"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 hke I was sleeping with a httle 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.
"The next morning, I started in. 'Don't you think you should work out? Gain a httle weight?
"After that, everything about him began to drive me crazy. His silly, flashy clothing. The way he acted hke everyone was his best friend. The three long blond hairs on his Adam's apple. His smell.
"Each day, I tried to get him to the gym. I would stand there and force him to do reps with five-pound barbells, which was all he could handle. He actually did gain ten pounds, but then he lost it all again. One night, we went to dinner at his parents' apartment on Fifth Avenue. The cook was making lamb chops. Dudley insisted
that he couldn't eat meat, screamed at his parents for not being considerate about his eating habits, and made the cook run out to the store to buy brown rice and broccoh. The dinner was two hours late, and still Dudley only picked at his food. I was mortified. Afterward, his father said to me, 'You come to dinner again anytime you hke, but leave Dudley behind.
"I should have ended it right there, but Christmas was two weeks away. On Christmas Eve, Dudley officially asked me to marry him, with an eight-carat ring, in front of my whole family. There was always something a httle bit nasty about him, and in typical Dudley fashion, he squished the ring into a Godiva chocolate and then handed me the box. 'Here's your Christmas present, he said. 'Better start eating.
" T don't want chocolates now, I said, giving him the sort of dirty look that usually shut him up.
" T think you do, he said, somewhat menacingly, so I began eating. My family watched, in horror. I could have chipped a tooth, or worse, choked. Still, I said yes.
"I don't know if you've ever been engaged to the wrong person, but, once it happens, it's like being on a freight train
you can't stop. There were the rounds of Park Avenue parties, little dinners at Mortimers and Bilboquet. Women I hardly knew had heard about the ring and begged to see it. 'He's such a great guy, everyone said.
"'Yes, he is, I'd reply. And inside, I felt like a shitheel.
"And then the day came when I was supposed to move into our newly bought, perfectly furnished classic-six apartment on East 72nd Street. My boxes were packed, and the movers were downstairs when I called Dudley.
" T can't do this, I said.
" 'Can't do what? he asked.
"I hung up.
"He called back. He came over. He left. His friends called. I went out and went on a bender. Dudley's Upper East Side friends sharpened their knives. They made stuff up: I was spotted at someone's house at four in the morning wearing only cowboy boots. I'd given another guy a blow job at a club. I was trying to pawn the engagement ring, I was a gold digger. I'd taken Dudley for a ride.
"There is no good way to end these things. I moved into a tiny studio apartment in a dirty walkup on York Avenue, which I could actually afford myself, and started working on my career. Things got worse for Dudley. The real estate market crashed, and he couldn't sell the apartment. It was all my fault. Dudley left town. Moved to London. Also, my fault. Even though I kept hearing about what a great time he was having. Dating some duke's homely daughter.
"Everyone forgets that the three years after that were hell for me. Pure hell. Even though I had no money and had to eat hot dogs on the street and was suicidal half the time—I once actually called the suicide hot line, but then someone beeped in inviting me to a party—I vowed I'd never get into that situation again. Never take another penny from any man. It's terrible to hurt someone like that."
"But do you really think it was because of the way he looked?" Carrie asked.
"I've been thinking about that. And the one thing I forgot to mention is that every time I got into the car with him, I fell asleep. I literally couldn't keep my eyes open. The truth is, he bored me."
Maybe it was all the champagne, but Bunny laughed a httle uncertainly. "Isn't that just awful?" she said.