Этимология китайских иероглифов. Сто самых важных китайских иероглифов, которые должен знать каждый. Хуэй Сюй
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СКАЧАТЬ she gasped. “Confirmed slob seeks flattering attire?”

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Whatever. Just, can we get this over with?”

      An hour later, Gwen had found me three versatile, elegant, wrinkle-proof outfits that made my thighs look slimmer, my bones more pronounced and my split ends fashionably intentional. She’s a genius. I tried to force my credit card on her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

      As we were hugging goodbye, I got my brilliant idea.

      “Listen,” I said. “I’ve got something for you. Wait here.” I ran out to my car, checked the meter, and grabbed the little journal from my plastic Rite Aid bag. Then I dashed back to Gwen’s store and pressed it into her hands.

      “What’s this?” She looked at it and then at me with a quizzical expression.

      “Take it with you on your trip. If you start to feel anxious or threatened or even slightly inclined to dump Coop, just write out your thoughts until you calm down, okay?”

      She laughed uneasily. “Is this some sort of New Age therapy?”

      “It’ll give you some perspective, that’s all.”

      “Okay. Well, thanks. It’s…really nice.”

      “It’s a going away present.”

      Her eyes searched mine. “Diaries have never been my style, but I’ll give it a try.”

      “If it doesn’t work within the first ten pages,” I said, “invest in some Valium.”

      Thirteen days later, the journal arrived at Jean-Paul’s parents’ house in Paris, wrapped in plain brown paper. It wasn’t alone, though. There were three others: a tiny spiral-bound notebook, a legal pad and a slick journal with whales on the cover that said Mendocino Coast. Every page had been filled with Gwen’s old-fashioned, elegantly loopy cursive. As I flipped though them, I saw that sometimes her perfect handwriting gave way to harsh, nearly-illegible scribbles and in places it looked like she’d pressed so hard into the paper that it threatened to tear.

      I pretended I wasn’t feeling well and urged Jean-Paul and his parents to visit yet another museum without me. It was just as well. If I had to “oooh” and “ahhh” over more Matisse, I feared I might lose it. After they’d gone, I stuffed all four journals into my bag, went to a café down the street, bought a cappuccino and sat down to read them cover to cover.

      Thursday, September 18

      7:10 a.m.

      Dear Marla,

      I decided it’s just too daft to fill a book with notes to myself. It’s so egocentric—I’d feel like some kind of New Age narcissist—so I’m going to address all my self-absorbed narcissism to you. How’s that for passing the buck?

      Actually, I probably won’t write in this at all. I feel very optimistic about this whole trip, now. The freak-out I went through yesterday is a distant memory. It’s early morning, I’ve had my tea and I’m all packed. The light in Los Feliz is unusually golden and (here’s the real miracle) I managed to fit all my clothes for the weekend into the leopard-print luggage set: one large case, one medium, a handbag and a hatbox. Not bad, eh? I’m sure Coop will be impressed that I travel light.

      Of course, the shoes had to go in a separate trunk, but so what? I’ll just slip that in casually when no one’s looking.

      All in all, I’m the picture of the elegant, poised traveler.

      Hope your journey to Paris goes well today. So exciting! I can’t wait for you to come home so we can swap stories.

      Kiss, kiss,

       Gwen

      Thursday, September 18

      8:45 a.m.

      Shit! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!

      Okay, I know, breathe. If I hyperventilate back here they won’t even notice. I’ll be a blue-faced corpse and they’ll have no idea until we hit the first pit stop. Marla, I don’t want to die alone, in the backseat, wedged uncomfortably between a surfboard and a trunk full of my best shoes!

      Then again, at least my white go-go boots will be with me in my last hours.

      They suck. Totally, utterly.

      Coop and Dannika that is, not the go-go boots.

      Why did I ever think I could seriously be with Coop? If he’s in league with this Satan in Organic Cotton, I want nothing to do with him.

      Oh, there they go laughing. Ha ha ha ha ha. The world is so deliciously funny when you’re a big, gorgeous guy riding shotgun with your delectable supermodel hippie chick behind the wheel. Never mind the lump of a girlfriend pouting in the backseat. She’s just there to keep the surfboards from flying away.

      Marla, what am I going to do? I’m being held hostage by a couple of excessively beautiful bohemians with no appreciation whatsoever for fine luggage, vintage travel wear or—in short—me.

      Right. I know what you would say. Just back up, slow down, start from the beginning.

      I’ll try. Thank God I never get carsick. I have a feeling putting pen to paper at the moment is the only thing between me and double homicide.

      So, back to the beginning. Let’s see…where did I leave off?

      As I mentioned, early this morning my outlook was bright and my outfit was impeccable. I was wearing my low-belted chemise suit in autumn green, my leopard-print car coat, and my signature leopard-print kitten heels. I’d tied a green scarf over my hair and at the last minute I added those huge, Jackie O sunglasses you love. No point in modesty here, I looked positively elegant. I surveyed myself in the mirror and was convinced that no matter how glamorous Coop’s best friend might be, I’d give her a run for her money.

      Dannika was driving up from San Diego, and since I live farther south than Coop, she was picking me up first. I heard her car pull up, but by the time I got to the window, she was already out of view. I waited for the doorbell, took a deep breath, turned the knob and pulled.

      There she was. All the air left my lungs and I stood in the doorway dumbstruck. I know you have her yoga tapes and she’s enough of a D-list celebrity, what with her new show and all, to warrant casual recognition from most people, but seeing her in person is a different experience entirely.

      She’s stunning. There’s no other word for it.

      I wish I could say her teeth are showing signs of decay or her boobs need propping up—that the way she looks onscreen is all make-up, lighting and flattering camera angles—but the truth is, in person she’s five million times more beautiful than she is on TV. Is that just slit-your-wrists depressing or what? Her hair is so shiny-blond, so long and healthy and shampoo-commercial-bouncy, it hardly seems real. I swear the Los Feliz light was caressing every strand, spilling sparkles into the air around her until her whole head was surrounded by a lemon-hued halo. Her skin was dewy-fresh, lightly tanned and radiant. Her eyes were a deep ocean color—Malibu on СКАЧАТЬ