Faking It (6 page)

“Reach out as if you are about to take the champagne from Mademoiselle Tyler, but close your fingers a little because you’re giving me scary jazz hands.”

I comply. Who wants scary jazz hands on Instagram? I imagine the hashtags:
#MistakesGIRLSmake #Desperate4Love #HideousSelfie.

“Good, now turn the ring toward the camera a little more.” Fanny snaps the picture. “
Voila!
”

I look up at Morgan Tyler, sympathetic stewardess, and she fixes her face with a big beaming smile.

“You are sooooo brave,” she says. “To be out, traveling, so soon after your tragedy.”

She makes it sound as if I am a pitiable creature, like someone who’s emerged from plastic surgery after a brutal pit-bull mauling or one of Taylor Swift’s lamentable exes. Jeez. I was left at the altar.

“Thanks,” I say.

Morgan Tyler squats down, looking me in the eye.

“That came out wrong,” she says, lowering her voice. “It’s just… My boyfriend dumped me last year and it practically gutted me. I was completely useless for, like, three months.”

I blink at the bubbly California blonde and wonder how any man could have jilted such a beauty.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

Morgan waves her hand. “No worries. I’m so over it. Your Travelocity ring thing is brilliant. Maybe if I had thought to do something fun like that after Dominic dumped me, I wouldn’t have gained ten pounds, emotionally eating my way through the entire Entenmann’s pastry line” She’s all wistful, staring off and then snapping her magnetic smile back on. “Anyway, I’d love to follow your adventure. Maybe I could look you up on Facebook?”

I like this girl. Her combination of sweetness and candor are kind of cool.

“Absolutely!”

I reach into my purse and pull out one of my
San Francisco Magazine
business cards and hand it to her. Morgan takes my card and reads it. Her eyes widen.

“You’re a reporter?”

“Yes. No. I was a reporter for
San Francisco Magazine
until my fiancé broke up with me. His family owns the magazine, so…”

“You were fired?”

I nod.

“Shut up!”

“Serious.”

Morgan whistles low. “That’s just harsh.”

“It’s no big deal,” I lie, slapping a big bright smile on my face. “I’ll get another job soon.”

“Of course you will.” Morgan Tyler places the champagne flute on my armrest table, slips my business card in her apron pocket, and winks. “If you need anything else, just let me know, ’kay?”

“You see, Vivian?” Fanny waves her hand at Morgan. “You are not the only woman to have been dumped at the altar.”

“Fab! Maybe I should start a Facebook page. Click Like if you’re Dumped and Lonely.”

“Trust me Vivian,” she says, moving back to her pod, “you are not going to be single for long.”

Fanny reclines her chair, slips her mask over her eyes, and releases a deep, contented sigh.

I wish I shared Morgan and Fanny’s optimism about my future, but right now I am scared I will spend the rest of eternity on welfare, eating Healthy Choice meals for one. Maybe this awful turn is just the fulfillment of a tragic personal prophecy. When I was in first grade, my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I answered, “A bag lady.”

I am not sure what possessed me to say such a thing. Maybe it was petulance, or maybe I was genuinely enamored with the idea of living an unfettered life, only burdened by the pretty bags I carried. Twenty years later, I am without a man, a job, and home of my own. My possessions have been boxed up and carted off to a storage facility, and I am about to spend the next two weeks living out of a suitcase. Now, how’s that for a self-fulfilling prophecy?

I reach into my purse, pull out my ear buds, and am just about to pop them into my ears when I remember Fanny has confiscated my iPhone. Which means ten hours and thirty-two minutes sans music/podcasts/my guided imagery audio course.

“Pssst, Fanny,” I whisper.

Fanny lifts her mask enough to expose just one eye.

“Can I please have my iPhone? Just to listen to my music?”

Fanny sighs but reaches into her bag and pulls out the most remarkable invention since Victoria’s Secret Hello Bombshell! Bra.

“No checking e-mails or Facebook,” she says as she hands me my cherished cellular device. “And don’t you dare cue up that sad suicidal music.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, quickly choosing a new playlist.

“Puhleez,” Fanny rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen your ‘For When I Am Blue’ playlist. If you listen to that, you might as well skip the champagne and call for the razor blades.”

“Hey, don’t judge. It’s my process.”

“No Adele.” Fanny glares at me like a fierce, protective Cyclops. “You need a Girl Power playlist. Listen to P!nk.”

Before I can respond, she slips the mask back over her eyes, resuming her reclined position.

I pop my ear buds in my ears and opt for my Classic Rock playlist. Maybe all I need is a little Aerosmith, Poison, Def Leppard, and Mötley Crüe to empower me. As the first strains of “Pour Some Sugar on Me
”
begin screaming out of my buds, I close my eyes and let my mind flow in a stream of consciousness.

I read somewhere the inspiration for this Def Leppard mega-hit came when the songwriter was brainstorming lyrics and took a tea break. Someone asked him if he wanted one or two lumps of sugar and he said, “I don’t care man, just pour some sugar on me.” I like this song, but it doesn’t make sense. Sugar is gritty, like sandpaper. That’s not sexy. It’s painful. Now, why didn’t they say, “Pour some syrup on me”? Syrup is sexy. I don’t eat pancakes very often, but I like syrup. Nathan and I went to the sweetest little B&B in Asheville, North Carolina and had the most delicious homemade triple berry syrup. I remember how we—

Great! Now I am thinking of Nathan and sexy times.

I try to push the thought of Nathan out of my mind, try to press pause on the thousands of images now flickering in my brain, but I can’t.

This is how it starts…the slow slide into insanity.

Take a deep breath, Vivia. Get ahold of yourself. You are not going insane. Your brain is just stuck in an awful loop.

I wrote this article once about taming obsessive thoughts. My editor hated the idea when I pitched it to her, but I explained that the more cerebral piece might help shopaholics stop obsessing about buying an expensive pair of leather Stuart Weitzman biker boots or blinged out Juicy Couture sunglasses. I interviewed a physics professor who said the cure to obsessive thoughts was to reprogram the brain by replacing a positive image with a negative one. In other words, when I start to think about Nathan’s great smile, I should replace it with the memory of him flossing his teeth with my business card.

I conjure up a few more positive memories of Nathan—like the time he stood in the rain holding a bouquet of flowers outside my office, the time he serenaded me over my birthday cake, and when he proposed on bended knee—and replace them with negative ones—like Nathan sitting on a donut shaped inflatable pillow because of a nasty attack of hemorrhoids, Nathan being rude to a waitress after she accidentally spilled a glass of wine, and Nathan stalking out of Snob, leaving me in tears.

I am feeling more empowered already.

I can do this! I will reprogram my brain to stop thinking about Nathan. I will open new neural pathways, form new habits.
Au revoir, Nathan Edwards! I am purging you from my mind, banishing you from my brain. I will think of you no more.

People of Walmart Unite

Welcome, Nathaniel and Vivia Edwards!

The first thing I see when I step off the high-speed train and onto the TGV platform is a chic, willowy French woman holding a large sign with what would have been my married name printed on it. Welcome, Nathaniel and Vivia Edwards. It’s like the universe is mocking me, saying, “Go ahead and try to forget Nathan.”

The chic French woman notices me staring at the sign and walks over.

“
Bonjour,
Madame Edwards! Welcome to Montpellier.” She looks over my shoulder at the passengers disembarking. “But where is Monsieur Edwards?”

Fanny is still retrieving her large rolling suitcase and has not yet joined me on the platform. I, however, am sans bags. According to the Air France
Spécialiste des Bagages
at Charles de Gaulle, my luggage has “
pris un détournement
.” Translation: taken a diversion. Actual meaning: is sitting on a carousel in Zurich, Copenhagen, or Madrid because we employ people who are either too stupid or too inconsiderate to care what happens to your flatiron and La Perla panties.

“Madame Edwards?”

I stare at the sign in mute misery while struggling to construct a plausible explanation for my fiancé’s conspicuous absence.

“You are Vivia Edwards, aren’t you?”

I nod.

“Fabulous,” she says, though with her accent the word comes out more like fob-oo-liss. She leans in and kisses both my cheeks. “I am Chantal de Caumont, one of the owners of Aventures Caumont. As you know, Aventures Caumont offers guided luxury bike and cultural tours of Southern France and Tuscany. It is our greatest wish to cater to your whims
while
broadening your horizons. If you need anything to make your adventure more enjoyable, anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Having wrangled her massive suitcase off the train, Fanny joins me in time to hear Chantal’s welcome. Chantal looks at Fanny and her smooth brow wrinkles. She looks back at me.

“Now then, where is
Monsieur
Edwards? Is he still on the train?”

Fanny deposits her Louis Vuitton carryon atop her suitcase and fixes Chantal with a bright smile.

“
Bonjour,
Madame,” Fanny says in her sing-song French. “
Je suis Stéphanie Girard Moreau, ami de Vivia. Monsieur Edwards ne vient pas…
”

My linguistic deficits prevent me from keeping up with Fanny’s rapid French. I translate a few words. Friend. Sad. Affair. Marriage. Small chicken. I thought I heard Fanny say
petit poulet
, but I can’t imagine what a small chicken has to do with my breakup.

When Fanny finally stops speaking, Chantal clucks her tongue and looks at me as if I am a crippled orphan scooting around on an old skateboard, panhandling for coins so I can buy food for my faithful flea-bitten cocker spaniel.

I wonder what this pretty French woman must think of me, the poor, jilted
Américaine
and her
histoire d’amour tragique
.

My smile wobbles, and tears prick my eyes. What a pathetic mess I must look to this chic little French woman. I can almost hear her thoughts.

La! Look at this tragic woman, discarded by her lover, and now destined to a loveless life, with only a herd of cats to keep her company.

If I do not excuse myself, I will burst into tears in the middle of the TGV station.

“
Pardon moi, Où se trouvent les toilettes?
” I ask, phonetically sounding out one of the few French phrases I have managed to master.

I have tried to learn French, but despite my best efforts I can do little more than utter basic messages like:
Je voudrais commander un café au lait
, which means I would like a coffee with milk. Useless, since I don’t even drink coffee.

Fanny points me in the direction of the women’s bathroom, and I sprint down the corridor.

I stare in the mirror. I am a shadow of my former self. I wonder if this is what it’s like to have Alzheimer’s. Strands of hair have slipped from my ponytail and hang limply over my shoulders. My mascara has formed circles around my eyes, giving me that rabid raccoon look. A button missing from my J. Crew cardigan and a quarter sized stain mars my blouse. I am one tramp-stamp away from joining the People of Walmart.

You’ve seen those awful pictures that circulate on the Internet of people caught on camera at Walmart wearing daisy dukes and wife beaters? Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. It
would
give me somewhere to go on Saturday nights. I wouldn’t even have to dress up. I picture myself standing in the ice cream aisle, wearing poodle print fleece pajamas, and holding a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. Groaning, I lick my finger and try to rub the mascara from my face.

“What happened to you?” An elderly woman comes in and stares at me through the mirror. “Are you okay?” she asks in a heavy French accent.

Am I okay? Three days ago, I was picturing myself wearing a Vera Wang wedding gown while exchanging “I do’s” with the man of my dreams, and now I’m planning hook-ups in Walmart’s frozen food aisle. No,
Madame
, I am not well!

Hysterical laughter burbles up my throat.

When I don’t answer, the helpful bystander clutches her bag to her chest and hurries out of the bathroom.

I fish my iPhone out of my purse and jab the power button.

Once it has powered up, I perform my routine check of texts/e-mails/voicemails/Facebook updates to see if any of the messages are from Nathan.

Nope. Not a one.

There is, however, a private Facebook message from Travis Trunnell.

Hang on! I never accepted Travis Trunnell’s friend request and my privacy settings prevent strangers from sending me direct messages, so how… Fanny! My well-meaning meddlesome best friend must have accepted the request when she loaded the first ring photo.

Vivia: I am sorry about what happened the other night at Snob. Drew can be a real ass when he’s had too much to drink. Actually, he can be an ass when he’s sober, too. Anyway, I never meant to embarrass you or make you uncomfortable. I hope your fiancé wasn’t too angry. TT

I type out a response.

As a matter of fact, my fiancé was livid. He broke off the engagement.

I hit reply and stand in the middle of the empty bathroom staring at the inbox icon. A second later, a red number one appears on the screen, alerting me of a new message. I push the icon and read Travis Trunnell’s response.

That might not be such a bad thing. He seemed uptight. Obviously, he’s not the man for you.