LJ Idol- Week 12 - Barrel of Monkeys
She was mesmerising, but not perhaps for the reasons she had hoped.
We were trapped with her for four days, at least until the trains started running again. It was Christmas and it looked like it had been a mistake inviting her. To begin with, she spent most of her waking time colossally drunk. This would have been almost bearable if she had not been such a prima donna drunkard, demanding to be the centre of attention at all times, into the wee small hours and beyond.
We could not leave her alone to get on with this for a variety of reasons. One was that she had a habit of lighting a cigarette and then nodding off with it in her hand. It proved rather difficult to confiscate all lighters from the vicinity, even when she was asleep, so that did not quite fly. Then there was the way that she spilled drinks, upended ashtrays, fell onto furniture, raged. No way to sleep when that was occurring. Then came the basic dictates of hospitality, that she was our guest and, moreover, one who had made herself vulnerable. Alcohol really did not suit her, for it made her endlessly, nonsensically garrulous, lecherous and clumsy, but then depressed and, ultimately, violently angry. Therefore we had to stay up for the whole performance each night, soothing, cosseting, cajoling and trying to persuade her to go and sleep it all off. Such fun!
It was her monologues which were the most fascinating. I say monologues, as she would hold court night after night, talking about herself as we attempted to move the wine bottle further away from her. Any attempts to change the subject or participate in the discourse were quickly rebuffed, which was made all the more tedious by her constantly cycling through the same handful of stories. Drunkards have no sense of self-irony or sense of humour. Ours dwindled rapidly.
The fascination in her tales is hard to explain without sounding mean-spirited. Essentially, she enjoyed telling us about her fiancé. He was a well-to-do lawyer who had quit the Smoke to work in her small city and she had met him at work. They had got together at the staff Christmas party the year before, hooking up and then deciding to make a more official go of things. The engagement followed very soon after as they had decided that they were meant to be.
“Are you shocked that I had a one night stand?” she asked us, several times a night.
”No!” we would answer usually, pointing out that they were now engaged. Perhaps I might say that she was an adult, so it was nobody else's business. I never said out loud that people who got as out of control as she did tended to end up in bed with random individuals. She does.
”Yes!” we would answer occasionally to her immense gratification. Oh what a naughty girl etc.
The other focus of the tales was the immense wedding that they were planning. Sometimes it was set for two years hence. Other times it was set for the Autumn. In other renditions still, they were not sure if it was going to happen, but he intended to put down a £5,000 deposit anyway to secure the place; he could afford it, being a top lawyer, you see.
They were going to hire an entire castle for the day and they were going to have the works. The theme was going to be quasi pagan/celtic and she was still deliberating which silken gown to buy, what wedding bands, what flowers. She planned to ride down the aisle on a white horse, but she would need to take riding lessons first. Then came the Pinterest boards.
Hundreds, literally hundreds, of pictures of gowns, of hair, of jewelry. There was a board for bridesmaids and another for flowers. There were gifts and favours. There were pictures of the venue itself. It was all very beautiful and must have taken her a long time to research and amass.
My spidey senses jangled and did so repeatedly during the many retellings.
To begin with, why did she not know when the wedding was going to be? It was going to cost thousands, even if that was just the deposit. Then there was the way that she only ever spoke about how the relationship had started and how wonderful the wedding was going to be. There were never any incidental details given. What did her friends think of her fiancé? What did they do together? There was never any suspicion of ”D. likes that” or ”We like to go to such and such a place” or ”There was this time when D. did this...”. Nothing normal to account for the time between at all.
Then there was the fact that she had come to us for Christmas. Apparently he did not like Christmas, but... they also had no plans for New Year. Plus she was not sure when she wanted to go home again and there was no evidence that he had 'phoned. There is such a thing as not living in the other person's pocket, but it would be a pretty crap boyfriend who let all of that slide.
And then there were no pictures of them together and just one of him, his Facebook profile which looked rather like a stock photograph. I net-stalked the man later and found... nothing. No lawyer of his name anywhere. His Facebook boasted 11 friends, all of whom were her 'net friends from abroad, not even her local friends who surely... This was hardly conclusive proof of anything at all, of course, but seemed a mite peculiar.
On further discreet enquiries, none of her local friends had met the man at all, which was very odd. It was almost as if he was perceptible only to the 'net buddies in the States, Mexico and Australia, spending his free time playing the same Facebook games that she did and occasionally reporting on his life whilst making the same grammatical mistakes that she did.
I forbore from saying any of this to her at the time and I have not since. As angry as I was at her for being a monster over Christmas, there was no point in being angry at her for lying about this, however elaborate the lies.
She went so far as to suggest that my boyfriend and I joined in to make the wedding a double one. I bit back the retort that I did not want to spend another minute in the company of Winezilla, let alone for an imaginary wedding and said that our budget would not permit it. When she said that her man would foot the bill, I was able to say that this would not be acceptable or right. Perhaps if I had been taken in and grasping enough to go along with the idea and made arrangements and spent money, her fantasy may have hurt someone else.
As it was, I felt bad for her, not only for being a drunken mess, but also for her lack of self-esteem. If she cleaned herself up, she might find that there were decent guys out there, if that was her desire. If she wanted a fairytale wedding, that might be attainable too, although the right life partner should be the main point. If she battled her demons sufficiently, she might find the brilliant girl who I had befriended in the beginning and not retreat into wine and fantasy. She would be better just to be her.
We were trapped with her for four days, at least until the trains started running again. It was Christmas and it looked like it had been a mistake inviting her. To begin with, she spent most of her waking time colossally drunk. This would have been almost bearable if she had not been such a prima donna drunkard, demanding to be the centre of attention at all times, into the wee small hours and beyond.
We could not leave her alone to get on with this for a variety of reasons. One was that she had a habit of lighting a cigarette and then nodding off with it in her hand. It proved rather difficult to confiscate all lighters from the vicinity, even when she was asleep, so that did not quite fly. Then there was the way that she spilled drinks, upended ashtrays, fell onto furniture, raged. No way to sleep when that was occurring. Then came the basic dictates of hospitality, that she was our guest and, moreover, one who had made herself vulnerable. Alcohol really did not suit her, for it made her endlessly, nonsensically garrulous, lecherous and clumsy, but then depressed and, ultimately, violently angry. Therefore we had to stay up for the whole performance each night, soothing, cosseting, cajoling and trying to persuade her to go and sleep it all off. Such fun!
It was her monologues which were the most fascinating. I say monologues, as she would hold court night after night, talking about herself as we attempted to move the wine bottle further away from her. Any attempts to change the subject or participate in the discourse were quickly rebuffed, which was made all the more tedious by her constantly cycling through the same handful of stories. Drunkards have no sense of self-irony or sense of humour. Ours dwindled rapidly.
The fascination in her tales is hard to explain without sounding mean-spirited. Essentially, she enjoyed telling us about her fiancé. He was a well-to-do lawyer who had quit the Smoke to work in her small city and she had met him at work. They had got together at the staff Christmas party the year before, hooking up and then deciding to make a more official go of things. The engagement followed very soon after as they had decided that they were meant to be.
“Are you shocked that I had a one night stand?” she asked us, several times a night.
”No!” we would answer usually, pointing out that they were now engaged. Perhaps I might say that she was an adult, so it was nobody else's business. I never said out loud that people who got as out of control as she did tended to end up in bed with random individuals. She does.
”Yes!” we would answer occasionally to her immense gratification. Oh what a naughty girl etc.
The other focus of the tales was the immense wedding that they were planning. Sometimes it was set for two years hence. Other times it was set for the Autumn. In other renditions still, they were not sure if it was going to happen, but he intended to put down a £5,000 deposit anyway to secure the place; he could afford it, being a top lawyer, you see.
They were going to hire an entire castle for the day and they were going to have the works. The theme was going to be quasi pagan/celtic and she was still deliberating which silken gown to buy, what wedding bands, what flowers. She planned to ride down the aisle on a white horse, but she would need to take riding lessons first. Then came the Pinterest boards.
Hundreds, literally hundreds, of pictures of gowns, of hair, of jewelry. There was a board for bridesmaids and another for flowers. There were gifts and favours. There were pictures of the venue itself. It was all very beautiful and must have taken her a long time to research and amass.
My spidey senses jangled and did so repeatedly during the many retellings.
To begin with, why did she not know when the wedding was going to be? It was going to cost thousands, even if that was just the deposit. Then there was the way that she only ever spoke about how the relationship had started and how wonderful the wedding was going to be. There were never any incidental details given. What did her friends think of her fiancé? What did they do together? There was never any suspicion of ”D. likes that” or ”We like to go to such and such a place” or ”There was this time when D. did this...”. Nothing normal to account for the time between at all.
Then there was the fact that she had come to us for Christmas. Apparently he did not like Christmas, but... they also had no plans for New Year. Plus she was not sure when she wanted to go home again and there was no evidence that he had 'phoned. There is such a thing as not living in the other person's pocket, but it would be a pretty crap boyfriend who let all of that slide.
And then there were no pictures of them together and just one of him, his Facebook profile which looked rather like a stock photograph. I net-stalked the man later and found... nothing. No lawyer of his name anywhere. His Facebook boasted 11 friends, all of whom were her 'net friends from abroad, not even her local friends who surely... This was hardly conclusive proof of anything at all, of course, but seemed a mite peculiar.
On further discreet enquiries, none of her local friends had met the man at all, which was very odd. It was almost as if he was perceptible only to the 'net buddies in the States, Mexico and Australia, spending his free time playing the same Facebook games that she did and occasionally reporting on his life whilst making the same grammatical mistakes that she did.
I forbore from saying any of this to her at the time and I have not since. As angry as I was at her for being a monster over Christmas, there was no point in being angry at her for lying about this, however elaborate the lies.
She went so far as to suggest that my boyfriend and I joined in to make the wedding a double one. I bit back the retort that I did not want to spend another minute in the company of Winezilla, let alone for an imaginary wedding and said that our budget would not permit it. When she said that her man would foot the bill, I was able to say that this would not be acceptable or right. Perhaps if I had been taken in and grasping enough to go along with the idea and made arrangements and spent money, her fantasy may have hurt someone else.
As it was, I felt bad for her, not only for being a drunken mess, but also for her lack of self-esteem. If she cleaned herself up, she might find that there were decent guys out there, if that was her desire. If she wanted a fairytale wedding, that might be attainable too, although the right life partner should be the main point. If she battled her demons sufficiently, she might find the brilliant girl who I had befriended in the beginning and not retreat into wine and fantasy. She would be better just to be her.