I never think of the future. It comes soon enough. (Albert Einstein)

            Having prepared the evening’s sedation, Gareth lightly raps on the bedroom door. “Peanut? Sweety? How are you doing?” he asks, slowly opening the door and gasping when he sees Plenty standing frozen in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection, donned in her wedding accoutrement, her eyes puffed and red, her face a cadaverous shade of macabre.

            Plenty doesn’t notice Gareth standing in the doorway, his mouth and eyes gaping wide. She has blocked everything out but her reflection. All that she can hear is a whooshing sound in her ears. She feels out-of-body eerie as she senses herself floating above this mirage, looking down, watching herself go through the motions of breathing, wondering why this poor, pathetic creature isn’t moving. Who is she? Why is she dressed like this? Why does she look so dejected and pointless?

            Knowing that Plenty desperately needs saving from herself before she morphs into some sad and wretched character staring in her own Greek tragedy, Gareth shakes himself out of his stupor—trying to quickly recover from the image before him. Coming up behind her, he gently takes her shoulders and turns her away from her pathetic reflection, guiding her to the bed and sitting her down.

            “Peanut, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t torture yourself,” he says as he rubs her back. “Come on, let’s get you out of this costume and into your comfy robe and fuzzy slippers.”

            Plenty nods and sniffs, her chin trembling as she slowly reaches up and pulls the hat from her head, then sullenly looking down lets it drop to the floor.

            Reaching down and picking up the symbolic head joy, Gareth carelessly tosses it on the bed as he focuses his attention on the disheveled disaster in front of him. “You look like the High Priestess of Gloom in this,” he says while standing Plenty up and helping her out of her dress and into her robe. “That’s better,” he clucks as he finishes wrapping her in downy comfort and leads her out of the tomblike room.

            Like a zombie, Plenty follows, clutching her dress and trailing it behind her like a child dragging a limp rag-doll.

            Not bothering to attempt taking the now wrinkled and tear stained dress from her hands—she seems to be clutching on to it as if it were a security blanket—Gareth plunks Plenty down on the sofa and watches as she mindlessly caresses the piece of couture that has instantly become a symbolic rag, a tattered and tainted scrap of material, never to be cherished, but only forsaken, while he pours the champagne. “Here,” he says, handing her a glass, “let’s get pissed.”

            Still feeling like a lodger in the State of Limbo, Plenty unconsciously reaches out, taking the glass of champers and downing it in one gulp as Gareth continues to pour, glass after glass, until bottle one becomes a dead soldier and bottle two is uncorked. This is the temporary cure that his poor peanut needs.

            And he’s right, because Plenty’s senses are beginning to numb as a feeling of lightness washes through her. She slumps over on to Gareth’s side, and with a natural reflex his protective arm wraps securely around her. “You poor old trout,” he mutters, kissing the top of her head while she nods in agreement and sighs as a single rogue tear trickles down her cheek.

            “This is a nightmare of monumental proportions,” she declares when she finally speaks. “Why does it feel like everything I touch turns to big brown steaming lumps of smelly SHITE, instead of gold? My life is a constant SNAFU: Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.”

            Hugging her even tighter, Gareth coos lovingly, “You’re pathetic.”

            “I’m a fart in the butt crack of life. I’m a ridiculous idiot, a nincompoop, a boob, a … a dufus …”

            “Hey, hey – that’s my best mate you’re berating,” Gareth gently scolds.

            “And she feels like a fool’s fool, a … an oafish maladroit, completely gauche. Oh let’s face it, I’ll never find anyone. I mean, who in their right mind is ever going to put up with my cloddish self? Except you, of course. You love me just as I am, warts and all,” she says, looking lovingly up at her Sparky with wet, blood shot eyes.

            “Well, someone has to. It appears that I have been assigned the task, the dirty deed. It’s my lot in life, the burden that I must bear,” he quips melodramatically, and they both giggle, thus dissipating some of the funky air that has settled into their stratosphere.

             “Oh, Sparky, why do I keep falling in love with totally inappropriate, emotionally unavailable men? He who shall no longer be named being no exception to the Plenty-tragic-romance rule,” Plenty sighs. “I mean, I’m sick. I have an incurable illness called brainfart-itus syndrome, manifesting itself within lack-of-self-control cells when long bouts of self-pity and aloneness exist, cells that are located in my irrational and foolish cranium maximus. I mean, what was I thinking? I was in way over my head with someone like him. Am I crazy?”

            “Yup, you’re absolutely masochistically delusional and tragic,” Gareth laughs, “but, at least you haven’t lost your self-deprecating sense of humor in your turbulent emotional state.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s all I have left in my tragic tale of what is and what might have been. They’re a real tearjerker, these harsh realities of my sad and tragic existence … real pot boilers.”

            “Now, don’t be a drama queen,” Gareth cheekily scolds, “that’s my job. I’m the director in charge of Find-a-crisis, Create-a-drama, and don’t you forget it!”

            “Can you believe he jilted me on a Post-it, of all things?!” Plenty continues, the alcohol having stirred up a feisty spark. “Has my life become a sitcom? I can picture it now, everyone standing around the water cooler every Monday morning discussing the latest comically ironic fiasco that is my existence as I go forth into a spiraling meltdown in each episode, thus making their lives seem sunny and perfect in comparison. I am the quintessential definition of dysfunction.”

            “Well, at least it was a pretty pink Post-it. I’ve always felt that the right color makes even the direst state of affairs pop! It’s crucial,” Gareth teases.

            “Oh sure, that’s all you care about – color coordination,” Plenty says, looking up and putting on her best pouty face. “You don’t care.” Then her plump, pouty lips turn up into a smirk, because she knows that of all the people in the universe, Gareth so cares … would lay down his life for her.

            “Nope, don’t give a toss,” Gareth says drolly as he pours the last drops of bottle number two, gets up, stretches and goes into the kitchen to fetch number three.

            “But, ouch. It hurts. Very, very ouch,” Plenty shouts while she reaches for one of Gareth’s Silk Cuts, lighting it and taking a long drag, coughing and gagging as she exhales—Plenty only ever smokes when she’s shit-faced drunk, or in this case shit-faced drunk and devastated. Giving up, she stubs the cig out and curls up into a ball in the corner of the sofa. “John was the cat … no … lion and I was the meek, submissive little mouse that he was batting around, toying with until he ate me up and spit out my pitiful remains,” she continues to lament.

            By now Gareth has come back with a fresh bottle of comatose inducing liquid, and as he stands facing Plenty he shakes his head at the pathetic and wretched sight before him, curled up in fetal style as he uncorks the bottle and pours another round.

            Plenty looks up at him, her face red from choking on his Silk Cut, her nose raw from blowing, her eyes morose and bloodshot, and her face a pasty shade of white. “I know. I’m a demented tosser. I feel as if I’m past my sell-by-date; old, ancient, archaic, beyond the edge of logic.” She sits up, making room for Gareth, then plops her legs on his lap when he sits down. “I can’t believe I was so blind. That I didn’t see this coming. How could I not see that I was just some temporary rebound thing to him … I meant nothing to him. And when did I become deaf … I mean, there always was a tone to his words that sounded so rehearsed and hollow, how did I not hear that then? How did this happen? When did this happen? Why did this happen? Did you see this coming?”

            Gareth nods his head.

            “That figures. Sam probably did too. I’m the only one who was clueless,” Plenty says, thumping her forehead with the palm of her hand. Then, looking at Gareth with brows knitted and eyes squinting in a questioning manner, she asks the trillion quid question, “Why didn’t you say something? You’re meant to be my friend, my best and closest confidant, my significant other … my plus one … and you didn’t warn me about any of this? All of this could have been prevented … if …” Her lips roll out into a piteous pout with the last comment as Gareth rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

            “Blimey,” he says as he leans forward and faces her, saying matter-of-factly, “From my vast experience, old darling, I have learned that when one is in the throes of a feverish love, one becomes deaf, dumb and blind to the voices of reason. Hence why I kept my big, juicy gob shut for a change. You. Would. Not. Have. Listened. All I could do was be there for you and support you in whatever you were doing – even though I couldn’t stand the git.”

            As Plenty listens, deep down inside, she knows that he’s right. She wouldn’t have listened to any advice or warnings, even from him. She had to learn, yet another lesson, the hard and painful way. And now she wonders if it’s possible for her to ever get it right.

            A poor me sigh flutters from her mouth as she sprawls back into the sofa and the back of her hand rests on her forehead in manner of Dame Woebegone. “He diddled with my emotions,” she suddenly spews forth in a torrent of angst. “Played with my heart. Used me, leaving me a raw, festering bundle of uncertainty … a … a vacuous black hole of nothingness.”

            Gareth gives her a “You’re doing my head in” look and says, “Hello, bitter party of one … Blimey! Wuthering Heights wasn’t this heartrendingly tragic, or lamentable. Puuhleeeze, spare me the theatrics.”

            Hoisting herself up, Plenty leans forward and rests her head in her hands, looking every inch the spurned damsel while Gareth continues, “I know, men can be such beasts … sometimes. Oh, Peanut, listen to your Gareth, John was just a plot point in your life, not worthy of a chapter. This is just a temporary catastrophic setback. This too shall pass. Do you hear me?”

            Plenty nods her head reluctantly and starts to cry – again.

            “Oh, Bu, it’ll be all right. Come here,” Gareth says, pulling Plenty over and cradling her in his arms. “Now, stop. Shush. You’re my family, and I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’m here for you. Don’t let him take the best of you. He isn’t worth losing sleep over, or spending thoughts on … never was.”

            A doleful smile niggles at the corners of her mouth as Plenty straightens up, blows her nose, guzzles her champagne and holds the glass out for a refill. “You’re right, of course … you’re right. Ugh, I’m a total clod when it comes to men, aren’t I? A total addle-brained bovine. Dysfunction is alive and well, and living in the land of Plenty! Oh, well,” she heaves, “it’s okay, I would have been a crap wife, anyway. Now this will be my dirty little secret. Oh, Sparky, why can’t I get my act together? I mean, I really do have a brain in my head. I’m not a total half-wit. I did graduate summa cum laude in English Literature, so why do I flounder? Am I in the throes of a pre-pre-mid-life crises? Should I find the meaning of my life in a Deepak Chopra guide to life’s fulfillment, enlightenment and completeness? Should I be questioning the meaning of life … like, who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going? Where have I been? Should I abandon my materialistic existence and search for the higher meaning? I mean, I’m thirty-five and all I feel is mixed up and confused. How sad and pathetic is that? I haven’t accomplished what I set out to do. I have yet to pen the great literary novel to end all great literary novels. I’ve had writers block for ten years. I’m a sodding poncy tosspot!” Finishing her diatribe, Plenty heaves another sigh and donning her best poor-me pouty face, says, “I don’t know. Maybe I should just admit failure, accept defeat, pack it all in, lock myself away and listen to sad FM, easy listening muzak for the over 30’s for the remainder of my days until I take up residence in the big retirement village in the sky.”

            “Yes, Miss Havisham,” Gareth sputters as he rolls his eyes at her self-critical mauling while at the same time smiling upon hearing the nickname that Plenty had given him years ago.

            After knowing Gareth for about a nanosecond, Plenty started calling him Sparky because he was always so upbeat, so glimmery and beaming, air-kissing everyone in sight, leaving a flurry of exhilaration in his wake, he absolutely sparkled … still does. It’s nearly impossible to be down when you’re around him. The pet name stuck and he loves it.

            “Well, I am a Miss Havisham. I’ve been jilted, so now I will make it my life-long mission to denounce love,” Plenty pouts, needing much more tea and sympathy than she thinks she’s getting – her bruised ego is starving for it. “This was utterly soul destroying, y’know. Completely, from top to bottom, mortally degrading and deflating, and I am mortally wounded.”

            “Peanut, you are a lunatic – farting bonkers. You’re a very deep and brooding intellectual, you just haven’t found your muse, yet … or your Sir Spot-on. Enough said.”

            “But, at this point I don’t think I ever will. I’ll never get my act together. I feel so tatty, every waking moment,” Plenty groans. “I’m just a big, fat loser.” She makes an “L” with her left thumb and index finger, placing it on her forehead.

            “Well, you could lose a stone or two, and you are a walking fashion disaster—urbane and sophisticated you’re not. Always remember, my pixie one, cigarettes don’t kill people, bad fashion does. But you’re in well manicured hands, so not to worry. I’ll take care of the tat. Your fairy-god-stylist will never let you down. A tweak here, a refinement there and voilà, le fabuleux. And, you are not a loser,” Gareth reassures. He loves his little peanut so and hates to see her in such a self-loathing frame of mind. He doesn’t want to see her putting up shells. She needs to keep what little romantic optimism she might still have intact, that is if it hasn’t already been buried deep under piles of hot, mucky excrement, becoming impossible to ever retrieve from the dung heap.

            That beastly, shite, git, wanker John, Gareth screams to himself with a sudden testosterone-fueled volcanic fury, he’s not worthy of the ground she walks on and I hope he rots in hell – pompous arse. How dare he do this to my peanut. If I ever see him again I’ll piss on him. I want to cut his balls off and give them back as cufflinks.

            What would I do without my Sparky? Plenty sighs. He’s my rock, my safety net. The one and only good thing that’s ever happened in my life. The only one who’s loved me for me – as I am, at face value.

            “Why does my life always go so squiffy?” Plenty asks rhetorically, breaking into their reflective silences. “Just when I think I’ve got it right, it all seems to go completely and irrevocably pear shaped, in every aspect of my life … my career … my love life … my looks … not exactly lucky in the gene pool draw, was I?” Suddenly she laughs wryly, “In a parallel universe there’s another me walking around and I’m a willowy, statuesque, wanton sex goddess, who is number one on the New York Times best seller list and has mankind fawning all over her … I mean, me,” which makes Gareth laugh spontaneously, nearly spitting out the champagne that he just took a sip of.

            “But, seriously,” Plenty continues, “I don’t want to become a member of the wrinkly brigade having accomplished nothing in my life – a big, fat, corpulent zero.”

            “Enough shoulda-woulda-coulda angst! Drama, drama, drama. Stop wallowing in self-pity. Fester, fester, fester. Your brain is going to get all pruney if you don’t stop. You are divine. Cute as a button, and don’t you ever forget it. Listen, I love you more than my Louis Vuitton luggage, but you really are getting on my last gay nerve,” Gareth chides, getting worked up and frustrated. “Really, why is it that you couldn’t see the cracked veneer of John-the-Wanker, that was oozing with flaws, but when it comes to your exquisite little self all you can see are grotesque blemishes and ulcerating scabs that you can’t stop picking at?”            

            “I don’t know!” Plenty says, insecurely hugging her knees into herself and resting her chin on them as her eyes blink rapidly. “Sorry? Oh … shit. I don’t know. Ugh! Every time I take off, I fly up my own butt, don’t I? I mean, for feck’s sake, I was jilted with a Post-it! Could he not have been more cavalier about it?”

            “STOP!!! This is not your fault. You! Did! Nothing! Wrong!” Gareth stresses while delicately tapping her brow with his index finger. “John’s an emotional fuckwit and you can do so much better than him. Why would you want to settle? You have so much to give. You just need to find someone who will give you the warm, tender love that you so deserve. Someone who will see you for who you really are: kind … warm … affectionate … intelligent. Someone like – me! Only straight, of course,” he points out, bluntly putting the truth of the matter in Plenty’s face. “You are well rid of him. He could never give you what you need. He never got you, and never would. He’d never have seen or appreciated the real you, nor did he. You would have lived a life of sheer misery if you’d married him. Andrew Lloyd Webber would have written a new musical in your honor: ‘La Femme en Les Misérablè’, starring you!” Then affecting a professorial voice he says, “Repeat this until you whisper it in your sleep, ‘Marriage with John, Mr. Oh-so-wrong, would have been tantamount to a prison sentence, or a death sentence.’”

            Something in what Gareth is saying slowly begins to seep into Plenty’s innate senses as she relaxes, leans her head back and soaks in his wise words. He’s right – again. And it’s true, she and John would never have made it past year one in the Kingdom of Matrimony, and in her heart of hearts she knows it – besides, all that domesticity, settling down, being grown up, doing laundry, marriage claptrap … well, whatever possessed her to think that it’s for her. Why, it threatened the very fabric of her freedom. Really, her, a smug married – of all things! But the distasteful thought of John canoodling with his ex-troll right under her little turned-up nose just won’t go away, and it makes her blood boil, whipping her into a frenzy.

            Suddenly she sits bolt upright, looks at Gareth and spits with animosity, “He cheated on me! How very dare he! How dare he humiliate me, and degrade and demean me – and mock my feelings for him. How dare he toss me aside like a used toy that a child is bored with – like … as if … I have no feelings … no heart … no soul. I hope he and that trollop … that … that harpy burn in hell. I hope she cheats on him and he finds her screwing the balls off some Adonis in their marital bed!”

            “That’s right,” Gareth says, egging her on, “get mad.”

            “Vile – vile – vile!” she spews some more.

            Then, because curiosity always gets the better of him, Gareth asks, “Did you ever meet her?” which causes Plenty to stop her diatribe in mid-spew and look at Gareth with a befuddled expression, the question having frozen her in her tracks as she instantly deflates like a popped balloon, and curling up into a little ball, she leans against him and mumbles, “No. But I’ve seen pictures of her,” afraid that if she says it too loud the strumpet will take on a solid shape and manifest itself into reality and not remain a vaporous, inane object, but, in fact, will materialize into the diabolical entity that has just ripped her fantasy of a happy ever after ending to shreds, “and she’s gorgeous – runway-model stunning.”

            “Ouch,” Gareth winces, sorry that his hunger for nosiness has won out over common-sense and discretion. He can feel Plenty sinking into herself, again, and right when he thought he was making progress with her self-esteem. Stupid!

            “Yeah, ouch,” Plenty sighs, hugging into Gareth even deeper, dissolving back into fetal position. Then, looking up at him with a flicker of buoyancy in her eyes, she says, “But she looks as shallow as he is – empty eyes – a phony smile – an artificial shell disguising itself as a human being – bogus and fake. They deserve each other.”

            “Well, you’re not shallow, my little peanut,” Gareth says, kissing the top of her head and hugging her, “and you are too good for him. He didn’t deserve you. You really are so much better off without him. You’ll see.”

            “Yeah,” Plenty heaves and shudders. “He blows, doesn’t he?”

            “Well, not me – but, in general? – yeah, he does,” Gareth agrees. “He’s a big, bad cad.”

            A tiny smirk of self-satisfaction crosses Plenty’s lips as she thinks, with a spark of confidence, I’ll be all right. I have my Sparky … my protector and defender. He always makes me feel special, and he loves me unconditionally, beyond question … as I do him. I just need to find a straight Gareth. Someone who will get me and love me as I am … that’s  all!

            Breaking into what appear to be reflective thoughts before her emotions take another nosedive and crash, Gareth seizes the opportunity to do the subject changing thingy, “I cannot believe that I’m about to say this, but this is more drama than even I can take. You need to move on and quickly. You absolutely need to get away from here. Your life needs a new injection of life!”

            And chewing on what he’s saying, Plenty couldn’t agree more. As usual Gareth is spot on. “I know. My life has become a predictable plot point, hasn’t it? Chock-a-block with unfunny situations and boring, clichéd characters, and if that’s my future, all that I have to look forward to, then count me out.”

            Perfect, Gareth thinks, now I can plant some seeds in that little germinating noggin of hers. “I think that it’s time to reinvent your squeaky wheel, Bubbala.”

            But just as she is about to ask how, the phone rings, making them jump a mile out of their fuzzy slippers. A look of panic strikes Plenty’s face. Uh, oh…  

            “I’ll get it,” Gareth says, getting up and crossing the room, hoping that this train of thought he has her riding on doesn’t derail. “Hello? … Oh, hi … Fab, you’re a peach … Okay … Her emotions have been riding a tidal wave, but she’s getting better by the champagne injected minute … Cheers, luv … I will … Talk to you tomorrow, kiss, kiss; chow.”

            “Who was that?”

            “Sam, asking how you are, and telling me that what I asked her to do earlier was done.”

            “About tomorrow?”

            “Yes, Peanut. All has been taken care of,” Gareth informs as he starts clearing away spent bottles and empty glasses. “Are you hungry, because I’m famished. That last bottle of bubbly is getting to me. How about a pizza?”

            “You know me, I never turn down food. And, yes, I’m hungry.” Plenty never says no to a lovely slice of comfort food, especially one that has her name on it, Häagen-Dazs should have been her middle name. No matter what catastrophic disaster of ruinous proportions has or is whipping up a storm in her life, and her stomach, the one thing she never loses is her appetite. She has never been A. too busy, B. too excited, C. too distressed or D. too sick to eat. “You know where my takeaway menus are.”

            “Where the pots and pans should be,” Gareth laughs, going into the kitchen to riffle through the plethora of menus that Plenty has, finding a restaurant from the North End that delivers. “On its way,” he informs, coming back into the living room, having put in the pizza order with a Tiramisu chaser for afters, and handing Plenty a large gin and tonic. “Here, I switched our poison. Cheers, Sweety, to a new beginning – a fresh start.” (Clink, clink)

            “So, what is my fresh start, then? This ‘reinvention’ of me?” Plenty asks, picking the last subject back up, feeling lightheaded from all the booze, but better about her situation. John is a first-class wanker and she knows it. Oh, the pain will continue to flare-up from time to time, like waves of nausea washing through her heart and her pride—and a chapter in her life that she will not easily forget—but the initial shock is now a distant and numb jolt, a thunderstorm now rumbling far away, slowly dissipating into thin air. She’s with her Sparky—her abode of the heart, her support, her cheer and her comfort in this deranged, schizophrenic, loony world—so all is well.

            “Well,” Gareth begins, relieved that the shifted mood is still intact, and having already formulated a plan, hoping that Plenty will agree, “In my high, exalted, informed and unassailable opinion, I think you should live this quasi life of yours elsewhere. Put your big girl panties on, pack your bags and your pea sized brain and come back to London with me.” And with each utterance Gareth’s voice rises in an excited crescendo. “Call it quits here and flee this near fatal accident!”

            As he rattles on, Plenty begins to breathe a mental sigh of relief. He’s right, it’s time for her to cut her losses and move on, away from this place and all its painful reminders of her failures, and quickly, or risk turning into a demented romantic atheist with no hope for a date with destiny, tottering into antiquity in manner of half-wit, becoming frightfully mundane and emotionally blocked forever, unable to write another word for the remainder of her life … quelle nightmare … quelle horreur!

            She loves London, and the thought of always having her Sparky nearby is very tempting.

            When her six months at London University had come to an end and she’d had to return to Boston to finish her degree it had broken both her and Gareth’s heart. She had never felt so close to one human being, and she had fallen in love with London, those six months had been the best and happiest times of her life.

            But one thing or another had happened in Plenty’s life, and even though Gareth kept pleading with her over the years to move to London, she hadn’t—the thought of moving to another continent … well, it had daunted her into inaction.

            But now, it feels as if destiny is calling her, like the mythical mermaids singing their unearthly siren songs, telling her that it’s time, telling her to go with the flow – luring her. So before those brute bullies Anxiety, Fear and Doubt wrestle her to the floor, she decides to turn a deaf ear to them and go with the moment, with a little nudge from Gareth, her Lorelei. But it isn’t a shipwreck she’s headed to, that has already happened. This is the defining moment where she will pick up the fragments and rubble, and salvage this wreckage called her life. She’d listened to her instincts more than fifteen years ago, moving in with Gareth, and that had been the best decision of her life … it’s time to repeat the past … to come full circle.

            But first, a little tit-for-tat winding up is due Gareth. Plenty dons her best faux Nervous Nelly expression and, “Hmmm, stay here and wallow in self-pity or go to London with you and get my confidence back … what to do, what to do … thinking, thinking … I don’t know, the words scary and daunting come to mind…” Then, seeing Gareth’s face drop ten stories, she puts him out of his misery (her soft heart just can’t torment her Sparky), announcing emphatically, “Okay. I’ll do it!”

            Gareth’s mouth drops to the floor, in a good way this time (he’s not used to anyone taking the mickey, especially Plenty, that’s his domain), yes he had hoped, but in reality never imagined that she would actually say, “yes”. “Holy-Judy-Garland-Wizzard-of-Oz! Really? Truly? You will?” he rambles, agog with animated elation. “Oh, Peanut, good times!”

            “We’ve got to dash,” Gareth says with a sudden clamor after looking at his watch and realizing that they’ve been sitting at Sonsie’s for more than two hours.

            It’s been such a lovely, relaxing day, just her and Gareth, alone, sipping wine, talking and laughing – Plenty doesn’t want it to end. These are the moments that she cherishes most, moments of sheer, silly pleasure, moments free from stress, of not having to perform or be someone she isn’t or stand on her head to get attention, no judgment or scrutiny making her feel small and trivial. She knows exactly where she stands with Gareth. He loves her no matter what, and with that, she can relax and be herself. And all this adds up to Plenty being very reluctant to stand up and relinquish their sunny, al fresco spot.

            “Come the fuck on, Peanut,” Gareth scolds lovingly as he gets up, pays the bill and gathers her and their shopping bags for the short walk around the corner and down Commonwealth Avenue, past unbroken lines of red brick Victorian houses and into Plenty’s apartment building. As they enter the rickety old elevator and ascend to the fourth floor, the sound of their muffled giggles echo through the corridors.

            “I think I maxed out my cash card today,” Gareth says while surveying the vast sea of colorful bags flooding the elevator floor. “I’m bankrupt. I’m going to have to call my bank and get my overdraft raised just to get a taxi home from Heathrow.”

            “Oh, just stay here forever. Then you won’t have to think about it,” Plenty says off-the-cuff, but underneath seriously meaning it. She does not want to see Gareth leave after tomorrow—the thought of it suddenly makes her feel lonely.

            “Oh that’s a good solution to my current financial woes,” Gareth answers back, wishing Plenty would say: “Oh, to hell with this whole wedlocking thingy, I’m going back to London with you,” because he’s going to miss days like this, plus he knows that both of their lives will change after tomorrow … dreads it, actually.

            Plenty watches Gareth’s mood shift ever so slightly, and knowing exactly what he’s thinking, she quietly leans her head on his shoulder.

            Gareth kisses the top of her head and smiles. They know each other’s state of mind without so much as a single syllable uttered between them—their facial expressions speak in code better than any words ever could.

            When the doors of the lift open, they spill out into the hallway, analyzing their purchases as they make their way to Plenty’s door.

            “Who do I think I am, buying this?” Plenty pouts as she pulls out the sleeve of a strawberry-red lace top from the turquoise bag hanging on her arm.

            “Oh, shut it,” Gareth scolds. “You’ll achieve maximum sizzle in it, and pardon I, but don’t you have a honeymoon to go on? And won’t this be a perfect piece of seduction garb? Kitted out in this, John will tear it off you before you get out the door.”

            A sheepish grin plays about Plenty’s lips as that vision overtakes her brain before boring old commonsense can berate her for frivolously spending money she does not have.

            “Yeah, I guess,” she relents, gently tucking the fabric back into its protective fold of tissue paper.

            “So go forth and beguile,” Gareth commands as he looks up at Plenty’s front door and notes, “Peanut, there’s a pretty pink note stuck to your door. Maybe it’s a juicy love letter from John.”

            Plenty looks up at the glaring pink note when she finishes messing with her bag as Gareth leans into her and whispers, “‘I can’t wait to make mad, passionate love to my bride’, I’m sure it says,” never missing an opportunity to tease the blushing bride-to-be as he reaches the door first, itching to rip the note off and read its amorous message. 

            “Jealous?” Plenty teases back, playfully bumping Gareth’s hip with her derriere, continuing to blush like an innocent school girl, feeling all chaste like a born again virgin, hoping Gareth is right, that John has left a beautiful and sexy love letter—thus putting an end to the gnawing feelings in her gut.

            “Hardly, Peanut-butter-cup – Sweety – my blokess,” Gareth mocks, impatiently nudging her along, relieved that John has finally made contact … he really was beginning to wonder … “Now don’t get on my last gay nerve, hurry up! Read it!”

            Obeying his anxious command Plenty rips the Post-it off the door whilst simultaneously giving him a middle-fingered salute. But as she begins to read the note a surreal, out-of-body numbness sweeps over her. All color drains from her face as its words jolt her senses. Her eyes become transfixed with shock and her stomach lurches as waves of nausea wash up through her esophagus. She feels as if she’s having an instant melt down as her vision goes black and her heart deflates like a popped balloon. All she can hear is the sound of her blood rapidly coursing through her veins—Niagara Falls has nothing on this deafening din. She tries to swallow the lumps of raw pain that are forming in her throat … but she can’t.

            As he watches Plenty’s face turn from misty rose, to slate gray, to cadaver white, Gareth drops his shopping bags and grabs Plenty’s shoulders, trying to shake some life back into her. He’s panic stricken, thinking that she’s having a stroke, or worse. He can’t lose his little peanut, what will he do without her? “Sweety? Peanut?” he cries, staring into her eyes, searching for a flicker of cognizant life, a glint of lucidity. But Plenty is too stunned to speak.

            Gareth braces Plenty with one arm, her knees being on the verge of buckling, while he reaches over with his free hand and rips the note from her trembling fingers. He reads the acerbic words that have so paralyzed and floored his peanut:

Dear Plenty,

I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this. You’re a good kid, but I’ve been seeing my ex-girlfriend for the past month and have come to realize that I still love her. We’re on our way to Las Vegas to get married. I’m sorry if I hurt you. Take care and have a good life. 

John.

            “Holy Birdcage, Nathan Lane! Oh. My. Fucking. God. Shut! Up! Have a good life! Have a good life?! What arse dribble! I don’t believe this. The sodding wanker coward jilted you on a Post-it! The sanctimonious poncey poseur!” Gareth rants, more livid than he’s ever been in his entire life. “All I can say is you are well rid of him. He’s an arrogant tosser. Come on, little one,” he says, prying Plenty’s keys from her fingers, unlocking the door and guiding her into the apartment, “let’s get some booze down you. We’re going to kill those bottles of champagne that are chilling in the frig. We need to numb your senses.”

            Feeling as if her bones are going to crumble to dust, Plenty collapses into Gareth. She is shaking – spastic with hiccups and shudders – and her eyes are brimming with tears.

            Why? How? is running on a continuous loop in her head as she feels an intense and ferocious energy gather at the core of her being—moving with uncontrollable velocity, spawning a shit storm that will soon unleash torrential rains and blubbering squalls.

            “Oh, poor little flower. Come on, hugs not drugs,” Gareth coos while he soothes and rocks Plenty’s trembling body as the gravity of all her bad choices weigh heavily on her heart.

            When her shaking temporarily subsides, Gareth directs Plenty into the bathroom, instructing her to wash her face. “You look like Tammy Faye Baker’s ugly sister. You’re scaring me.”

            A crazed laugh escapes Plenty’s lips and echoes through the raw and morbid air. Gareth’s eyes grow wide with fear. This detached funk that she’s submerged in scares him. She’s become a specter floating above her body.  And she hasn’t uttered a word. It’s all too eerie – macabre, even.

            “When you’re done in here go and have a lie down while I tend to a few things,” he says while rubbing her back. He then gives her another hug, gently closes the bathroom door and goes into the living room to call Sam.

            “Hello?” trills Sam.

            “Hey, Sam, it’s Gareth.”

            “Gareth, I was just about to call you. How’s our bride doing? Is she getting nervous?” Sam asks, all bubbly and excited herself, still thrilled that Plenty asked her to be Maid-of-Honor.

            Sam loves Plenty, having known her since their Emerson College days together, when they shared a grotty little apartment and growing close over the years. (Sam is the only female friend that Plenty’s ever had. They’re great friends, there for each other without getting in each other’s way—something that is very important to both of them.) And when Gareth came on the scene, visiting Plenty in Boston as often as his budget could afford, the trio quickly formed and became an urban family unit (a nucleus of love and dysfunction, as Gareth had put it).

            “So, are we going to go out tonight and celebrate in true bachelorette style?” Sam continues. But when she isn’t getting the usual Gareth-esque, effervescently sardonic response she suddenly stops burbling on and slowly asks, “Gareth? Is everything okay?” afraid of the answer as she chants to herself: Please let everything be okay – please, please, please. Hasn’t Plenty been through enough? For someone whose life has been a recipe for disaster, a hot mess of a French farce on a near daily basis, she more than deserves to have something go right for a change. She’s paid her dues, plus everyone else’s!

            After a long, lamentable pause, Gareth breathes out a deeply distressed sigh, “No, everything is not okay,” and Sam’s nerves prickle as she slumps back into her sofa.

            I knew it, Sam thinks as she lets out an exasperated breath and rolls her eyes to the ceiling in a “you-who-controls-her-universe the joke has gone too far, game over, time to lift the voodoo you did on her, oh, and curses to you too, putz” manner. “Oh, no. What happened? Please say that Plenty isn’t hurt – lying in some hospital.”

            “Well, she’s hurt, but not physically,” Gareth says, running a hand through his blond locks, dreading what he has to tell Sam. “Ehm, when we got back from shopping, just now, there was a note on her door. It was from John … and … oh, let me read it to you,” and he retrieves the note from the hall table where he dropped it, clears the nails that he wants to spit from his throat and commences to read the short, terse words out loud.

            When he finishes spewing out the last sickening syntax, Sam blows forth in a huff. “Are you kidding me?!?” she lets fly, knowing that it’s a stupid thing to say, but this really is beyond all rationality. This is impossible to comprehend, even for a classic Plenty travesty. “On a Post-it?!?”

            “A pink Post-it.”

            “I can’t believe what a low life coward he is. Vile,” she spits, yes, nails and tacks and spikes. “He is vile. Well, she’s well and truly rid of him. I never did like him. Couldn’t understand why she was with him, or why she put up with him, let alone why she agreed to marry him. I had a feeling that something was up. He always acted guilty – sneaky. Smarmy bastard. A pink Post-it! What the fuck…”

            “More of an in-your-face fuchsia, actually. Bright. The kind of color that mocks,” Gareth says as he paces the length of Plenty’s living room floor, stopping every so often to peer out the window at the street below. How can people go on with their everyday lives when there is such tragedy and crushing drama being played out right above their abstract heads? he thinks as he watches a couple stroll arm-in-arm up the street.

            “Bastard! How could he! The piece of slime waste pond scum. ‘Take care and have a good life’? ‘You’re a good kid’? Revolting. He is absolutely foul and revolting. If he were here I’d gouge his eyes out. I’d gouge his heart out as well, if he had one. How could he do this to her?” Sam growls, still on a roaring boil and doing some mad pacing herself. “How is she?”

            “Devastated.”

            “Of course she is, how stupid of me,” Sam berates herself, so agitated that she can’t see straight.

            “The gloom she’s slipped into scares me,” Gareth continues. “She’s absolutely despondent.”

            “Well, thank goodness you’re with her. She’d never be able to handle this without you,” Sam says as she sits back down, trying to cool her heels. “If anyone can pull her out of this, it’s you. She adores you. God, there must be some creepy little gremlin following her around, giving her the stink eye … I’ve never seen anyone so plagued with such bad luck. It’s like a pestilent evil spell, a bad stink you can’t escape. Anyway,” she sighs, shaking off this creeping les mis feeling, “what do you need me to do? Should I come over?”

            Gareth appreciates Sam’s offer, and sentiments, but … “No, I’ll handle this end. I see a long night of consoling ahead – lots of booze and tears and cases of Kleenex. Thanks for the offer, though. But I do have a big fav to ask. It’s very important.”

            “Whatever you want,” she says, eager to do whatever she can to help.

            “I need you to call all the guests and tell everyone that the wedding is off. Be your lovely, sweet, diplomatic self. But only call her side, of course. I could care less about his people. Let them show up, and then harass him for an explanation when he gets back from his nasty deed. Oh, and call the minister, the chapel, the restaurant, the florist and the photographer, and cancel the room at the Four Seasons. Work out whatever with them and I’ll settle with them on Monday. Can you do all that for us? It isn’t too much, is it?”

            “No, absolutely not. I want to do whatever I can to help,” Sam reassures.

            “Cheers. You’re a star. We really need to clean up and sweep away these details. She’ll never have the strength to face them. I’ll ring you later. Kiss, kiss; chow,” and Gareth hangs up, goes into the kitchen, takes out two champagne flutes from the cabinet over the sink, grabs a bottle of chilled bubbly from the frig, dunks it into a bucket of ice and brings the lot into the living room, all the while hoping and praying that his precious little peanut really is all right.

            The tomblike silence that has fallen over the apartment is creepy and Gareth is worried. He can almost hear the ticking of the time-bomb about to explode. He knows that Plenty is in some kind of shock. Her faraway look and muted reaction to the note confirmed it. The only thing she had uttered was a kittenesque whimper – and that crazed laugh – it was scaaaary.

            “Please let this be a temporary condition,” Gareth mutters, giving a nauseous shudder as he whisks about, making everything look just so, Gareth style. “Please let her pull through this unscathed, if possible, because I don’t know what I’d do without my little peanut.” Then, as he hits a few pillows before plumping them up, in an attempt to take the edge off his outrage, he spews with jaw tightly clenched, “I could kill that git. Absolutely murder the bloody wanker for doing this. I can just see it now, the headlines will read: ‘Fag slays BFF’s jilting fiancé in blind rage.’” Then he laughs ironically, “Oh, who am I kidding, I couldn’t harm a gnat.”

            Meanwhile, back in Plenty’s bedroom …

            Plenty is numb, unable to move her body as she stands in the middle of her bedroom feeling devastated, absolutely crushed, mortified and destroyed. Her spirit feels completely squashed … ravaged, obliterated and gutted as heartache, anguish, melancholy and despair  utterly consume her.

            The only thing she doesn’t feel is surprised and astonished that this has happened.

            Murphy’s law – Sod’s law – whatever law you want to call it, it’s well and truly Plenty’s law. For what can go wrong will go wrong and always does go wrong in her life. So it’s no surprise that these events should unfold as they have, in the worst possible case scenario. But it’s no less painful to bear, no matter how inevitable and ordained the atrocious event is.

            “Why me?” she protests, finally ungluing herself from the spot she’s been frozen to, throwing herself onto the bed and burying her face in her pillows. “I’m a good person, aren’t I? I’m not mean or malicious or repugnant, am I? Why do bad things happen to descent people? Why!?! Why am I so cursed? So … so jinxed? I am so tired of always coming up smelling like a big brown pile of poo. I want to come up smelling of pretty roses for a change.”              

            She rolls over and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, making a sound like the raw winds howling on the Moors. Then slowly getting up, she grabs a box of tissues from her Vanity to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. But the flood gates have opened. She can’t stop the tears.

            She throws herself back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling, exasperated and frustrated beyond reason and comprehension. “I must have been very wicked in another life,” she continues to rail, “and now I’m being punished. My love life … oh, chuffing hell, my life period, is doomed. I don’t understand this curse I’m under, it’s just cruel. I mean, it isn’t like I ask for lofty things out of life. I’m not greedy. I don’t walk around all haughty, full of myself high and mighty. I’m a simple girl. I’m certainly not a pompous twit asking … no … demanding everything. Hardly that. Blimey,” she snorts, “I wouldn’t begin to know how to be like that because I certainly don’t think that I’m worthy.” Then a slight flicker goes off in her head. “Maybe that’s why I accepted John’s proposal. Deep down inside I was punishing myself for being such a tosspot. Subliminally I knew this would happen. It’s my comeuppance for thinking that I actually can have what I want most, to be happy and content, to have all the areas of my life go right. But, no, silly Plenty, don’t you know by now that you can’t escape the inevitable, that the moment you think you’ve finally got it all, it all falls spectacularly to pieces?”

            Plenty covers her eyes with her hands as a fresh wave of sorrow engulfs her, towing her under in a current of self-pity as another crying jag swoops down upon her, pecking at her until frustration foams up again. “But why? Why does it always have to go so pear shaped, so sour and rancid? What have I done wrong? Am I really being greedy, asking for a smidgen of happiness and the man of my dreams? Someone who I can share my … my … everything with, someone who will love me for who I am – accept me, understand me … and not use me? Is that really too much to ask for? I mean, I’m not demanding diamonds or furs or yachts or chauffeur driven limousines or a house in the Hamptons or even a manor house in the Cotswolds, just Mr. Right! Not Mr. Righteous, or Mr. Filthy Rich, just my soulmate, really. I just want the simple pleasures in life … contentment, laughter, sharing, trust, passion … love, pure and simple! Hello up there,” she pleads to the ceiling, “may I please have a comfortable and happy life with my Mr. Right? Fuck, I’ll even take a Mr. Apt if you think I’m so bloody greedy! Please, please, please? I just want to be happy for more than a nanosecond … is that really not allowed?”

            But the problem is there are too many Mr. Wrongs out there, ready and all too willing to pounce on the sweet, vulnerable Plenty’s. For it’s true, some girls only attract old men, dogs and cads. And that, in a nutshell, was and is the definition of Plenty’s love life.

            Plenty sits up abruptly, her emotions roaring to a boiling point, going from self-commiseration to full-on outrage in a matter of seconds (all this plunging and climaxing without the pleasure of sex is exhausting—and so not satisfying) as she pounds her fists on the bed, now railing to the ceiling, “Look, I know I’m not a willowy, rail thin, blond haired, blue-eyed, dream-model girl, but for fuck’s sake, aren’t there any sweet, warm, fairly handsome men out there, with honesty and integrity, who would love a quirky, humble, lovingly witty erudite, quasi pretty girl? Huh? … No, I guess not. I guess the gods have decided that happiness does not suit me. I really, really want a do over.” The only problem is, Plenty exceeded her do over request quota ages ago. No sense in asking for one … again.

            She slowly lowers her head and stares into dead air, feeling equally dead inside—and drained—as thoughts of John and their relationship come flooding back, hitting her like a torrential tidal wave, drowning her senses. She thinks about his actions. Have there been telltale signs? Has she been that blinded by his smarmy charms and hollow words?

            Suddenly his duplicitous smooth talk rings in her ears, deafening her dignity: “You’re the best …” and, “Of course I love you, kid …” and, “You’re just the sweetest, Honey …”

            Plenty shudders. They had been insincere, hollow words followed by empty gestures. But, unfortunately, when you’re a Plenty, susceptible to honeyed silk, a dollop of flattery will get you everything and everywhere.

            Her yearning for true love and her misplaced hunger for affection blinded her, and like a starving dog salivating over a sliver of food, she was easily led and duped by John-the-Suave—John-the-Cunning.

            “Lend me a ten spot, my love,” he’d say, his voice dripping with honey … or: “Pick up my dry cleaning, doll.” … “Sweetness, get the check, will you, I’m tapped out at the mo. I’ll pay you back later.” (Wink. Kiss.) … “You can handle the weekend on your own, right? I have a last minute meeting out of town. You’re a living doll.” … “I’m going to be late tonight, don’t wait up …”

            His malodorous bullshit now echoes in her ears. His dirty lies and bogus hogwash now cuts her to the quick, slicing through her innocent and gullible heart.

            “Was I born yesterday?” Plenty admonishes herself, thumping her temples with her fists. “Am I that naive and simple? That blinded by a bad man in a posh suit? Talk about wet behind the ears, I’m absolutely drowning in it, aren’t I? How could I have been so stupid – so imbecilic and dimwitted? Why did I trust that underhanded, slippery crawling snake, ambiguous sleaze-bag, S.O.B. rat-bastard, pond scum amoeba?” She spits each word out as if drawing venom from a wound, then she takes a long cleansing breath and lets it out slowly. “That felt good.”

            Suddenly a giddy feeling comes over her and she begins to giggle uncontrollably. She’s reeling from all the emotions hitting her at once. “Bloody hell,” she snorts and cries at the same time, “if it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all, would I? But come on, it has to change. I mean, this was the big payoff, with interest, right? Hello up there,” she yells, once again looking up at the ceiling, “I’ve really, really had enough. Ha-bloody-ha. Please, joke’s over. I am now officially not amused.”

            With another heavy sigh, Plenty leans back and retrieves the box of tissues, which by now is wedged between the mattress and the headboard, wiping her eyes and blowing her raw red nose.

            Then, without looking, she reaches her hand out and grabs her pillow, burying her face in it, breathing in the crisp, clean, soothing scent of cool cotton. And as she hugs this comforting rectangle of downy feathers and striped ticking, Plenty suddenly stops feeling sorry for herself—for a moment, anyway—and quietly smiles as Gareth pops into her head.

            “I’m not so unlucky though, am I?” she mutters as she sits up and leans her chin on the edge of the pillow. “He’s my lucky charm – my very own personal talisman. I might have gone through a lot of crap in my life, and really walked a wonky path, but in the end all of that is trivial drivel, adding up to a hill of meaningless beans, because I have my Gareth – my Sparky. I have his unconditional love and friendship. There are no prerequisites or demands or provisos with him, and isn’t that what life is all about? Friendship, unconditional love, someone you can count on, who will be there no matter what – they’re the most important things in life, and with him I have it all. I really did have one huge, lucky spurt when he ran me over in that Tube Station a million years ago. I must have been flying under the poo radar that day. I could really be alone right now, completely and utterly on my own, without him in my life. Talk about meaningless. So what am I bitching about? I really am grateful for him.”

            Thinking and reflecting and, unfortunately, over analyzing, Plenty continues to hug her pillow while rocking back and forth. And as she does so, John crawls back into her thoughts, like the slimy parasite that he is.

            Suddenly a vision of nightmarish proportions flashes in front of her eyes—a vision of John and his old slut-bitch-girlfriend writhing in coitus arousal – the flames of hot passion consuming them as they shag for hours whilst Plenty ignorantly goes about like Cinderella, planning her wedding, unsuspicious, green as newly planted grass, believing everything told to her by John-the-Contemptible.

            “Was I being used until someone or something better came along – or reappeared?” Plenty spits as her guts wrench and lurch. Her state of mind reforming its tempestuous clouds, becoming reactive and out of control – again. Her raw emotions are about to climb a new crest and plummet, right when she’s beginning to think that she’s calmed down enough to go out and face Gareth. “Was this just some kind of game? Get the fat girl to fall head-over it for you and then dump her in the worst possible way? Is my life that amusing? Are my emotions a sport for some recreational fun? Am I an entertaining pastime – a diversion to be had, then tossed aside when the distraction becomes boring? Is that all I am, just a chew-toy to entertain oneself with? A trifle until the gold comes along?”

            Her tears are flowing freely, she feels empty and worthless. A bucket of warm spit has more value than do her feelings right now.

            “But why go this far and drop me in it at this juncture? I don’t understand,” she continues to mumble as she blows her nose and tries to wipe away the stream of tears flooding down her cheeks. She’s beyond trying to understand what John has done. “I guess he really did find a better meal ticket. His golden-goddess came back to him. Why stay with a brown lump of sod when you can be with exquisiteness … fuuuuuuuuk … I was going to get married tomorrow … and now … I’m not. I was just a rebound toy to him.”

            And as if in a trance, Plenty gets up, walks to her closet and opens the door.

            There it is … her wedding dress, taunter of what might have been.

            Her hand, like a detached life form, reaches up, grasps the satin hanger and lifts the dress from its hiding place. She hugs it to her. The delicate silk caresses her skin. It feels creamy to her touch, lush, rich – buttery. It’s so light, it feels airy and buoyant … diaphanous.

            Like a robot on auto pilot, Plenty carefully lays the gown on her bed, undresses and slips into the allegorical garment. She then places her feet in the milky white, strappy Manolo’s (gift from Gareth) that are sitting next to the Vanity, patiently waiting for their walk up the little chapel aisle. She totters across the room and takes a hat box down from atop the bureau, gingerly lifting its lid and taking out a pillbox hat with veil, gently placing it on her head. She then pulls out a pair of long velvet gloves from the bottom of the hat box and slowly slips her shaking hands into them.

            Fully dressed, from head to toe, in a whisper of white, Plenty takes a deep, shuddering breath as she turns and walks over to the cheval mirror, staring until her vision blurs from the tears streaming down her face…

           Monday morning is the worst time to be standing in the middle of Angel Tube Station, blocking a turnstile, trying to figure out how to get to the Russell Square  Tube Station, but that’s exactly what Plenty is doing.

           Oblivious to all the harried commuters giving her dirty looks and muttering expletives as they are forced to navigate around this solid mass blocking their entryway, Plenty can see nothing but the tube map that she’s clutching in her quivering hands. She’s certain that, eventually, anyway, she’ll get used to the London Underground, but right now this neophyte in the complex urban forest is completely confused as she tries to decipher which direction she needs to go in, which line to take and which line she needs to switch to in order to arrive at her desired destination.

            Just as she’s about to turn around and place her tube pass into the allotted turnstile slot, after finally figuring out which line to get on, Plenty finds herself sprawled out on the ground, having been knocked over by a gale force wind.

            Rushing frenetically is Gareth’s usual state of being and today is no exception as he dashes to catch the Northern line on his way to SoHo from his flat in Islington. But today is different, because today there’s a statue blocking the first turnstile in Angel Tube Station, and being a willowy six foot two, Gareth does not see the voluptuous five foot two Plenty before he crashes into her, landing on top of her crumpled mass.

            “Ohmigoddess! Where did you come from?” Gareth flutters as he picks the little Munchkin up and brushes her off, both apologizing profusely at the same time, “I am so sorry,” they sing in unison.

            “Are you all right?” Gareth asks as he examines his victim. “No bruises? Nothing dislocated? No torn couture?”

            “No, I don’t think so,” Plenty answers, shaking her rattled head, still feeling a bit discombobulated. “I mean, no, no damage done. I’m fine. Just feeling completely moronic and asinine, per usual—like the doughnut I am. I should not have been standing in the middle of it all. It’s just … I’m so confused, trying to figure out the Underground. I feel so stupid … I am so stupid. Again, I am so sorry.”

            “No, no. I’m the one who’s sorry. I rush about too much. Don’t know why. Too full of unspent energy I guess. Or misspent energy, more like. No, Peanut-butter-cup, it’s me. I’m the one who should be watching where I’m going,” Gareth smiles down at this lost pixie, feeling a sudden need to protect the disheveled waif. “Listen, at the very least I owe you a cappuccino for running you over. There’s a fab caf around the corner – unless you have something pressing?”

            “No, nothing urgent. A coffee sounds great, maybe you can help me figure out the trains?” Plenty says timidly, then adds, “But, don’t you have something urgent to get to?”

            Gareth smiles, “Little Peanut, everything in my life is urgent. Drama, drama, drama!” he says as he links arms with her and guides her up the stairs and out into the light of day. “I’m amazed I haven’t run more people over. I’m in a world of my own,” he chatters on as they round a corner and enter a neighborhood café. “Grab us a table and I’ll get the cappuccinos,” he instructs.

            Plenty secures a corner table, and while waiting, sits and watches this iconoclastic enigma, getting lost in his animated persona as he gossips with the counter person. He seems to know everyone in the place, laughing and waving and blowing air-kisses as he makes his way to the table.

            She smiles shyly as he hands her a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant. “Thank you,” she stammers as she takes the treats, “this is lovely.”

            “So, let me introduce myself. Hello, I’m Gareth, the pouf who ploughs into innocent waifs,” Gareth says, extending a perfectly manicured hand which Plenty delicately shakes.

            “I’m Plenty, your latest victim.”

            Gareth laughs as he reaches for a Silk Cut. “Good one,” he says. “You’re funny. I like that in my fatalities. Do you mind if I smoke?” he asks as he holds up his cigarette and lighter.

            “It’s your life and blackened lungs,” Plenty says, shrugging her shoulders.

            “Well, black is slimming,” he informs as he inhales and ever so elegantly blows out a long stream of yellow smoke, then looking at the cig he wrinkles his nose, “Oh, I’ll give it up one of these days, but for now, this and caffeine keep me svelte,” which makes Plenty laugh—and as she self-consciously nibbles on her croissant she secretly wishes that she could be as outgoing and confident as Gareth – if even for just one day.

            “So, I love your name,” Gareth continues to gas on effervescently. “I’ve never heard such an original epithet. It’s so superlatively different, and, little Peanut, I’m a card carrying member of club queer, so I know of different. In fact,” he whispers, leaning forward and looking around in manner of divulging a hush-hush tidbit of information, “I wrote the book on queer: How To Be A Happy Gay Person … People!” He then sits back up, gracefully draping one long leg over the other, and continues with a theatrical sweep of his hand, “I love and do eccentric – incongruity is my theme. If offbeat is très chic this year … I set the trend!”

            Normally Plenty would feel uncomfortable around someone as gregarious and colorful as Gareth, but finding herself becoming completely engrossed in this bubbly extrovert, she’s quickly getting over that. There is also something warm and insulating about Gareth that is drawing her in as well, putting her on a comfort level that she’s never experienced. It’s as if he’s cast a spell over her, like a mesmerizing net. She can’t help getting caught up in his mystique. He is absolutely fascinating; fascinating to watch, fascinating to listen to, fascinating to be near.

            How odd, Plenty reflects as an indescribable calm washes over her, that I feel completely at ease with this stranger. He actually makes me feel safe and secure, and I don’t do that whole instant bonding, soul-matey, schmaltzy, corny friendship twaddle.  

            Has her shy, neurotic, unconventional, eremite type self just found the other half it didn’t know it was looking for?

            “So tell me, because I’m dying to know, how did your parental units come up with that name?” Gareth queries, curious to hear the origin of this offspring labeling. But more than that, he wants to get to know this unusual creature sitting across from him with her wide-eyed vulnerability showing like a panty line under a clingy dress. She’s funny in a peculiar, offbeat way and he likes that about her. A sense that they’re about to become inseparable is wriggling through his intuitive psyche as he muses to himself:  Have I just literally collided into a lifelong friend – a single soul dwelling in two bodies? Memo to self: must go for Tarot reading after.

            In answer to Gareth’s question, Plenty rolls her eyes in an “Oh brother, wait ’til you hear this bizarre story” manner. “Well, my mother was into Greek mythology—you know, gods, sub-gods, deities—and all the fables that go along with them, obsessed, really. Narcissus, Pandora, Cupid, Psyche; she had the entire entourage. I think she was bored out of her mind when she was pregnant with me. She had to stay in bed for the majority of her third trimester because I was a high risk pregnancy – you know, doctors orders to be on complete bed rest,” Plenty explains, leaning forward in a pragmatic manner and taking a sip of her cappuccino. “Anyway, that’s when she started reading all these stories, starting with The Iliad. She got so absorbed in it that she began to research, finding all kinds of obscure gods and myths. And that’s where I came into the picture. She fell in love with the story of a garden nymph called Plenty, who had a passion for tending the fruit orchards where she dwelled—she was a nurturer—and that’s where a mortal called Vertumnus fell deeply in love, after watching her from afar, and even though the gods were against it, and tried desperately to keep them apart, true love won out and Vertumnus and Plenty lived together in their beloved orchards forever and a day,” she drones on with a mechanical repetition of something she’s heard a thousand times, finishing in a mock sugary, singsongy high voice, certain that she’s putting Gareth off with this nauseating narrative … but …

            Gareth claps his hands over his heart as he gasps, “Sweet, adorable, precious,” so Plenty continues her tutorial on the conundrum that is her mother.

            “Anyway, she talked my father into agreeing with the name—honestly, I think he was so exhausted from having to wait on her whims hand-and-foot that he would have agreed to call me Bozo if it had been suggested—and  that’s how they arrived at moi. I think I’ve heard that story about a million times,” Plenty says, letting out a slightly embarrassed sigh. “Every time someone made the slightest comment about my name, Mom would trot out the tale while Dad and I sat and rolled our eyes at each other. The only thing I like about the story is how Plenty and Vertumnus fell in love and defied the gods to stay together. I love that they ‘bucked the system’ so to speak,” she adds in manner of feisty rebel, making air quotes with her fingers. Then suddenly, out of the blue, her demeanor softens as she looks dreamily off into a middle distance and mutters, “One day I’ll find my Vertumnus.”

            “Oh, Peanut, what a beautiful story,” Gareth says breathlessly, completely caught up in the dreamy fable. “Me, too. I want to find my Vertumnus,” and a soft silence descends upon them as they become lost in their own romantic fantasies.

            “Well, your mother sounds right loopy,” Gareth says, breaking into their reflective longings. “Sorry, I always call it as I see it. But I do love your name. I think it’s fab, and very romantic, its origins and all.”

            “I don’t know,” Plenty says in a woeful voice. “I guess.”

            “What do you mean, you guess?”

            “Quite frankly, I think it borders on child abuse, calling your own little sprog-unit some esoteric, hippy-ish name whilst in the throes of a hormonal typhoon.” An involuntary giggle slips from Gareth’s mouth upon hearing this sentiment, which, in turn, makes Plenty snort a little giggle herself, causing her to turn  ruby red and spontaneously reach for her still very hot cappuccino to cool her flushing cheeks, only to burn the roof of her mouth instead. “Oh, bugger. I just burned my mouth.”

            “Ouch, I hate when that happens,” Gareth sympathizes and gets up to fetch a glass of water.

            Plenty guzzles the water, then compulsively runs her tongue over the emerging blister, which will be sore for days before an annoying flap of skin lets loose and  dangles, making it impossible to leave alone as her tongue, like a cheeky child, keeps sneaking up to play with it. “Anyway, try growing up with a name like Plenty. It’s odd. Mary, Jane, Betty, they’re all normal names – but, Plenty! Kids don’t get that. They might as well have tattooed a kick me sign on my back side and thrown me into the playground for all the bullies to devour … because they did! And I was not confident enough to fight back or laugh it off. I’ve never been quick on my feet. I’m a walking, breathing delayed reaction.” Plenty, forgetting that her mouth is injured, takes a rancorous bite of her croissant, “ouch,” then averts her eyes down and blushes, suddenly worrying that she’s saying too much, revealing too much of herself to this person. They’ve only just met and already she’s making a right boobwit of herself as well as pouring her guts out to a perfect stranger … opening her vulnerable self up … but …

            Seeing that Plenty has the sensitivity of someone who is permanently self-conscious and sensing that her past is a profoundly agonizing subject, and understanding this level of woe, Gareth leans forward and places his hand on Plenty’s. It’s a warm and soothing touch … a knowing touch. “I understand. Go on.”

            And with that, Plenty relaxes, instantly knowing that this is a person who honestly does understand; understands that she has a sensitive, poetic soul; understands that she’s an arty type who needs tender nurturing, not oppressive browbeating. Don’t ask her why or how she knows, it’s deeper than she can explain, but she knows.

            She leans forward and folds her forearms on the table, giving Gareth a thank you smile. “Well, you were spot on when you said that my mother sounds loopy. She is. She tries to be one of those Zen-Buddha, Mother-earthy, hippie-esque types – you know, granola crunching, naturalist – but she doesn’t quite pull it off because she comes from a ‘social register’, ‘old family, old money’ background, and even though she rebelled against that lifestyle, her ultraconservative breeding is deeply rooted in her DNA. She’s a complete contradiction in terms, which makes living in her shadow impossible. I never know who she’s going to be from day to day. She lives in her own little world, with her odd ideas,” Plenty says without attempting to hide her frustration. “And I can’t be open and honest with her. It just sends her into a tizzy, so we never really talk. We’ve never really connected. She doesn’t understand me, nor does she try to. And my dad’s no better. He’s lost in his corporate world, rarely comes up for air, so we don’t see much of him. And I think I piss-off their basic parochial sensibilities, which is just dumb because I really am safely pedestrian. But I have my odd moments of quirkiness, and that’s what makes them cringe with fear – that I’ll shame them and their ‘good name’. To them I’m like a jack-in-the-box, popping out of their provincial box and refusing to get back in, refusing to fit their prototype. So they say, ‘Stuff this for a game of parenting. She won’t go back in the box and we can’t get her to stop drawing outside the lines. Therefore, ipso facto, she doesn’t exist. So weeeee, off we run to the cupboard to hide.’”

            Plenty takes a deep breath and leans back. Having such an empathetic ear to sound off to is akin to having a free therapy session. She’s never been able to unload like this. “Anyway, as a result I’ve pretty much grown up an introverted loner, plus I’ve always been a bit … well … on the fleshy side. So along with my odd name … well, you get the picture. As time went by I became more and more awkward and self-conscious, and, result, my self-esteem has suffered just a wee bit. When you hear only negative things about yourself long enough, you begin to believe that it must be true. Superficial judgment can be pretty harsh when you’re an insecure little kid. Quite frankly, I’m amazed I’ve been able to sit and talk with you like this. This is highly unusual for me. But for some reason I feel as if I can just be myself with you and that’s okay.”

            By now Gareth is horrified and appalled, feeling both sad and sick at the same time. He’s sad for this sweet cupcake and sickened by her shatteringly ghastly breeding units. At once he wants to become her gay-guardian angel and slap her genome units silly … how could they?!

            But he manages to curb his arse-twitching irritation at the apathetic and the narrow-minded who, unfortunately, thrive amongst us as he leans forward and softly says, “You know what, I feel the same way,” which surprises Plenty, taking her aback.

            “But, you’re so outgoing. I watched you before and you seemed so comfortable with everyone – comfortable in your own skin. And you know so many people.”

            Gareth shakes his head and shrugs a hand through the air. “That, Bubbala, is all surface schmooze. I’m gay, it’s expected of me, and I play my part well – with award winning perfection. Believe me, there are very few people who are let into Gareth’s domain. There’s a lot that I guard. I’m very selective with whom I open up to … who I feel comfortable opening up to. And being gay is not exactly applauded, so I know of ridicule, and more. I grew a thick skin early on and decided to let it all roll off my back. I made a choice not to apologize for who I am, but to be fab and not drab … not that you’re drab. You just need to take your inner shine and put it on the outside.” He then leans in and looks Plenty straight in her big, round amber eyes. “I feel something out-and-out sincere about you, can’t explain it, but there it is. And anyone who doesn’t think that you are an absolute and utterly unique individual, a one-off, is a ruddy git not worthy of being near your fab self! The Tao of Gareth says, ‘Always look beneath the surface, there’s always more than meets the eye’. If every bloody person lived by those words, we’d all be better off.”

            Blown away by this, Plenty is rendered speechless as Gareth straightens back up, lights another Silk Cut matter-of-factly and gets up to order more cappuccinos. No one has ever thought of her as being fab – no one. She is so glad that Gareth looked beneath her surface. This day is turning out to be a top ten best.

            As Plenty watches Gareth literally breathe life into the atmosphere of the café, she smiles warmly. Then it suddenly hits her, she doesn’t feel antsy. She’s been sitting here with someone one-on-one for how long? And she doesn’t have the urge to get up and run, like she normally does. Neither is she sitting here thinking up excuses as to why she has to go, putting the words together in her head and practicing until it sounds natural: “Oh look at the time, I’m going to be late for an appointment. So nice to have seen you. Take care, now, and I’ll see you soon.” Then making a mad dash for it, happy to be out of the clumsy conversation, drained from fighting to come up with interesting things to say, and berating herself because she can’t even negotiate her way around small talk – hates it, all that blah, blah, blah speak about nothing with people who could care less and whom she will never see again in her life.

            But Plenty doesn’t want this afternoon to end. She doesn’t want to run out the door or part ways with Gareth, never to see him again. She wants this day to go on forever. A million things are running round her head that she wants to talk about, so much so that she can’t keep it all straight. It’s as if a burst of energy has taken over and woken-up a dormant sector in her personality. She almost feels high … how weird.

            And she’s positive that a bond is forming between them, a strong and unbreakable bond. It’s as if they’ve known each other all their lives, in some cosmic, spiritual way. Kindred souls. What’s happening to her cynical self? She who always scoffs at this kind of sentimental, saccharine gibberish crap?

            The realization that there really is someone out there as nutty and eccentric as she is, and that she’s sitting with that person, at a table in a little café, three thousand miles from what has been her reality flabbergasts her. She can actually feel her reality shifting. For the first time in her life Plenty feels accepted for who she is – quirky! Yes, she’s more your well-meaning goofball, and not the pedigreed thoroughbred, but now that’s okay because someone gets her! Gareth completely gets her and she completely gets him … twin souls? Is Gareth her new urban family? A change is happening and it fills her with stunned elation.

            And as she watches her new friend balance two cappuccinos, a scone and a lit cigarette in his hands while gracefully weaving his way back to their table, Plenty smiles blithely.

            “You look like the cat that swallowed the forbidden cream,” Gareth observes as he sits back down.

            “Oh, I’m just having a really nice time, and, honestly, I do not want this afternoon to end.”

            “You know, neither do I, and I should be running around getting a million things done – but, bugger-it, old darling, I have a new best friend and I want to know everything about … you.”

            Loving Gareth’s uncanny directness, Plenty beams as she looks down and plays with the froth of foam on her cappuccino. “Me to – you, that is,” she says, then asks, “So, have you lived in London all your life?”

            “Yes, I have. I’m a born and bred Londoner. But that’s beside the point. What I want to know is what are you doing here? Not just doing the touristy thing, I hope, because I certainly detect a heavy American accent.”

            “That’s funny, because I think it’s you who has the accent.”

            “It’s all subjective, isn’t it?” Gareth comments. “Now, come, come – tell all. Spill some beans, I must know.”

            “Well, no, I’m not just doing the touristy thing. I’m attending London University – well, will be – tomorrow. That’s why I was standing like an idiot in the middle of it all at the Tube Station. I was attempting a dry run – to the university – so I’m not late, or lost, tomorrow morning,” Plenty explains.

            At this Gareth lights up and chimes in excitedly, “Get out of town, Hillary Brown! I’m going to London Uni! My last term starts tomorrow. I’m doing Art History, and you?”

            “English Lit. I’m on a six month exchange from Emerson College, in Boston,” Plenty blusters, equally excited. Maybe she doesn’t have to part ways with Gareth when they step outside of this café and back on to the streets of reality. “I figured what better place to finish my degree but here, when I was offered this program.”

            “What better place,” Gareth says, now even happier that he collided into Plenty – it truly is kismet. Yup, a tarot reading and an update of my astrological chart are a must do today!                

            “I can’t believe this. Either it is an extremely small world or it was fate that you collided into me!” Plenty gushes, beside herself with euphoria, fully caught up in all this destiny, fate, serendipity malarkey.

            “It’s kismet!” Gareth cries. “We have to compare schedules.” Then a brilliant idea begins to form in his gorgeously clever mind. “Where are you staying?”

            While Gareth’s mind continues to churn with ideas—would she?—Plenty answers, “A bedsit, not far from here. Housing gave me an allowance, but it’s all I can afford,” all the while hoping he’ll say that he lives next door to her or in the same building – even though they haven’t exchanged addresses … she’s a goofy dreamer. “It’s okay. It’ll due for six months. What about you? Where do you live?”

            “In a two bedroom flat just down the road,” he says, hoping to plant an idea in her head. “How much are you paying for the bedsit?”

            “Forty-five pounds a week.”

            “Too much,” he states emphatically. “Do you even have a bathroom, or a kitchen?”

            “No. I share a bath. But I do have an ice box and a hot plate.”

            “That’s tragic, and no way for a mythical orchard nymph to live, and it’s not enough for too much,” Gareth exclaims, getting ready to toss out a proposal after laying the ground work. “Listen, I have a bit of an insane but fabulicious idea. My lodger ran out on me a fortnight ago, leaving me high and dry. I could use a flatmate and you could use a better place to live, and I’ll see to it that you get to your classes safe and sound. How does one twenty a month sound? Be my flatmate?” he asks, monitoring her facial gestures to gauge her reaction, but unable to read her dumbstruck look.

            Plenty can’t believe it. This is too good to be true. Is providence actually shimmering down on her? She dare not blink or question it for fear that what is happening to her will soon blur back into reality – her bite-me reality.

            But suddenly reality does rear its acerbic core as she hears her parents’ voices nagging at her, saying, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. What if – well – no, you can’t because we said so and that’s that. Don’t even think about it.”

            Ugh! Childhood truly can dictate the rest of your life if you’re not equipped with coping skills or self-reliance gear. It bites to always be standing in the queue that’s a day late and a dollar short. So this is the day, this is the moment, the turning point where Plenty will no longer wallow in a life that someone else fated to her. For the first time in her life she is going on her instincts – what feels right for her. It’s time for Plenty to live her life and not someone else’s. Isn’t that the reason why she jumped at the chance to come to London in the first place, against all the protestations that said no, you can’t? It’s time to tussle with the Titans and show them who is boss of her life.

            Nope, Plenty doesn’t have to think about this offer twice, she knows that it’s right, her gut is telling her. Gareth isn’t some psycho to be afraid of, and she does feel close to him and had instantly, from the moment he picked her up off the ground in the Tube Station. She’s learning, finally getting it, that nine times out of ten gut instinct is the best decision maker, rather than listening to people who live in shells with blinders on or who judge before knowing and sweep life under the carpet. So why hesitate? She blurts out, “Yes!”

            Gareth claps his hands and reaches over for a hug, asking, “When?”

            “Today?”

            “Fab!” he cries, but suddenly looks deflated. “Can you get out of the bedsit without a hassle?”

            “I think so. I’m paid-up through the week and I didn’t sign a lease, sooo – I don’t see why not!”

            “Ohmigoddess, this is delicious. We are going to be joined at the hip. We’re going to do everything together. Do you like museums? Oh, and the clubs! Sweetness, you haven’t danced until you’ve whirled with moi,” and Gareth prattles on while Plenty beams: This is going to be the best six months of my life … maybe even longer!?

            “I am so glad I ran you over. It is fate. It’s brill. I am tickled hotpink!” Gareth bubbles on, then glancing at his watch says, “Oh my, how the afternoon has flown by. We’ve been like the ladies who lunch! Come on, let’s get out of here and get you out of that poncey bedsit and into my glitter palace. You, my little adorable one, my new chapess, are about to go from drab to fab,” he says as he stands up and grabs his rucksack, coat and new best friend.

            Suddenly he stops and says soberly, “Something very special happened today, didn’t it?”

            It most certainly did, Plenty muses to herself as she nods her head vigorously.

            And so the blond, statuesque, perfectly coifed and manicured Gareth Bellingham, an eccentric, interestingly flamboyant (but never over the top swishy), slightly neurotic (but never destructively so) pouf became Plenty Radcliff’s closest and dearest friend and confidant, clucking over and mothering her from day one, and has been overseeing and tending to her life and all its dramas ever since.

Plenty is about life, love and the situations we wedge ourselves into.

Plenty Radcliff, who is slightly out of kilter with the world—layers of longing, pitted with ominously neurotic obstacles are the substructures of her existence—chose her choices, but like a scorpion’s tail they turned around and bit her where the sun never shines but the moon does.

As a writer living in Boston, Plenty’s had writer’s block for ten years, lost countless jobs due to “economic pressures”, has never been able to exorcise her demon frump—despite all the efforts of her BFF and style guru, Londoner, Gareth Bellingham—and her fiancé just jilted her on the eve of their wedding on a pink post-it.

So why not runaway to Royal London-town and see if the choices there are of the kinder, gentler, more civilized variety? (Will one neat act of closure put Plenty’s misguided, dubious life behind her?)

With Gareth as her buttress of support, Plenty finds herself teetering on the edge of absurdity, slogging her guts out in a job that she is wholly not qualified for as PA to Derva Durwood, head of publicity at Eton Press, and a formidable dragon lady, while waiting for her dream career to drop in her lap, and falling head-over in love with her new landlord, one dreamy and ridiculously gorgeous Alistair Tennent—if only he’d stop referring to her as his little chapess.

But not far away, residing in a Royal Borough and hiding her treacherous id under the guise of a Perfect Pouty Poodle,  is the Grande Dame of all Pit-bulls who is about to prance into the picture and burst Plenty’s bubble of delusional hope.

How did things go so horribly wrong for one shy, slightly neurotic thirty-five year old, nearly-married, squishy singleton who turns to pasta, pizza and popcorn when in need of a carb-to-cry on? 

Life is a challenge and a struggle in the face of ridiculous odds, will Plenty muster the strength to take whatever life flings at her, cow-pats and all, and triumph?

Enjoy!

Bonny (aka Brit London)

Plenty, by Brit London

Chapter One

What is an adult? A child blown up by age. (Simone de  Beauvoir)                                                                          

            “Mrs. John Milbourne,” Gareth says, trying Plenty’s soon to be new name on for size, to insure that it’s a proper fit, like a delicate hand in a reliable leather glove. “Plenty Milbourne – P.M. – hmmm …” He pauses for a moment to ponder, tapping his right index finger on his pursed lips. “… Pre-Menstrual – Post- Menopausal,” he mutters, then shaking his head and waving a disapproving hand he gives his final judgment, “Those are dreadful initials. The only thing worse would be P.M.S..”

            As Plenty listens to Gareth critique the new moniker that will be hers starting tomorrow she raises her face to the sun, letting its warmth bake her skin. In all reality she knows that her alabaster skin will not turn golden-brown in just a few hours time, but silly as it seems, she had skipped the ceremonial war-paint regime this morning and left her face bare, just in case.

            Spring has arrived early in Boston, a welcome break from yet another harsh northeastern winter of sloppy slush, paralyzing piles of petrified snowflakes and cruel slaps of arctic air, biting and nipping at raw nerves—brother Canada taunting and tormenting like the bully playing unfair at recess.

            But now, the south has risen once again, putting the bully in its place, chasing it off the playground with weapons of warm tropical breezes, pristine blue skies and that flaming orb of flaxen gold, otherwise known as the elusive sun.

            The city is waking up, stretching its arms and rubbing its bleary eyes after lying dormant for so many months. And in happy response baby buds are peeking out for a first glance (a preview performance for their summer show in the park), swan boats are preening in preparation for their leisurely paddles up and down the lagoon in the public gardens, and chic cafés are daring to place tables outside for dining al fresco, a stubborn stance to recapture their territory, as if throwing down the gauntlet and defying the arctic bully.

            Plenty’s lips are curled in a self-satisfied, bite-me you gods of fate kind of smirk as Gareth harks on, and when he finishes his plate of goad, sprinkled with a light dusting of tease, Plenty slowly lowers her face, reaches across the glass top bistro table and playfully cuffs Gareth’s chin, gasping in mocked indignation. “You are beastly. It’s a bloody good thing that I love you unconditionally or I’d box you about the ears and mess up that perfect coif of yours,” she teases back. “And it’s a doubly good thing that I’m in such a good mood or you’d be paying a bigger price for trying to take the piss.”

            Gareth, in the meantime, has one hand in the air, doing an impression of her berating him whilst a loving smile occupies his face, at which Plenty stops and swats at Gareth’s hand, unable to suppress a giggle.

            “Honestly, you are a twit. Heaven only knows why I’ve put up with you all these years. I clearly manifest destructive tendencies. I’m just a little masochist at heart, aren’t I?”

            Knowing just how close that statement is to being the truth, they look at each other with raised brows and erupt into laughter.

            Plenty and Gareth are sharing a bottle of Sonsie’s best house red and a plate of country paté while watching the world go by on Newbury Street, Boston’s most fashionable venue where the rich and chic converge with Euro-trash charm.

            “So, are you as nervous as I am?” Gareth asks as he refills their glasses.

            “You nutter, what have you got to be nervous about?” Plenty blurts out.

            “Peanut, need I remind you, I’m the one who is walking you down the aisle,” he answers, slightly exasperated that she doesn’t see the eminent significance that that lofty position holds. “It’s a huge responsibility. I have to make sure you get to the church on time; I have to make sure you look the perfect image of the blushing bride; and what if, heaven forbid, I should trip while walking down the aisle and drag you down with me? How would that look?”

            This comment makes Plenty stare saucer-eyed because Gareth is like a Poodle, elegant and highly intelligent, with an amazingly springy gait, hardly one to ever trip up anything. “You? Trip? As if. I’m the one who’s most likely to mess up and drag you down, oaf that I am. But you, on the other hand, who should be a runway model, will pull tomorrow off with perfection,” she says as a silly smirk overtakes her mouth because she knows that Gareth is winding her up, again—it being his favorite pastime. “You truly are a nutter, you know that?”

            “Better a nutter be than a prosaic prig,” Gareth philosophizes, then pooh-poohing Plenty’s self-deprecating demeanor he adds, “And pish-posh, you are gorgeous and you will be the picture of fab tomorrow. Now, the wedding night, Mrs. Milbourne-to-be, are you all aflutter with anticipation? Do I need to sit you down and have a heart-to-heart? Enlighten you on how to tame the one-eyed beast?” Gareth teases, hoping to see Plenty flush fuchsia.

            “I think I’ll get by. I have charmed a snake or two in my time,” Plenty volleys back, and yes, blushes like the clichéd bride-to-be that she is.

            “Ooooh, you salty wench. Should I inform your intended? Fill him in on your naughty past? He should know what he’s getting himself into, Miss Tawdry Knickers!”

            “Oh, let’s not take the mystery away. Let him find out for himself,” Plenty giggles, turning a deeper shade of scarlet as she drains her glass, while Gareth flags down their waitress and orders another bottle of the house trendy, Chateau Newbury Street.

            This is their private celebration before the big day, as well as Gareth’s version of a pre-wedding-day-jitters Valium—a morning raid of the shops and a leisurely lunch to tranquilize Plenty’s highly-strung angst. 

            “But seriously,” Gareth says soberly as he leans forward, pouring Plenty a fresh glass of posh plonk (a serious wine with a nice nutty flavor and fruity overtones), “are you nervous? This is a big step – ’til death do us part and all that wedlocking, long-term cohabitation piffle.” Realizing after the words tumbled from his mouth that this comment will not anesthetize her antsy nerves, and that he’s letting his apprehension rear its unattractive face.

            He really does want Plenty to be happy. She’s been through so much in her life, has had a jolly tough go of it, losing both her parents a year after she graduated from college—though the term “parents” is hardly a fitting one when it comes to her mom and dad. They were detached, unreceptive and myopic parental units who raised Plenty in an atmosphere of insecurities and negative fear (they never praised nor encouraged her, never hugged her or told her that she was loved) with overshadowing conditioning by a neurotic mother who regarded every choice Plenty made as bad and character deforming. Plus a year after that her first job went bust when the business failed (a small publishing house that collapsed under economic pressures), as well as having too many failed relationships—all the wrong men in all the wrong places. Cads who used and abused her innocent, good nature. It’s been a lifetime of hurtles for her and as a result, confidence is a big issue for Plenty.

            Over the years Gareth’s heart bled for his little peanut every time she called him with yet more bad news. But being so far away, in England, he couldn’t rush to her side and soothe her ruffled feathers. When his best friend was in pain, all he could do was coo down the phone and send her a plane ticket once in a while.

            Of course whenever tragedy struck Plenty’s world, Gareth’s greatest wish was that she would chuck her life in the States and move to London. But the more the years passed by the greater the daunting thought that became to Plenty, and the timing was always off, when she found herself at a place in time where she was free to pick up and go, her bank account was depleted, so she had to get a job, which tied her up yet again.

            But Gareth never stopped hoping, remaining temporarily satisfied with seeing her four or five times a year, always spending birthdays and holidays together, as well as living on the phone with her—thanks to them AT&T and BritishTelecom’s stocks have risen dramatically.

            Now he just hopes that Plenty is happy … happy, and doing the right thing. She hasn’t known John for very long—she was swept up by his charming demeanor.

            Gareth hates to see her rush into something as important as this, but Plenty has waited so long for this moment to come. She’d been so hopeful for their possible future together, and then John had popped the big question, much to Plenty’s astonishment … and Gareth’s (to be honest, it had wrinkled his brain). He knows that he’s probably being selfish, knowing that he won’t be spending as much time with her after her “I do’s” tomorrow, but … well, truth be told, the one and only time he met John, Gareth wasn’t bowled over by him—couldn’t stand him, actually. John came off as pompous and full of himself, and very patronizing. And that makes Gareth unsure of what kind of life and future Plenty will have, no matter how hopeful she is, and that makes him a bit uneasy, to say the least. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there is a nagging gurgle in the pit of his stomach.

            However, he’s here to support his little peanut in her happiness, not bring doom and doubt into play. But still, Gareth knows that if John hurts Plenty in anyway it will push her over the edge.

            How he hates that his sixth sense is hitting him over the head like this. That so much doubt and uncertainty is niggling at him because there’s his Plenty, sitting across from him, looking more luminous than he’s ever seen her.

            She’ll be okay, he thinks. Obviously there’s something she sees in John that I haven’t sensed, even though my instincts are always right.

            “Of course I’m nervous. I’m going to be somebody’s wife. Me!” Plenty answers, breaking into Gareth’s thoughts as she leans forward, her eyes growing wide as she dares to say the word “wife”, as if it will break the fairy-tale spell that she is under if she utters it too loudly. “I’m thirty-five, I’ve lived on my own for seventeen years, what do I know from cohabitation and sharing? I’m bloody buggery petrified.” She then leans back, her face softening as she continues, “But I am so in love, and that trumps apprehension. I know this sounds dorky, but lately I find myself overcome with joy. I’m positively chirpy. And you know me, I like sitting in the margins, I’m not a mainstream girl. But here I am, doing the most traditional thing you can do in life. Me, becoming Mrs. Somebody! I’m all emotional. I mean, someone actually wants to marry me and make a life with me, Miss Dysfunctional Dufus!”

            Plenty’s cocoa brown eyes illuminate with contentment. She can’t help it. She really does feel sappy and sentimental. In the past few days Plenty’s emotions have unleashed like a tsunami. She can’t control herself as waves of mushiness swallow her.

            But Plenty’s last comment makes Gareth shudder as he quickly straightens, and looking all stern says, “How many times have I told you not to belittle yourself? You are fab and any man would be lucky to spend five minutes in your aura, let alone a life time. John is the fortunate one – I just hope he knows it.” The last bit Gareth mumbles under his breath.

            “Sorry, Sparky, my upbringing keeps rearing its ugly head,” Plenty says, taking a sip of wine to suppress a rising ire, remembering back on the time that her father told her to go sit in a corner and dry up because she didn’t want her picture taken—being a chubby thirteen year old, she hadn’t wanted it captured for future generations to mock. The pain of that still stings, putting a crick in her confidence.

            “Well, I’ll let it slide this time, being that you’re in the throws of it all. Your nerves are all crackly and you can’t be held responsible for what might spontaneously tumble from your brain and out of your mouth. But this is your final warning.” Of course, Gareth can’t keep up the authoritative act and begins to laugh, as does Plenty—the wine doing its proper job, making them feel mellow and relaxed.

            “Thank you,” Plenty says, a soft smile crossing her lips. “I don’t know how … well, I couldn’t have pulled all of this together without you. You know how hopeless I am with details.”

            “Pathetic. You’re absolutely pathetic. You would have fallen apart at the seams.”

            “But you came to my rescue.”

            “That’s what fairy-god-husbands are for,” Gareth says, reaching across the table and tweaking Plenty’s pixie nose as she wrinkles it at him.

            “Besides, I would have looked like a right tosser walking up the aisle by myself.”

            “I’d never let you do anything alone, you know that, my little Orphan-Peanut,” Gareth says lovingly. “Nothing could have stopped me from being by your side tomorrow.”

            Plenty swallows the lump forming in her throat. She’s feeling over come, all farklempt … again, by … everything.

            And noting the teary blur in Plenty’s eyes Gareth decides that he had better distract them before they both flood Newbury Street with their salty sobbing. “Let’s run through the check list for tomorrow’s festivities,” he says quickly. “The room at the restaurant …”

            “The Library Grill,” Plenty interjects.

            “… The Library Grill, is booked and confirmed for the reception.”

            “Yes.”

            “Samantha is arriving midmorning and we’re doing hair and make-up.”

            “Yup.”

            “The flowers are being delivered at two-ish and the florist is decorating the chapel.”

            Plenty nods a yes as she loads a toastette with paté and pops it in her mouth, suddenly feeling famished, either that or her nerves are gnawing at her stomach like a plight of termites on a feeding frenzy.

            “The limo has been ordered and your room at the Four Seasons has been confirmed for some very posh wedding night rumpy-pumpy,” Gareth winks impishly, making Plenty blush, turning every freckle on her face a rosy-brown.

            “The cake will be delivered to the restaurant tomorrow and your wedding frock is hanging in your closet as we speak. What about Sam’s frock?”

            “She’s bringing it with her tomorrow morning.”

            “So that’s the lot, then,” Gareth declares, reaching for his wine and taking a sip.

            “That’s the lot,” Plenty sighs as her heart turns over with a nervous thump.

            “Relax,” Gareth coos in a soothing tone, knowing his Plenty so well that he can read every nuance of her being, as subliminal or deliberate as they may be, “everything’s under control.”

            “Yeah,” she squeaks, then clearing her throat continues, “I’m just glad the weather’s cooperating. We really took a big gamble having this so early in March. I was certain that I was going to be up to my garter belt in snow, freezing my bollocks off – if I had bollocks to freeze off, that is.”

            “Well, I do, and since I’ve grown so attached to the lovelies I for one am glad I won’t be freezing them off!” Gareth says as he wiggles his derriere in his chair. “So, what’s John up to tonight? Is he doing the bachelor party thingy – being a naughty boy before the proverbial ball and chain is placed around his freedom?”

            “I think so. He said he’s meeting up with a bunch of his friends, so I assume it’s going to be a last-blast-before-the-tying-of-the-knot thingy,” Plenty informs, shrugging her shoulders, trying to hide the disquieting thoughts that are breathing down her neck—like why hasn’t John phoned her or returned her calls all week? “He’s been busy packing, getting ready to move into my place, so I haven’t seen much of him in the past few days. The lease is up on his apartment, so he’s been rushing about like mad – rushed off his feet, as he put it,” she continues while a sense of unease begins to creep into Gareth’s pores as he sits quietly biting his tongue while listening to Plenty’s subliminal excuses for why John hasn’t shown his face in nearly a week.           

            Gareth hasn’t seen John once since he landed, hasn’t heard so much as a peep from him, which is causing a disquieting worry to hover below the surface of all this preparation and jubilee. And the pastel pink elephant in the room is Plenty’s mobile phone, sitting on the table, remaining loudly quiet … an omen?

            “Well, if he can have a party, then so can you,” Gareth declares, desperate to suppress the unsettling feelings that are gnawing at the back of his mind. “I’m going to call Sam and we are going to take you out tonight. I refuse to let you spend your last night as a free entity sober. You are going to have a proper hen night.”

            Her last night as a free woman … a twinge of fear mixed with a dollop of excitement gurgles around Plenty’s stomach as she looks over at Gareth, her safety-net, and smiles, thinking back on the first day they met fifteen years ago.