Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures
JULY 16
1:45 p.m.
My bedroom
So much to do! So many things to get ready! I’m all aflutter, and probably would be running around like a chicken without its head if not for Julia and her magical planner o’ organization. At least, that was the idea.
“So,” Julia said after I demanded she come to my house two days after the Great Emancipation, as I shall henceforth think of it. “I get the part about the global race, which is really a cool idea so long as you don’t have to eat any bugs or camels’ scrotums.”
“I know, right?” I made a face and pulled up the Web site that Mercy had sent me to for more information. “But this show doesn’t sound like that sort of thing at all. Here, see? They are going to duplicate the route of the original 1908 race, and use cars of the same time period, although Mercy says the producers are going to put modern engines in the cars so that it doesn’t take months to finish the race.”
“That doesn’t sound bad,” Julia said, looking at the Web site. “You get to go through a lot of countries.”
“Thank god I managed to get a passport a couple of years ago without Dad knowing.”
“All right, so you’re following the same race path, but why don’t you need to take a lot of clothes with you? You’re going to be gone for over a month.”
“That’s the best part. The production company wants to make this like that Great Race movie that had themed cars. Because this is reality TV, the producers are creating teams of people so they have lots of interaction to film, like people fighting and storming off, and making googly eyes at each other, and having jealous scenes, and all that sort of thing.”
“Typical reality TV fodder,” Julia said, nodding. “I still don’t understand about the clothing.”
“Well, Mercy has arranged for me to be in a car with two other women. We’re supposed to be suffragettes, you see, so we get to wear 1908 suffragette clothing.”
“Oooh,” she said, her eyes alighting with costuming fervor. “Big hats.”
“Feather boas,” I said, nodding.
“Long skirts, though,” she warned.
“Flattering to the figure,” I pointed out, looking down at where my abundant curves were lolling about.
“There is that.”
“According to the e-mail I got from the producer, I can wear my own clothes in off periods, but during the race hours I have to be in costume.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.” She squinted at the screen and read aloud, “‘There will be checkpoints where teams must rendezvous for interaction with the camera crew. Avoidance of these points will earn the team negative points.’ What’s all that about?”
“The teams get points for going through various cities, and if you don’t stop and let them film you, you get demerits or something.” I waved away that concern and piled a bunch of underwear into a large duffel bag. “I don’t really care about the race per se, although the winners do get twenty grand each, but it’s the experience I’m excited about. I’ll be out there doing the same thing that Nellie Bly did. She made an around-the-world journey, too, and wrote a book about it. I’ll be able to take notes, and interview my fellow racers, and post things to a blog that I’ll later turn into a book. It’ll be just like I’m a modern-day Nellie.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Julia scrolled down the page. “Holy moly, will you look at that!”
“What?” I asked, setting down a handful of bras to look at where she was pointing.
“There’s a list of teams with pictures of the racers. Well, a couple of pictures—the rest are blank.”
“That’s because they’re filling in people who dropped out or who they haven’t booked yet, or so Mercy told me,” I said, going into my bathroom to sweep up a collection of body washes, shampoo, conditioner, and various other sundries. Those I dumped in a cosmetics bag, and tossed that into the duffel as well.
“Yeah, but these two are booked already. And aren’t they yummy?”
I looked, blinked a couple of times, and agreed. “Wow. Dibs on the one on the right.”
“Silly, you can dibs them both, since I won’t be in the race and you will. I wonder if they’re single. Oh, wait—you can click on their names. Let’s see . . . Mr. Right—ha!—is Dixon Ainslie, thirty-two, estate agent at Ainslie Castle in England.”
“That must be one of Mercy’s brothers-in-law. I think Angela said the family name was Ainslie.”
“It doesn’t say anything about a wife . . .”
I returned to the bed, where I’d dumped the entire contents of my closet and dressers. “Put your list-making skills to work and help me decide what to take and what I don’t need.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t see anything bad in his bio. You have my blessing to pounce on him.” Julia’s eyes glittered with mirth. “If you hooked up with him, you could live at a castle!”
“Meh,” I said, shrugging, feeling a bit overwhelmed trying to decide what to take with me. “I live in a huge house. I’d much rather have a small little cottage with an adorable garden filled with rabbits and hedgehogs and friendly deer.”
“If you had all that, you wouldn’t have much of a garden left,” Julia said, clicking on the other man. “Looks like Mr. Left is Dixon’s brother. He’s two years younger and is a commercial artist.”
“Bully for him. Come on, you organizing fiend, let’s get the to-do and to-take lists going. I was thinking a couple of pairs of jeans, one nice dress for any dinners out, and a couple of skirts that won’t wrinkle. Two blouses, two sweaters in case it’s chilly at night, a couple of tees, and my flats and tennis shoes.” I started sorting clothes into stacks.
“How can you be worried about mundane things like clothing when there are handsome Englishmen to ogle?” she asked, clicking on other people shown on the race site. “Nope. Those two are definitely the cream of the crop.”
“I’m not interested because I’m looking for adventure, not a man,” I said, holding up a gauzy broomstick skirt. “Is this too casual to wear in Europe? You know how stylish everyone there is. I don’t want to look like a backwater boob.”
“You’re not married, not dating anyone, and not gay. Of course you’re looking for a man.”
“Not me. Do you know the sort of background check my crazy father would demand for anyone I was interested in?” I gave a little shudder and tossed the skirt into the no-go stack, picking up instead a maxi skirt made of a pretty blue-and-purple-paisley cotton. “It’s just not worth it.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t get lonely, because I’ve seen you go googly-eyed at those superhero movies where the yummy actors wear skintight suits,” Julia persisted, looking at me over the top of the glasses she wore to read things on the computer.
“Pfft,” I said, trying to dismiss the subject. The last thing I wanted to do was focus on my lack of a love life.
“You haven’t dated anyone in almost four years.”
“Blame my father for that,” I said, picking out the best of my jeans.
“I won’t, because you’ve had boyfriends. It can be done. You just won’t put yourself to the trouble of finding a man.” I was about to protest when she continued, stabbing a finger toward the screen. “Here’s the answer. You’ll be thrown together with a bunch of men without your father being able to have a say in who or what you do.”
“Boy, you really want me to get laid, don’t you?” I asked, laughing.
“Are you saying you don’t?”
“No, of course not. I enjoy sex as much as anyone. It’s just that . . . men are so much work. You have to be on your best behavior for the first few months, lest you scare them off. You have to consider their needs before yours because that’s how men are. And you have to let them think they’re smarter than you, which is almost always not the case. I just don’t have time for that.”
“That’s because you’re meeting the wrong type of man. I don’t have to do any of that with Sanjay.”
“That’s because your Sanjay is a saint, and a very smart man.”
She smiled smugly. “He is that. But this is about you, not me. Don’t be so stubborn about hooking up with someone who turns your starter crank.”
“Ha! Starter crank. I see what you did,” I said, stuffing the reject clothing back into the dresser.
“After all, you must get . . . needy.”
“That, my dear, is what battery-operated devices are for.” I shook out a forest green floor-length dress and posed with it. “What do you think? It looks pretty nice on me, and it’s made of material that doesn’t hold its wrinkles.”
“Fine, fine,” Julia said, giving it a swift glance before returning to the screen. “Oooh, there’s some guy from a TV show going to be racing, too.”
“You’re a poop,” I told her, laying the dress next to the duffel bag. “You’re the one with all the planning expertise, and here you are spending all your time drooling over a bunch of men you’ve never met.”
“I’m just trying to help you become as deliriously happy as I am with Sanjay,” she said, and laughed when I threw a button-down oxford shirt at her head. “All right, all right, I’ll leave your potential husbands alone and start the list making. Where’s the paper? Thanks. OK, let’s start with the necessities. Toothpaste and toothbrush.”
“Check.”
“Tampons and ibuprofen.”
“Check.”
“Cleansing products: facial, body, and hoohaw.”
I paused in the act of stuffing pairs of socks into a side pocket. “Why do I need vaginal cleanser?”
She tipped her head toward the laptop. “You’ll want to feel springtime fresh if you’re going to snag yourself a hunky Englishman.”
“For the love of Pete, Julia!”
She giggled. “Now, about your underwear. I’ve seen it, and I think you should dump it and go with thongs. Men like thongs.”
“That’s it,” I said, taking the tablet of paper away from her. “I’ll go unorganized. You’re clearly too overcome with smutty thoughts to be of any practical use.”
“Fine, but don’t blame me if your granny pants scare off any potential suitor!”
“I’ll take that risk,” I told her, and spent the rest of the afternoon happily arguing with her over every garment.
Life was looking good, and nothing could dim my happiness.