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Hook up?
“Hey baby,” he says. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like Marc De Belond?”
I turn and hold up my bloody hands.
I say, “The gay men took my shoes.”
IX
Dear Diary:
You’re not going to believe this, but I’m STILL on this DAMN boat floating around in the Italian Riviera.
And Hubert is still here.
Okay. Here’s the problem. Number one, I think I’m going insane, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m sick to death of being stuck on this boat with Hubert and Dianna, or if maybe I really am a NUT JOB like everyone says.
Because number two: People saw me that night at that café with the little girl. And her little friends. And the strange gay men, who tried to take my dress—they kept saying the word “copier,” which I supposed meant they wanted to copy the dress and then give it back—but there wasn’t enough time. And all the glasses of cognac. And the broken glass on the floor. And sure enough, this “yet another embarrassing incident” was reported in Paris Match.
“I don’t think I’m going to change much,” I said to Hubert, quite threateningly, after he’d read it and, without saying anything, evinced his displeasure by raising his eyebrows. Dianna defended me: “Sweet Jesus, Hub, I’ve been accused of killing my husband. Aliens took away half of my husband’s body. And you’re upset about your wife being spotted with underage street urchins and a couple of gay guys in dresses?” And then I said, cunningly, I thought, “All I wanted was a little attention.”
Which is true. That was all I wanted. Because I still don’t feel like I get attention from my husband, which is really crazy because he did fly all the way here to be with me and then took an unexpected week off, but I don’t just want him to BE HERE. I want him to pay a certain and specific kind of attention to me, and he just doesn’t.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel . . . significant. I want to be everything to him. I want to be essential. I want him to be unable to live without me, but how can I be these things if he won’t let me?
And if he won’t let me, what am I doing with my life?
Naturally, these thoughts put a horrible expression on my face. At least I think they do, because this morning, when I’m lying in bed and Hubert comes into our stateroom supposedly looking for sunscreen, he turns to me and says, in a tone of voice that I can only interpret as RUDE, “What’s your problem?”
I know my response should be “Nothing, darling,” but I’m tired of mollifying him. Instead, I say, “What do you mean, what’s my problem? What’s your problem?” and I turn over.
“Whoa,” he says. “Maybe you should go back to sleep and try waking up again.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I should.”
Then he leaves the room.
I HATE him.
I jump out of bed, pull on my bathing suit, and storm up to the top deck.
Dianna is there, drinking coffee and polishing her toenails, which, as we all know, is verboten on this boat because the nail polish could
spill and ruin the teak decks. As we also all know, Dianna doesn’t give a shit. She’s already caused thousands of dollars of worth of damage to the boat by walking around in spike heels and greasing her body with tanning oil, leaving indelible footprints that the crew keeps pointlessly trying to scrub away. “Hey, I could buy this boat if I wanted to,” she keeps reminding them. But the point is, people like Dianna Moon never do.
“Hi sugar,” Dianna says, not looking up. “Want some coffee?”
“Coffee makes me vomit. In fact, everything makes me vomit.”
She looks up in alarm. “I don’t, do I?”
“No,” I say, resignedly. I move to the railing, leaning over the side. The wind ruffles my hair slightly. This Dianna Moon business—her self-absorbtion, her prodigious insecurity—is getting to be too much.
“Do I look fat?” Dianna asks, and I automatically respond, “No,” although the truth is, Dianna is a bit fat. She has the kind of body that will be matronly at thirty-five, no matter how much she diets or exercises.
“Are you going to Hubert’s aunt’s house today?”
SHIT. Princess Ursula. I’d totally forgotten about her and nod glumly, remembering that Princess Ursula hates me. Once, at a funeral, she came up to me and said, “Oh Cecelia, you’re such a natural at funerals, because you always have a sour, downturned expression on your face.”
