Four Blondes

“Yes, yes she is,” I say, because it really is easier to agree with people on the surface, even if you know they’re full of shit.

“And I’ll bet you don’t know what I know about her. You two are friends, right?”

“Best friends,” Dianna says, kissing me on the cheek.

Raymond tugs at my arm. “Well, as her best friend, you ought to know this. This young lady is very, very smart. I’ll betcha she’s smarter than my grandsons, and they went to Harvard. This young lady didn’t even go to college!”

“Thank you, Raymond. Isn’t he a doll?” Dianna says.

“And I’ll tell you a little secret,” Raymond says, now that he has our attention. “Most people don’t know this, but every woman who makes it on her own is smart. She’s got to have it here,” he says, pointing to Dianna’s chest. “But she’s got to have it up here too,” touching his head.

“And you can buy that,” I say, indicating his chest.

“Oh, men don’t care if they’re real or fake, as long as you got some. And if you got none, go out and buy them, or else you’re a loser. But this,” he says, tapping his head again, “this you can’t buy. You’ve either got it or you don’t. And this girl’s got it.”

Suddenly, his gnarled hand shoots out and grabs Dianna’s hand, which he pulls to his mouth and gives a large, ferocious kiss. “There,” he says. “Now you girls go and have some fun. You don’t want to be hanging around with an old man like me. Go on.”

I look at Dianna inquiringly as we move away. She shrugs. “Old men love me. Come to think of it, all men love me. Hey, I’d give that old guy a blow job if I thought it’d help. But I don’t care about men, Cecelia. I only care about you.”

“And I only care about you, too,” I say, which may or may not be true but doesn’t really matter as we make our way, nodding and smiling, through the crowd.

“Did I ever tell you that I’m the best in bed?” she asks, taking a glass of champagne off a tray.

“Yes,” I say, laughing a bit uneasily because that is exactly what Amanda used to say about herself. I believe her exact words were: “I can get any man I want because I know exactly what to do to men in bed.”

And I always wanted to scream, “Yes, but you can’t keep them.”

And look what happened to HER.

Dianna is probably just as crazy and fucked up as Amanda was and will probably go ape shit someday the way Amanda did and try to do something horrible to me, but for the moment, that is all in my future. And then D.W. approaches with Juliette Morganz, whose wedding dress consists of beads and lace and bows (definitely not Bentley) and Juliette gushes all over us and drags us off for photographs with her mother and about fifteen other assorted relatives.

I just smile. I don’t want to make any waves.

And then I’m kind of bored, so when Sandi Sandi, the hot new singer, is playing, and everyone is dancing and drunk, I wander through the house and go into a marble bathroom on the second floor and snort s

ome cocaine, which I remind myself is just for old time’s sake, and then I go back to the party, cross the dance floor, and walk out of the tent, following a boardwalk down to the pond and onto a white dock, where I light up a cigarette.

Dianna Moon follows me.

“Hey, hey,” she says. She’s stumbling a bit and pretty drunk. “Let’s get out of here.”

There’s a charmingly beat-up old rowboat which she gets in. I follow, and we almost tip over, but then we sit in the bottom of the boat and try to row a little. There’s a current and the boat drifts away from the dock.

“Hey,” Dianna says. “I have to tell you something.”

“Not about Jesus, okay?”

“Oh Cecelia. Someone told me you killed your best friend.”

“Who?” I say.

“Nevil Mouse.”

“Nevil Mouse is so . . . stupid,” I say.

“I think he hates you,” Dianna says.

“He hates me because I wouldn’t go out with him. Years ago.”