“Brides want to be white, inside and out,” said Mimi. “I know how that is.”

“Just give me two bras, thirty-two C,” said Mouse crossly. “In beige.”

AFTER THEY FINISHED
at Sins, Mimi drove Ivan and Eliot home, bumper-to-bumper down Lincoln Boulevard to Venice. This was less fun than she imagined. She hadn't realized she'd also be roped into chauffeuring these two clowns around. How can they live in L.A. and not have a car? She glanced in the rearview mirror right into the big glass eye of the camera. Eliot and Ivan were squeezed into the backseat, filming what Ivan called “the all-important woman talk,” in which presumably much would be revealed. Ivan shot while Eliot operated the Nagra from his fat lap.

“You'll regret that you didn't buy anything,” said Mimi. “You only get married once for the first time.”

“I bought something.”

“Two bras, big deal. In
beige
.”

Mouse looked out the window.

“You can do all that weird Africa stuff and you're afraid to spring for some decent underwear.”

“I am not,” said Mouse hotly. Mimi was right, she was. What was wrong with her? She just could not bring herself to buy those things. Hundreds and hundreds of dollars. The yearly per capita income of Mali for a peignoir set? The monthly salary of a Tanzanian schoolteacher for a teddy? It was frivolous. It was self-indulgent. It was not serious. It was something Mimi would do. And if Mimi would do it, Mouse would not. She was depressed.

Mimi sang along with the radio. “Sir or ma'am would you read my book…” She had a good voice, she thought. Not much of a range, but a clear strong alto. If anybody saw this stupid film maybe they'd hear her singing and cast her in a musical – “'cause I want to try and take the back right turn, take the back right turn!”

“It's ‘paperback writer,'” said Mouse.

“No, listen.” Mimi turned it up.

“It's 'cause I want to be a paperback writer,” said Mouse.

“I played this album every day of my life, I should know what it is.”

Ivan laughed in the backseat. “I used to think ‘life in the fast lane' was ‘pipe in the Vaseline.'”

“Pipe in the Vaseline,” sang Eliot in a booming bass. “I like it.”

“You always have to be right, don't you?” said Mimi.

“I am right,” said Mouse.

“You bought those two stupid bras,” sniffed Mimi, snapping off the radio.

Mouse reached over and snapped it back on.

Unaccountably, the traffic suddenly eased up. They caught all the lights. Mouse rolled down her window, laid her head on her arms. The thick salty air blew her hair off her face. Her eyes watered. She pretended she was a dog with no problems. On
the radio, another Beatles' song, one of the instrumentals from the psychedelic period tolerated by every one, liked by no one.

Suddenly, up ahead, a flurry of brake lights. A light-yellow Buick two cars up braked too late. The driver began to veer left onto the median, just as the car ahead of Mimi's Datsun clipped the Buick's rear bumper, sending it first sideways, then up, up, straight into the air, over onto its roof.

It did not look like a crash. It looked choreographed, a trained dolphin swooping into the air before falling over on its back. No horns honked. No brakes shrieked. No one screamed. There was only the homely sound of crunching sheet metal, like a trash can falling over.

To avoid the pileup, Mimi swung into the right lane without looking. Miraculously, it was clear. They sped past the Buick. The passenger window had been crushed to the size of a toaster. Wedged in the window was a rear end in khakis. The trunk had sprung open, dirty laundry was scattered on the street. The license plate was Canadian: Friendly Manitoba. Mouse knew, somehow, that the Manitobans were dead. No rear that big fits in a window that small without the fatal squeezing of some serious bones and organs.