EJK:I know, I'm late. I've just been a contradiction lately. I'm uninspired with Satin Roses and inspired with my other projects, and I'm sorry. It's not an excuse, just a half baked explanation. I already know how the story is going to go but I've been neglecting the fire I have for this story...
Corrine:You think I'm a wet blanket...Anyway, friendly pms are welcomed and please don't feel that this story is going to die off. I'm sure that it'll return to it's normal status with college applications nearly out of the way.
EJK:Yeah, I'll be a bit off of my once-per-week schedule for a bit but hang in there with me. Now, to the boring stuff, Dommo?
Dominic: EJK doesn't own Style Savvy or any recognizable brands and trademarks. Wait a minute, if she doesn't own me, what am I doing here?
Corrine: Shh, young one. The less you know... ERRS, please. Enjoy, read, review stupid.
Christ, this is getting to me. The stage whispers, the "furtive" pointing, and most of all, the burning stares. I will kill that Felicity Jones and that dumb blond smirk of hers. I refuse to talk to Libby, even when she apologized, because of her America, or at least the part that reads tabloid shit, knows my face, my name, and my voice. Turns out Felicity had a microphone with her the whole time along with a recorder meaning that for the first day Morning Tea and A.M. America had hideous pictures of Dominic and me plastered to the screens of televisions anywhere along with audio of our fight. It doesn't help that these dill weed reporters know who I am, but highlight all the negatives; sure, I attended Harvard but they focus on my dropping out, have a job but it's minimum wage, and the fact that I'm dating but I'm dating my boss. Hell, I'm better known than Myra now. Now, I'm known as "Bugger Off Girl," the red vixen, "Harvard Dropout," the prime example of nepotism, "Princess Leia Hair," and, my favorite, the Californian gold digger. I think someone's selling shirts with "Californian Gold Digger" as the tagline. Rarely, people come up to confront me, however, when they do it's always awkward or hurtful. People point out that he's been married once, that his ex-wife was gorgeous and smart, and that I'm not exactly his type; most of the time, they imply explicitly that I'm not deserving of Dominic and that I won't be. Of course, by then Renee boots them out of the store or tries to beat their face in.
I really have to thank Renee; she's been incredibly supportive the past three days since my little spat with Dominic by letting me hide out in her apartment from the paparazzi and defending me publicly. When a snide girl with a pretentious air waltzed into the store, took one look at me, and decided to call me a "greedy money-grubbing rat" that was too ugly for the likes of Dominic, I could only stare in frustration and tears before Renee smacked the girl straight across her nose with a left hook. Thankfully, Renee controls herself better and just curses them out in rapid Spanish to scare them off.
What about Dominic? I guess there's nothing to say. We both had a moment of irrational immaturity (I know it's redundant) and we had our first fight, not even a serious one. That's it. Plain and simple, I don't even give a drowned rat's ass about his ex-wife and I'm not going to pay much attention to her; I've seen pictures of her and she's beautiful but I still don't care, really, no one can make me care. I've got better things to do than cry over the fact that Dominic loved someone else. For me, we're so awkward that we don't say a thing to each other and, I guess, we're just too uncomfortable discussing this fight, so we just leave each other alone for now. I'm pretty sure though that Dominic is pissed about the whole barely existent Joe thing, which is why he avoids me. While Eunice spends her time guarding the door of Dominic's room like the fussy dragon she is, Dominic, as I've heard, keeps himself locked up in his room as a little child does when his parents refuse to buy him a toy. I'm not mad and I would be lying if I said that I didn't love or care for him but he refuses to act like an adult and until then I'll put in the same effort into our relationship. End of discussion.
Strata is normally empty in the morning, but since the paparazzi know where I work I have to resort to crawling in through the back door. Lowering my sunglasses nonchalantly, I'm nearly blinded by the flashing lights that surround the front of Strata. Luckily, someone notices a poor redhead walk out of Strata and they hound her with questions instead. Although, I don't know who would recognize me at the moment, what with my auburn hair tucked into a cream knit beanie and my eyes covered by oversize sunglasses.
"Corri, are you still seeing Dominic?" The girl dumbly stared into the flashing bulbs of the camera.
"Do the two of you normally fight like this?" Her friend jumped in by sticking the bird to them.
"What's he like? Does he have secret fetishes?" By then, the girl is dragged off by her friend, her mouth gaping in shock.
"Monsters!" A voice yelled from behind.
The paparazzi faced me in surprise and I do the same to the person behind me. Clad in running shorts and a thin white tank top, the person I least expect to see defend me glowers menacingly towards the paparazzi. Myra Flynn looks like an Amazon, even with Minnie in tow.
"Who are you?" One of the reporters call.
"I'm the girl who's going to kick your ass if you keep writing this trash." Tossing a WE weekly with my shocked mug on it onto the ground, Myra stomped it to death. "Don't test me. I'm the worst of bridezillas you'll meet and I'm pms-ing. Don't. Test. ME."
"Idiot, that's her sister. Myra Flynn, you know the interior designer." A blonde reporter muttered and then asked. "Any comments on your sister's relationship with her boss?"
"Can I make one with my foot up your fake ass?"
"Is it true that she joined a Satanist cult in college?" Another piped up. Minnie growled and, being the Great Dane that she is, scared off a few of them.
"Did you? Because I'm sure the majority of you have sold your souls in order to keep your job."
"While your sister sleeps her way up to the top?" The blonde asked insolently. Myra let Minnie go, unleashing a furious Minnie upon the blonde and her cohorts. The ones that haven't ran away already are being licked to death by Minnie and the ones that have been licked to death are doused with shredded pieces of their own articles, the tiny pieces sticking to their wet cheeks. Stepping over towards the blonde, Myra dumps the remaining pieces over her.
Leaning over, Myra warned. "Get out of here all of you. If anyone of you ever write something insulting about my sister again and my 'little' buddy will sniff you out and bite off your fingers. I don't want to see you, any of you, here again ever. Get me?"
Pitifully, the subdued reporters gathered up their cameras and their hopes for tabloid glory. Reining Minnie back, Myra gathered up the litter she willingly created. I don't know what to do. However, my body seemed to know as my feet began to run over towards Myra, who was dusting off her hands. Wrapping her body in a bear hug, I tried to thank her but sobbed like a baby instead. To my surprise, I felt tears drop down my neck and soft sobs roll out of Myra's mouth. Then, like sisters through thick and thin, we bawled our eyes out.
The only thing either of us could say was, "I miss you."
So, I met a Bridezilla and I think she saved me.
"Hi, Corrine." Grace twiddles her thumbs nervously as I take off my Topshop sunglasses and jacket. I return the greeting despite the fact that she's staring at something else.
Grace looks terrible and I don't mean in a superficial-fashion way; her eyes are bloodshot and baggy with weariness, her shiny maroon hair has morphed into a dry, brittle mocha brown, and, worst of all, she looks skinny. She looks like she's been shoved through a pasta roller a couple of times. It's disturbing as if she's been replaced with a cheaply made version of herself. Then again, she did move up her wedding date by a few months and, lately, surrounds herself with bridal magazines. She's even made a collage, which she hangs in her office, with the wedding dress she's wearing along with the size she should be by the time of her wedding and, hilariously enough, a picture of a cheeseburger with red lines drawn over it. What some women will do for the ones they love, oh wait, not.
"Is there something on me?" Inspecting my Ashish sequin sunflower dress, I return the empty stare.
"No, you look great. I just wanted to know, where did you get those sunglasses?"
"Topshop, in fact, a few days ago actually. Do you like them?" Playing around with the tortoise shell lenses, I freeze as I realize what had happened on that day.
Grace doesn't notice to my relief. "Of course, anything you wear looks cute. I mean Bella, Dominic's ex-wife, is gorgeous like a Greek statue but you're so cuddly and adorable that I want to just squeeze you." There was a glint in her eyes that told me that I wasn't so cute and that she wanted to squeeze me until I die.
"Thanks, I've always wanted to be a stuffed animal." I return in my usual calm, sarcastic tone. "Where's Renee? She said she'd be here."
"Oh, she's out." Grace takes a glance around the empty store and shrugs even more into her blouse. "It's about eleven. Want to go out for lunch and close down the shop for a bit?"
"Sure. I've been dying to go to this new sandwich place." Then, I remembered who I was and what would happen if I even stepped outdoors. Sure, Strata was free of vermin but there were other places they could run off to. Slumping back into a seat, I blew out a strand of curly reddish hair that loomed over my eyes tauntingly. "Actually, I can't."
Grace furrowed her brows and puffed her cheeks in annoyance. "Oh come on, the paps aren't going to hound you everywhere. You should be able to enjoy yourself for at least thirty minutes. Besides, I heard that they have awesome egg creams."
Conceding to Grace's wishes, I retort, "Well, if they have awesome egg creams…"
"Mmm, you weren't kidding about the egg creams." Licking the cream off my upper lip, I smile satisfied. Grace just watched, pushing her salad listlessly around her plate. She's barely made a dent in her plate. Moreover, she, being the one to convince me with egg creams, only has water by her side.
"It's just for the wedding," Grace reassures me. "I'm hundred and ten, and I just need to get down to hundred."
"Speaking of the wedding, do you accept money for a present?" I ask hesitantly, "It's just that I don't know you that well. And Joe likes things I doubt that any sane girl would, like NASCAR."
Letting a wry laugh out, Grace fiddled with her fork, "Go ahead. I'll take charity anywhere it comes from."
"So, are you and Joe going to move in right after the honey moon?"
"Yep, we've already found a nice house in the Hamptons. Everything has already been set."
"That's good. So, have you heard about that new promotion contest thing?"
"Yeah, I won't be eligible though since I'm already manager. You'll probably get a spot though. You've been doing well in sales, selling more than Renee ever could. Then again, Renee doesn't give a rat's ass, does she?"
Chuckling lightly, I remark, "That's true. It's all Spanish soap operas and tabloids for her. But she has seniority and when she wants, she's a hard worker. She could also probably use the money especially with the kinds of clothes she wears. Have you seen her closet? She has a floor length McQueen dress that she admits she'll never wear."
Grace drops her fork onto the platter with a sharp clang, startling me.
"Listen, I know you were there, I saw you huddled in the clothes rack. At Topshop, the same day Victor and I were." The desperation was clear in her voice, which trembled with every syllable. "So, what do you want? Money? A promotion?"
I'm so dumbfounded, I can only utter a word, "What?"
Laughing deliriously, Grace takes on a new expression, one I've never seen before, her face is stretched out like an old cashmere sweater. Wringing her thin wrists, Grace glared at me with hate. "Do you know what I've done for this wedding? How many hours I've slaved to make sure this 'thing' goes off without a hitch? Look, I've even starved myself to the point where I look like a white Ethiopian. I know how I sound and I would have laughed any other time but this is serious. You aren't to say a single word about Victor, Corrine."
My voice became strangled under the vitriolic glare Grace aimed at me. "But it wouldn't be fair to Joe."
"Oh yes, Joe. Poor Joe." Her tone drips sarcasm. "Joe told me about the two of you and your little 'past.' Why do you think he even tried to hook up with you? I told him to get it out of his system. Do you think I care? I know he loves me too much to leave."
"You're sick." I spat out.
"And you're naïve. It's so cute, how you waltz into Strata and think that things are miraculously going your way. It was I, who encouraged Rococo to nominate you. It was I, who suggested to Dominic to make a move on you. It was always me."
"You're lying." My throat tightens when she mentions Dominic.
"Really? It was I, who put that annoying twit Felicity up to leaking out your relationship. It's too easy." Grace smiled beatifically. "To show you that someone will always have power over you. At first, it was just to keep you in my grip. My invisible hand as Adam Smith would have called it. But, I found myself having fun, playing around with your pathetic life reminded me of high school. Yeah, I was that bitch. Sasha has nothing on me."
"Glad to have that settled. I was starting to have suspicions." Taking a break from my sarcasm, I paused. "If you love Victor, why marry Joe? He can't be making that much money starting as a lawyer and his family is a middle class family in Indiana. What do you even want?"
"God, Corrine, you claim to love Joe, that you're practically soul mates, and you can't even remember the one time his family gets into the news. You're stupider than I thought. No wonder you dropped out of Harvard, probably couldn't add two plus two."
"I know what my fist plus you equals." Grace laughs it off as if I could never touch her. Ignoring her, I continue. "I remember, but what on Earth do you want with an oil reservoir?"
"Figure it out for yourself. Oh, and don't bother paying for bill. I already took care of it." The tight muscles on her face began to relax as Grace swung her Prada purse over her now bony shoulder. Returning to the sweet voice I came to love, Grace showed no trace of the demon she revealed minutes ago. "Corrine, I hope we've come to an understanding. Be a sweetie and keep your mouth shut. I've played nice with you, but you don't want to see me cheat. Understand?"
I don't say a word, which satisfies her. As she saunters away, I just watch the ugly pile maroon thread ravel back into the lovely, pleasant tapestry I've come to know. My mind reeled as it scrambled to process the newly given information. Is she right? No, she's insane. Could a person really have that much power? I don't know. All I can coherently think is that I've met a Bridezilla and I think I got burned.
EJK: Turns out that Grace is a bit of a monster.
Grace:Hey, that's cause you made a evil clone to take my place!
Evil Grace: Ooh, you're so smart. You get a golden star.
Grace:Seriously?
Evil Grace: No.
EJK:Burn...Yeah, Grace in this story will be pretty OOC but I find that it'll make things interesting.
Evil Grace: Obviously. Don't forget, wimps, ERRS. Now, review, stupid.
EJK: Jesus, you could be nicer.
Evil Grace: (Sighing) Fine! Please review, stupid.
EJK: Ugh, forget it!