Page 71 of Dirty Diana
I shut my computer and check the time. I spend extra effort on my hair in preparation for seeing my mother-in-law, then wait for Oliver to finish getting dressed.
When he comes down the stairs, I almost lose my breath. He’s wearing a gray flannel suit perfectly tailored to his body. I’ve always been a little unnerved by the fact that his mom still buys him clothes, but she does have impeccable taste.
“You look nice,” I say.
“Thanks. I’m running every day now.”
“Wow,” is all I can think to say. Raleigh’s words echo in my head, “If I were at a key party, I’d pray for his.” Oliver usually shaves before we see his mother, but he’s left a three-day-old shadow. A subtle fuckyou or laziness? Whatever the reason, it suits him. Of course other moms have crushes on him. “You really look great.”
“Shall we?” he replies flatly.
Oliver is quiet on the drive to the gala. That’s how we are in each other’s company lately, like we’re waiting to take the other person’s temperature. But mostly we just wait.
—
The first time I attended Vivian’s annual fundraising gala, Oliver and I were an hour late because I couldn’t leave his bathroom. Oliver had tried to coax me out from the other side of the closed door. “I could run out and get some Pepto?”
“I think I’m done. I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect to be so nervous.”
“My mom is going to love you.” Oliver sounded so confident I almost believed him. But when I looked down at my Steve Madden pumps that were chipping at the front I wasn’t so sure. “Do you have a Sharpie?” I spit onto my finger and tried to rub the scuff marks away.
“A Sharpie? Not on me, no.”
Three flushes later, I finally felt confident enough to stand up and look at myself in the mirror. The pearl-colored silk slip dress I spent an entire paycheck on was creased at the crotch because I’d been sitting on the toilet for so long. “Don’t suppose you have a steamer?” I called out nervously to Oliver. The night was already a disaster, and it hadn’t even started.
Oliver knocked softly on the door. “Can I come in?”
“Fine. Just hold your nose.”
Oliver walked in and immediately turned around and walked out. “Probably better if I don’t come in.”
“Oh my god. Just tell her I’m sick. Please. I don’t think I can pull it together and we’re already so late.”
“Nothing has changed, Diana. I love you and so will she. It literally smells like death in there and my eyes are watering, but if you toldme you wanted to have sex right now I’d take you on the toilet. You look stunning.”
Oliver’s parents lived on the other side of town, in one of the oldest and wealthiest sections of Dallas. I tried to steady my breath as we drove north on Oak Lawn Avenue and the houses got older and grander. Oliver had told me stories about his childhood, about the neighborhood kids daring each other to TP the multimillion-dollar estate where the owner of the Dallas Cowboys lived, and how it wasn’t uncommon to spot Laura Bush power walking on the next street over.
As I tried to smooth my dress, he drove around a circular, hedge-lined driveway, past a valet station, and pulled up next to a Rolls-Royce and a vintage Jaguar. His parents’ home was a stately English Tudor flanked by live oaks on a lot that seemed to go on forever. It was glowing from within, perhaps from the sheer amount of diamond carats inside. Before we got out of the car, I sprayed my bare arms and legs with mosquito repellent, knowing I would get eaten alive. Oliver put a hand out to stop me. “You don’t need to worry about mosquitos. My parents have a guy for that.”
“Really?”
He smiled. “He’s a mosquito bouncer.”
“Very funny.” But his joking helped put me at ease.
Vivian swept down the stairs to meet us in the foyer. “Oliver, I swore I gave you the right time. What on earth happened?”
“It was my fault actually. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m so sorry.”
Vivian looked at me and plastered on a smile. “No matter. Let’s get you upstairs and get you dressed!”
“Mom…” Oliver said, a warning tone in his voice, but Vivian pressed on, feigning innocence. “You should have told me Diana didn’t have anything to wear. I would have sent something over.”
I crossed my arms self-consciously over the slip dress Cindy Crawford had worn so well. Of course it wasn’t appropriate for a Dallas gala. What was I thinking?
“And what size are you, Diana? You’re absolutely petite.”
“A medium?” I said, my face turning bright red.
