Escape From Bridezillia. Jacqueline deMontravel
INSIDE THE MIND OF BRIDEZILLA
The timing of Henry’s proposal and my decision to focus on my art may have been sabotage. Wedding duties or paint?
I began my wedding To Do list: Dress. Location. Registries. Invitations.
This was boring, tedious and put me in sleep mode better than the Charlie Rose Show when the guests were some cabinet member and a writer for the Atlantic Monthly.
Reading through bridal magazines would spur my imagination. Deciding to sift through Vogue, I couldn’t help but study the models’ figures with intense focus. If I’d had one of those loupes jewelers used to inspect a diamond, I’d be using it to assess these surgically enhanced bodies.
Thinking of diamonds, it soon occured to me that my engagement finger did not wink and shine with the most precious of glows. How did I let days slip by without even questioning when I’d be receiving the fun present one gets from being proposed to? I love presents. How haven’t I even wondered when I’d be receiving my engagement ring? I completely lost it.
Added to my checklist: Engagement ring!!!!????
In Henry’s defense, perhaps he wanted me to choose my engagement ring. We’d shop at Harry Winston or Tiffany’s and make the decision together. In fact, this was quite brilliant of him. Henry truly knew me!
Books by Jacqueline deMontravel
THE FABULOUS EMILY BRIGGS
ESCAPE FROM BRIDEZILLA
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
ESCAPE FROM
BRIDEZILLA
Jacqueline deMontravel
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
1
“Let’s do it.”
This was how Henry said it to me. Delivered from behind the screen of the Times travel section as we finished our Sunday morning just-used-up-my-calorie-count-for-the-month brunch at Silver Spurs diner. I wore sweats, glorified by the trendy label branded on my butt, while Henry had on the same sweater as the captain on a fish box.
This was how Henry said it to me? The most recounted story of your lifetime. Sitting, surrounded by a moat of grandchildren, the first stitch to crochet their impressions of love and romance I’d have to narrate would be this? I’d lie. Already thinking of stories to deceive my unborn progeny.
“Do what?” I asked, my tone pressuring Henry to take an alternative route.
“Get married!”
This was when it became a bit problematic.
“Is this some kind of joke? Are you asking me to marry you over frittatas and coffee with free refills at Silver Spurs? What? Were you just inspired from some godforsaken Nike ad? You did get a new pair of sneakers yesterday. Were you like ‘I’ll take the Air Icarus and, now that I think about it, just go ahead and ask Emily to marry me!’”
The Times slipped from his grasp, now jumbled in peaks and clefts from draping the used tableware. Henry’s body slumped against the window; the lighting swayed from the late morning shadows punched by traffic activity outside; a curious reflection worked upon him.
Impassive. Perhaps he had a trace of curiosity. I couldn’t quite tell, nor did I really care to know. The important fact being that this was standard Henry Philips to Emily Briggs freak-out behavior. His ability to remain composed when I had one of my minor outbursts, how he never found the need to scold me on these occasional overreactions, or to offer a few pointers on how to better control my soft lapses of verbalized irritation, something others have unsuccessfully attempted, may be why Henry had made it to this point.
It had proven to be a valuable skill of his, this facility to tune me out, which pleased me immensely. Gave me the license to be as ridiculous as I was able and not crucified as a result. That I never had to give some schmaltzy apology with promises of sexual favors later. (He’d get those regardless.)
Henry also had the good sense not to ask me as I took a swig from my decaf hazelnut, saving him and our neighboring diners from being pelted by my coffee-tainted spit. That would have been very rude of me, not to mention gross.
Exhaustedly, I took a ladylike sip from my decaf hazelnut.
“Sure, why not? I’ll marry you.”
I couldn’t be happier, though I had no idea how Henry took it.
2
I made a pact with myself ages before I even had a boyfriend. That if some higher being from above did intend on my living with someone other than