AN: Hey, guys! Here is chapter 3. Sorry for the enormous delay, you know how these things are, sometimes you feel like writing and sometimes you don't for a month. Hope you enjoy.

The Real Hedonist

Chapter 3: Doubts, Diapers, and Danielle

When I had woken up, it took me a few minutes to remember what had happened the night before -- that Kyle thing...ugh. I lay in my bed for half an hour, unwilling to get up and start thinking about what I should do.

Honestly, it's as if Abby knew I was going to feel like shit today of all days, and therefore intentionally scheduled her son's birthday on the same day. Ok, Ok, so I may be going a little out of line, but I just feel so miserable, and unsure.

I mean, I just... I didn't think I was fat, that's all. I know lots of girls who aren't fat waltz around throwing up and becoming anorexic, and generally annoying everyone with their proclamations of obesity. It's just, when did everyone get together and decide that if you're above size 0, you're automatically a lard-ass, and therefore cast out of all the fun, a victim now the object of snide remarks?

Honestly, if Kyle was suggesting I was fat to my face, what must those haughty, skinny bitches with their perfect hair and two percent body fat be giggling about behind my back? There's nothing worse than someone who's superior to you (especially in body weight) acting nasty toward you.

Ah, I hate everyone. And I certainly don't want to go anywhere. It's too cold. I wish I could stay inside my apartment until it's spring and hibernate in peace.

Worst of all is the fact that Abby will probably have an army of power-moms with her, so I'll be treated like a freak because I'm in my late 20's and I don't have a litter of babies crawling all over my apartment and a rich, boring husband in the background. As if everyone wants the same thing out of life, to marry as soon as possible and spend all one's time popping out babies.

And, honestly, I'm not going on about this because nobody ever asked me to be their girlfriend, or something. In fact, I turn down just about every guy that does, because I enjoy having some quiet when I step into my humble abode.

Just then, the phone rang. I pick it up warily, hoping it's not Kyle calling to apologize. "Mina?" Tipper trills, obviously very happy.

"Uh," I grunt grumpily, feeling like something died in my mouth.

"Remember you called me to help you pick out something for your nephew's birthday? Well, I'm just outside your door right now. Get your ass down here."

I check the alarm clock: 10:43. "What are you doing here so early? I meant around 1 o'clock or something."

"Well... how're you supposed to get to Connecticut if we only start shopping at one? Considering how many coffee stops we'll be taking and how many times we'll stop to window shop for shoes. Look, trust me. I know this. I had to buy something for this former model's kid and it took me an entire week to choose something, because once you get in there, you realize there are far too many things and you don't even know what half of them are for. And then there's the problem of getting something too obvious, like a gift basket or something, which everyone will think--"

"You know, you're not being very helpful. Look, how about I meet you down there in thirty minutes?" I offered feeling slightly annoyed. Tipper is a really cool guy, but sometimes he's not exactly Mr. Helpful.

"Oh, all right." He sighs. "I'll be at the coffee shop across the street."

At least the conversation made me forget my problem, which I promptly remember again as I head into the bathroom. Hmm, should I tell Tipper? I know he'll give his honest opinion, but is that good or bad. But then again, I don't exactly like people to see me this vulnerable, either.

Well, at least I'm out of bed, which is good, to tell you the truth. I mean, I know I'm a bit depressed, but I'd probably stay in bed, feeling suicidal, if given a choice. So, I quickly shower, brush my teeth and apply all my make-up, before running out of the bathroom in search of something to wear. Usually, if I have to leave the house on short notice, it takes me ages to find something to wear, because my closet is a total mess and I have trouble finding anything that matches (or that I like on a particular day). I know that in New York, expensive clothes from the top designer lines are essential, and most women (and sometimes men) coo about the latest Fendi scarf or Dior dress, but a lot of it looks as if it wouldn't be purchased for so much as a dollar if it didn't bare a label.

I generally need an hour or so to figure out what mood I'm in, and what clothes I should wear, then find the clothes, make sure they're clean (i.e. not wrinkled or have any stains on them--which would be unbearable, to tell the truth, because most of my clothes are designer faire and a stain is a killer).

So, this morning, I decide on a black-and-white pinstriped shirt with a low neck. Next, I choose Calvin Klein black boot-cut pants and my black Dolce & Gabbana boots. Well, at least I look great, even if I don't have a huge stomach of baby. Not having enough time to do something with my hair, I just knot it on top of my head before grabbing my dark green trench-styled coat and heading out the door.

As the elevator descends, I make up my mind that I would tell Tipper about the -- Kyle incident -- and get it over with. Obviously, I don't know what to do myself, so I'll just have to ask someone else, who happens to be on this occasion, Tipper.

---

As I rush toward Abby's home, impatiently glancing at my expensive Gucci watch, I can't help but feel my spirits lift. I have THE present in my lap -- an unbelievably adorable Gucci baby suit in a green color -- and I look great. I had long since drained my cappuccino, and the cup was rattling on the floor of the car, so I was in a complete state of caffeinated high.

Tipper was great when I told him. He pronounced Kyle insane for calling me "big" because I was apparently at that perfect weight between being as thin as a twig (the Model Syndrome) and healthy weight, but effectively plump.

He told me that I was just a little more womanly than a model, which was healthy, because "I work around lots of them everyday, and you won't believe how many permanently have their head in the toilet and nose in a line of coke to keep their ninety-pound frames." And most importantly, any weight I possess deemed "extra" by some Fashion Show Producer, actually settled in all the right places so that I had nice, natural curves instead of unsightly bulges.

And when it was apparent that I was feeling a little unnerved by this whole conversation, Tipper suggested a – join-a-gym -- if I was that worried and tone up my body.

You see. I knew there was a reason I was friends with him! I'll have to admit, though, that I am not a gym person. I don't do yoga, or Pilates, or cardio or any of that fitness mumbo gumbo. I had grown up with the ancient belief that we are what we eat, so instead of covering laps on the treadmill, I simply watched what I stuffed in my face. But giving the gym a shot seems like a great idea, an additional offence play. I could get some muscle, burn off the fat, and maybe even drop a size or two!

I admit I'm pretty excited just thinking about it. Mingling along all those fit, toned bodies would be such a blast, and I'd be all around men who actually looked after themselves. The thought sends a little shiver of pleasure down my spine.

The scenery passes before my eyes, but I'm not paying attention. I'm already imagining myself emerging from some cool gym, totally thin, leaving Kyle panting as I headed off with some hot, rich bachelor who would fly me to exotic places every month, where we would have hot, erotic sex and Cosmopolitans.

---

"We're here," announces the driver gruffly. I open the door and spring out of the car, glad to stretch my legs. After I pay off the cabbie -- which I admit, is a very high amount -- I walk up to the address I've remembered from those few times I've been to see her. The house is just as I had last seen it, very ordinary and honestly...simply ugly. I notice the colored balloons hanging above the door, as I knock self-consciously.

The door is pushed open and Abby's flushed face peaks through. As soon as she sees it's me, a big grin breaks over her face. "Mina!" she squeals, moving to hug me.

"Hey," I say meekly, returning the hug half-heartedly. I haven't seen Abby since my nephew's birth, so it's been about a year. And you don't just greet people you haven't seen in a year like that, (unless they're your husband-who-works-on-another-continent or something). All right, so she's my sister, but still...we're not exactly joined at the hip or anything. "Come on in. I don't want to catch a cold," she says, ushering me inside.

Abby takes my gift absent-mindedly, and leads me into the living room, where the horde of mommies was already assembled.

The room is decorated in pale mumsy-colors with a mantel full of pictures of Andrew, in various states of consciousness. The gifts were piled high on the table in the middle of the room. The women varied in size; some were pretty thin, others sported fat arms and stomachs, smiling and rolling their eyes at you as if they've just told you some groundbreaking secret.

"I don't think you've met everyone, right, Mina?" Abby asks, beaming at the row of women. They all laugh and titter appreciatively.

"Mmmm," I mumble in a non-committal tone. They were freaking me out a bit, all eyeing me up and down and grinning like I'm some skanky blonde, about to give them a check for ten million or something. "This is Eileen," Abby says, pointing at a plump dark-haired woman -- honestly, Eileen... Why do people give their kids Mom-sounding names? Can you imagine a 10-year-old little girl given the name, Eileen? I think this woman was born carrying a baby, or something.

"I've got three," announces Eileen proudly, pointing to the unimpressive pen stationed in the corner of the room, where at least five diapered toddlers were tittering. I couldn't help but frown, because, well, most of these women weren't exactly power-mom material. They were either fat or saddled with lanky hair and oily faces, all dressed in "mom" uniforms of khaki pants and colored shirts.

I mean, I wasn't exactly looking forward to getting sneered at by some Sarah Jessica Parker-styled fab mom, who wore designer suits and fucked her pool boy, but this was a bit depressing. If you're going to advertise the life after the pregnancy, I think a little misleading propaganda is definitely required. Can you blame me for not looking forward to pregnancy and marriage if all I'm going to end up with is an ungrateful brat, a large stomach, and an unsatisfying sex life?

"And this is Lorie," Abby was saying, gesturing to a somewhat slim woman. "She has a seven-year-old daughter, who is unbelievably energetic. Did you know that Mary -- that's her daughter -- plays soccer, does ballet, and has acting lessons? And Lorie coaches the soccer team! And she's--"

"Now, now, Abby, you're embarrassing me," Lorie interrupts, blushing madly. But you could see she loved the attention. Lorie had put her hair up in a careless bun, and was wearing sporty pants with a matching sweatshirt.

"I wouldn't be saying it if it wasn't true," Abby retorts, before moving on. God, I feel like Abby's showing off her horses or something, the way she's walking and pointing.

"Hi, I'm Lucy," exclaims an overweight woman, with a round face and terribly dyed hair. I know it's bitchy to feel this way, but I can't help but be a little smug that I'm so much thinner than her. "My son's in there," she shrieks, pointing to the pen. "We're all -- so in love -- with Andrew. He's the cutest baby ever!"

I wince mentally. She is really loud. "And where is my nephew?" I ask helplessly, realizing that for the next couple of hours I would have to pretend I cared about all this baby-baby-bullshit talk. Me and this crew had nothing in common, because they had all probably given up their jobs and lives, while I still clung desperately onto mine. So I resented them for being baby-poppers, and they probably resented me for not being one. I mean, this is not the basis for a healthy friendship. And Raye would kill me if she found out I was being – nice-- to them (thereby encouraging this behaviour of giving up our lives in order to have babies--at least that's how Raye would think of it).

Yes, I do realize I was being a bit of a cliché by badmouthing moms and childbirth, but it's true, isn't it? Very few women manage to stay the same after childbirth. Maybe it was our screwed logic that was wrong, but I couldn't help but think that you should look after yourself even if you're supposed to look after someone else, too.

"Is that Mina?" Oh, God…mom's here…

"Yeah," I bellow back. Me and my mom aren't the best of friends, so I'm not exactly thrilled that she's here. I mean, she's an OK person, but she's so...mean. No wonder I can't commit to a relationship with a man. Look at the state of my family life.

"Mina," Mom says coming out of what I presumed to be the kitchen. She stopped and surveyed my outfit, not bothering to hide a raised eyebrow. "Hon, this really isn't the outfit for a toddler's first birthday…maybe a rock concert, or something," she says disapprovingly -- Rock concert -- as if it's synonymous with death. Did I mention that I rebelled quite a lot as a kid? "We're going for a much more subdued look. But that's OK if you didn't know hon."

She beams at Abby. Also, my sister is the favourite. (And what's wrong with my outfit -- just because I don't dress in boring mumsy-like clothing). Hopefully they have some sort of booze at this do, or I wont last ten minutes. "So, is it still going with Richard?"

One time, when Richard was spending the night at my place, my mom happened to call, and Richard answered the phone by mistake. Immediately, she jumped to the morally wrong (but otherwise right) conclusion that I was just having casual sex and would never get married off anytime soon. I managed to convince her that Richard was a boyfriend, (I managed to do this when he was out of earshot), having to crouch in the bathroom, muffling any sounds by running the water. And now, whenever she asks about him, I mumble something to the effect that it's still on, and quickly change the subject. She's fairly insistent about meeting him, since the way I talk about him is as if we're having children the following year, but frankly, I'll just have to invent some excuse or lie about why he continuously has varying types of illnesses.

I try to ignore the fact I have the attention of everyone in the room. "It's still going, we actually have a date later today," I lie quickly, thinking of a way to change the subject. "I love your sweater, Lucy!" I exclaim hastily, "Where did you get it?"

"Do you know...? It's actually a funny story…"

I visibly relax when Lucy goes off on a long speech, with the other women providing obligatory laughter whenever she pauses expectantly. And you know what? It's not that bad. Sure, it's more painful than a lunch with the girls, but I'm not getting the ache I get whenever I'm surrounded by someone with a child like I usually do. Plus, I am blocking out most of the things Lucy is saying.

Lucy pauses and eyes the door. I snap out of my reverie and try to see what she's staring at. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of muffled yelling. "You know… No matter... And how could you...to me!"

I can't decipher what's happening, but it sounds like a young woman who's yelling. Abbey sees my curious expression and says, "Do you know, it's just Melanie… Poor dear, her daughter is simply too much to handle. Says she wants to be a model…a model! Says she's going to run away if Melanie doesn't give her some space. Of course, Melanie brought her here so she could see the babies… I mean, who doesn't want to have babies? Lorie... your little daughter is just to die for," she frowns at me. "Sorry you had to hear this. It's none of our business, but Danielle -- that's Melanie's daughter -- can't move a step without doing something to get everyone's attention. The poor thing doesn't have any self-esteem... has to compensate by doing ridiculous stuff. I mean a model! Have you heard anything like it?" The ladies titter quietly. Lorie leans in gleefully, almost whispering as if there's a chance Danielle or Melanie could somehow hear her over their shouting. "You know, I'm not surprised that Danielle is chasing after some far-fetched dream. Apparently, Melanie tried to enrol her in every club she could think of... the girl -- she's just not good at anything. I heard that she's failing school. Melanie's absolutely devastated." I feel the thought coming through, "That's not going to happen to my child" go through everyone's brain.

I glanced back at the door from the direction where the yelling's coming from. "So who's hungry?"

---

After two crust free tuna sandwiches, a can of Ginger ale and a bowl of low-fat vanilla ice cream (which tasted like watered down milk), I say I need some fresh air and head outside. Abbey's backyard has five trees, and a swing. I remember the swing and the trees, because that's where I came out to hide from Peter -- Abbey's obnoxious husband -- when he tried to sit me down to talk. Peter's the most boring man on Earth, I think. Everything he says sounds like he's reading it from the dictionary. I honestly don't know how Abbey can stand him.

In fact, once, I managed to turn the conversation around to fashion (his company was sponsoring the NYCFS -- New York Charity Fashion Show), but then he started digressing until we've arrived at the fascinating topic of the long hours he had to put in on a particular project. In painstakingly fine detail, he recounted how he had spent so many long hours at the office. He then went on to explain how he managed to gain ten pounds as the result of eating nothing but take-out for two months running, and finished off by telling me that he was lucky if he could spend more than twenty minutes with Andrew. I had to keep pinching myself to keep from falling over in boredom.

So I would sit, hidden behind one of the larger trees, chain-smoking the cigarettes I swiped from the counter. I'm not a heavy smoker or anything, but when the pressure gets to me, I do enjoy a cigarette or two.

That's where I head. I hope no one else would come out of the house to the swings, since the last thing I needed now was to make awkward small talk with some obsessed mommy I have nothing in common with.

I duck behind one of the larger trees, and stop in surprise. There's a young girl sitting on the swing, taking short drags from her cigarette and muttering under her breath. Since she looks too young to be an accomplished mother (although who knows anymore in this world?) and since I haven't seen her at the baby shower, I assume she's not here for the party.

I stand awkwardly, not knowing whether to make a big deal and find out who she is, or quickly slip away, hoping she didn't notice. I don't want anyone to come out, so I opt to slink away and take a walk around the block. I start edging my way behind the tree when I step on a twig and she turns around.

She's beautiful, is the first thought that enters my mind. She has an oval face with big, doe-like eyes and rouged cheekbones that contrast prettily against her pale skin. Her hair is long and black, and cascades down her back in completely straight currents. She's the sort of girl you might have seen photographed in magazines, and even if you spend hours trying to copy the look, you would never quite get it.

The girl stares at me, her eyes narrowed. She looks like a pissed-off Amazon who somehow happened to travel in time and don modern clothes.

Well, I can't leave now, can I? Damn it. "Hi," I say lamely.

"Yeah?" she says grudgingly.

My eyes trail down to the grass. Oh, for god's sake! I feel like I'm back in high school, getting called to the principal's office for smoking pot. This girl's about half my age!

Quickly, I think. Make an excuse. "I'm just looking for Abbey's dog. He's not here. Huh. I guess I'll just go check the house again," I babble before I can think.

The girl's eyes aren't narrowed anymore, but she looks at me as though I'm a lunatic. "Abbey doesn't have a dog."

"Oh, right…right! You know, what I meant was, I just needed to go for a walk. Stress, you know. A couple of work problems and you start confusing your friend, Amy," I say randomly, "who has a dog, with your sister."

There's an awkward silence while we both stare at each other. "So, are you a neighbor?" I ask her finally, literally the only thing I can think of. I start worrying a spot in the grass with the heel of my shoe, uncomfortable with the conversation, but unable to make myself leave. It's either hanging around here and talking to this girl, or go back inside and face a gaggle of drunk mothers shrieking and laughing about some obscure event at the playground.

"Not exactly," she says eventually. "I'm here with my mom."

"Oh, I see," I say faintly. Wow, is this girl weird, or what? When I was her age, the last thing I would have wanted to do would be to have to tag along to a baby shower. "Are you having fun?" I ask cautiously, hoping she won't go off on a rant of how she loves babies and wants one, now.

Her gaze is surly when she looks at me and, dragging on her cigarette, she says, "No, I'm not."

"Right, well. I-I'll go back inside. It was nice to meet you." I'm turning around; about to quickly jog back into the house when something comes into my mind. Wait, those two people I heard arguing before. The mother and daughter -- is this Danielle? What's so important, though? She wants to be, something -- a model!

Right, now I remember. The daughter wanted to be a model, and her mother objected. I turned quickly, this time giving her a more critical look. Well, it wasn't my imagination. She's stunning... in fact, she's almost impossible to describe. Just the way her face is so angular, and her doe-eyes peer at you. She wasn't sexy, per se, just completely striking. I'm surprised I didn't see this earlier, but I could easily imagine her stalking down the runway, wearing some designer slip. "You're Danielle," I say, turning to face her, my confidence restored.

"Yeah?" the girl says in confirmation.

"I'm Mina. I've... heard that you wanted to be a model." I stand there looking at her. She stared back at me without expression, her full mouth forming a straight line.

"So?"

"Well, I think I can help you. No, I'm sure I can help you," I say, smiling at her.

"You can help me," she echoes, and doesn't move. She's still staring at me, as though bored with the conversation. "How are you going to help me?" she asks with amusement. She obviously thinks it's a joke, so I have to work her around.

I move forward, a wide smile plastered on my face. "Absolutely, you're got a look. That's all we need. The rest is up to marketing. If you play it right, see the right people, you'll be huge. I know the right people." Her body remains relaxed, but I could see the interest in her eyes. I've got her; all I have to do is seal the deal.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks.

That was a good question: why was I doing this, aside from the obvious monetary pay-off? Sure, this girl was beautiful, with hopes of becoming a top model. But you'd see hundreds of girls like her just by walking the streets of Manhattan. Truth be told, I saw a little of myself in her -- the same girl with a mother who refused to accept me and my vague dreams of fashion success. Except in my case, no one helped me get anywhere. So now, I have a chance to help someone the way I wanted someone to help me when I was her age. I decided to take advantage of this opportunity. Also, I wanted to prove to myself I could grasp every such opportunity that comes my way. Besides, if she makes it -- and I've been the one who discovered her -- this could really impress the boss. "You'd look great on the runway. I can see it. Anyway, a friend of mine who works in fashion is looking for some fresh talent," I lied expertly, "and it'd be stupid if I don't help him." I pause, and look at her, her mouth set in a firm line, full lips and cheekbones signalling a certain air of arrogance. "I don't want to get your hopes up, because you might not be cut out for the runway, but if you're interested, I'll help you out."

"Uh-huh," she replies, her body language still tense. "And why should I trust you?" She probes, as she gracefully slicks one of her black strands behind her ear.

I pause, considering my words carefully. "You're absolutely right. You have no reason to trust me." I take in her look of surprise. "But I know that you've got nothing to lose. I'll give you my business card. Get in touch with me, and I'll arrange a meeting. If you don't like it, or if you change your mind, there's no pressure. We'll go our separate ways. But if you don't take this opportunity, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

I reach in and pull out an emergency business card from my pocket and extend it to her (so I was persistent and prepared; could you blame me? I worked in a cutthroat field).

Danielle stares at it, and for a second, I think she's going to say "No thanks," but then she reaches out and takes it. "I'll call you," is all she says, holding the card as if it would break any second.

"Please do. I've got to go back in, all right?"

She nods silently, looking at me with an observant expression. I smile at her one last time, turn around, and am already at the door. "Mina?" she says quietly.

I turn around once more, half-prepared for a wave of gratitude. "You don't know me, and you don't know what I will or will not regret. Got it?" I couldn't detect any malice or dislike in her tone, and her face was a mask of relaxation.

I nod mutely, not sure, if I like her more or less. She's certainly different from the models I've met.

"I'll talk to you soon," Danielle concludes, giving me a fraction of a smile.

And as I walk back into the house, I can't help shake the feeling that I've been dismissed.