There was a difference.
Diaries were horribly organized and awfully prescriptive. They involved dates and future plans and regular entries and the suffocating weight of commitment. Journals, on the other hand, were wild and lawless things. One might abandon a journal for weeks, then crack it open one Saturday evening under the influence of wine and marshmallows without an ounce of guilt. A woman might journal about last night’s dream, or her growing anxieties around the lack of direction in her life, or her resentment toward the author of the thrilling Ao3 fanfic “Tasting Captain America,” who hadn’t uploaded a new chapter since the great titty-fucking cliffhanger of December 2015. For example. In short, journaling was, by its very nature, impossible to fail at.
Eve had many journals. She rather liked them.
So, what better way to spend a lovely, lazy Sunday morning in August than journaling about the stunning rise and decisive fall of her latest career?
She got up with a stretch, clambered off of her queen-sized bed, and drew back the velvet curtains covering her floor-to-ceiling windows. With bright, summer light flooding the room, she tossed off her silk headscarf, kicked off the overnight tea tree and shea foot mask socks she’d slept in, and grabbed her journal from her bedside table, leafing through the gold-edged pages. Settling back into bed, she began.
Good morning, darling,
—The journal, of course, was darling.
It’s been eight days since Cecelia’s wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, but you are an inanimate object, so it doesn’t really matter.
I regret to report that things didn’t go 100% to plan. There was a bit of a fuss about Cecelia’s corset being eggshell instead of ivory, but I resolved that issue by encouraging her to take a Xanax from Gigi. Then there was a slight palaver with the doves—obviously, they were supposed to be released over Cecelia and Gareth for the photographs, but I discovered just before the ceremony that the dove’s handler hadn’t fed them for two days so they wouldn’t shit all over the guests. I may have lost my temper and released them all. Unfortunately, the handler demanded I pay for them, which I suppose was fair enough. It turns out doves are very expensive, so I have had to request an advance on my monthly payment from the trust fund.
Finally, Cecelia and I have sadly fallen out. It seems she was very attached to the idea of the aforementioned doves, and perhaps her tongue had been loosened by the Xanax, but she called me a selfish jealous cow, so I called her an ungrateful waste of space and ripped the train off her Vera Wang. By accident, obviously.
Knowing the lovely Cecelia as I do, I’m sure she’ll spend her Fiji honeymoon badmouthing my services on various bridezilla forums in order to destroy my dream career. Obviously, the joke is on her, because I have no dream career and I have already erased Eve Antonia Weddings from the face of the earth. And Chloe says I lack efficiency!
Hah.
Eve finished her entry and closed the journal with a satisfied smile—or else, a smile that should be satisfied, but instead felt a little bit sad. Hm. Apparently, she was in a mood. Perhaps she should go for a walk, or read a romance novel, or—
No. Breakfast. She must begin with breakfast.
Decision made, Eve chose her song for the day—“Rain on My Parade,” to cheer her up—hit Repeat, and popped in one of her AirPods. Soundtrack established, she got up, got dressed, and headed down to the family home’s vast marble-and-chrome kitchen, where she found both her parents in grim residence.
“Oh dear,” she murmured, and stopped short in the doorway.
Mum was pacing broodily by the toaster. Her pale blue suit made her amber skin glow and really highlighted the fiery rage in her hazel eyes. Dad stood stoic and grave by the Swiss coffee machine, sunlight beaming through the French windows to bathe his bald, brown head.
“Good morning, Evie-bean,” he said. Then his solemn expression wavered for a moment, a hint of his usual smile coming through. “That’s a nice T-shirt.”
Eve looked down at her T-shirt, which was a lovely orange color, with the words sorry, bored now written across her chest in turquoise. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I swear, I’ve no idea where you find—”
Mum rolled her eyes, threw up her hands, and snapped, “For God’s sake, Martin!”
“Oh, ah, yes.” Dad cleared his throat and tried again. “Eve,” he said sternly, “your mother and I would like a word.”
Wonderful; they were