“The only reason I lived with Dominique for three years was, one, he asked me to on our first date, and two, he had a gorgeous two-bedroom apartment in a prewar overlooking the East River and a big house in East Hampton. I had no money, no job—I did some voice-overs and sang some jingles for TV commercials.
“So when Dominique and I broke up—he found out I was having affairs and made me give back jewelry he’d bought for me—I decided that what I needed to do was get married. Quickly.”
THE TRILBY HAT
“I moved into a friend’s apartment,” said Bunny, “and about two weeks later I met Dudley at Chester’s—that East Side bar for young swells. Within five minutes of meeting him, I was annoyed. He was wearing spectator shoes, a trilby hat, and a Ralph Lauren suit. His lips were damp. He was tall and skinny, with no chin to speak of, eyes like boiled eggs, and a large, bobbing Adam’s apple. He sits down, uninvited, at our table, and he insists on ordering martinis for everyone. He tells bad jokes, makes fun of my pony-skin designer shoes. ‘I’m a cow, moo, wear me,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, but I believe you’re the big beef,’ I said. I was embarrassed to be seen talking to him.
“The next day, sure enough, he called. ‘Shelby gave me your number,’ he said. Shelby’s a friend of mine and somehow related to George Washington. I can be rude, but only up to a point. ‘I didn’t know you knew Shelby,’ I said. ‘Su-u-re,’ he said. ‘Since kindergarten. Even back then he was a goofy kid.’
“‘He was? What about you?’ I said.
“My mistake. I should never have gotten started with him. Before I knew it, I was telling him all about my breakup with Dominique, and the next day, he sent flowers ‘because a beautiful girl shouldn’t be depressed about being dumped.’ Shelby called. ‘Dudley’s a great guy,’ he said.
“‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What’s so great about him?’
“‘His family owns half of Nantucket.’
“Dudley was persistent. He sent gifts—stuffed bears and, one time, a Vermont cheese basket. He called three or four times a day. At first, he set my teeth on edge. But after a while, I got used to his bad sense of humor and almost looked forward to his calls. He listened with fascination to any spoiled, mundane detail of my day: you know, like how I was pissed because Yvonne had bought a new Chanel suit and I couldn’t afford one; how a taxi driver kicked me out of the cab for smoking; how I cut my ankle again shaving. He was setting a trap for me and I knew it—but I still thought that I, of all people, could get out of it.
“And then
came the weekend invitation, via Shelby, who called me and said, ‘Dudley wants us to go to his house in Nantucket with him.’
“‘Not on your life,’ I said.
“‘His house is beautiful. Antique. Main Street.’
“‘Which one?’ I asked.
“‘I think it’s one of the brick ones.’
“‘You think?’
“‘I’m pretty sure. But every time I was there, I was fucked up. So I don’t really remember.’
“‘If it’s one of the brick houses, I’ll think about it,’ I said.
“Ten minutes later, Dudley himself called. ‘I already bought your plane tickets,’ he said. ‘And yeah, it’s one of the brick houses.’”
DUDLEY DANCES
“I still have no explanation for what happened that weekend. Maybe it was the alcohol, the marijuana. Or maybe it was just the house itself. As a kid, my family had spent summers on Nantucket. I say that, but the reality is, we spent two weeks at a rooming house. I shared a room with my brothers, and my parents boiled lobsters for dinner on a hot plate.
“I slept with Dudley that weekend. I didn’t want to. We were on the landing of the staircase, saying good night, when he sort of swooped down and started to kiss me. I didn’t refuse. We went to his bed, and as he lay on top of me, I remember at first feeling that I was being suffocated, which probably wasn’t in my imagination since Dudley is six feet, two inches, and then feeling like I was sleeping with a little boy, since he couldn’t have weighed more than 160 pounds and he had no hair on his body whatsoever.
“But for the first time in my life, the sex was great. I had a sort of epiphany: Maybe if I was with a guy because he was nice and adored me, I would be happy. But still I was afraid to look at Dudley when we woke up, afraid that I’d be repulsed.
“Two weeks after we got back to the city, we attended an Upper East Side museum benefit. It was our first official event together as a couple. And, in what would become typical of our relationship, it was a series of mishaps. He was an hour late, then we couldn’t find a cab because it was 105 degrees. We had to walk, and Dudley—as usual—hadn’t eaten anything that day and nearly passed out, and someone had to get him glasses of ice water. Then he insisted on dancing, which basically consisted of flinging me into other couples. Then he smoked a cigar and threw up. Meanwhile, everyone kept telling me what a great guy he was.
“Except my friends. Amalita said, ‘You can do better. This is ridiculous.’
“I said, ‘But he’s great in bed.’
“She said, ‘Please don’t make me puke.’
“A month later, Dudley unofficially asked me to marry him, and I said yes. I had this feeling of shame about Dudley, but I kept thinking I would get over it. Plus, he kept me busy. We were always shopping. For apartments. Engagement rings. Antiques. Oriental rugs. Silver. Wine. And then there were weekend trips to Nantucket, and trips to Maine to visit my parents, but Dudley was perniciously late and always unorganized, so that we were always missing trains and ferries.
“The turning point came the night we missed a ferry to Nantucket for the fourth time. We had to spend the night at a motel. I was starving and wanted Dudley to go out and get Chinese food, but instead he came back with a head of iceberg lettuce and a pitiful looking tomato. While I lay in bed, trying to block out the noise of a couple screwing in the next room, Dudley sat at a Formica table in his boxers, cutting away the rotten parts of the tomato with his silver Tiffany Swiss Army knife. He was only thirty, but he had the persnickety habits of a seventy-five year old.