Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? Page 5

  “Ashley,” I’d said. But you can call me Ash because I smolder. Really. I heard her say it twice at Noah’s company Christmas party last month.

  “That’s right, Ashley. It’s number two on my list of baby names—not that I even have a boyfriend, let alone a husband. Let alone a baby! Hey, which do you like better for a girl—Ashley or Hayley?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. After a five-minute monologue on the merits of each name in turn, she sat herself down in my guest chair and told me every detail of her lack of a love life at age twenty-five. I realized the only way to shut her up was to find her someone to date. So a few days later, when Noah returned from his latest trip, I asked him if he knew anyone to set Philippa up with, someone sort of nerdy yet polished. A refined geek. He came up with Parker Gersh, Hot News’s managing editor at age twenty-seven. For their first date, the four of us went out for dinner, and four months later Philippa waltzed into work with a two-carat diamond ring from Tiffany’s sparkling on her finger.

  She insisted she owed her happiness all to me and Noah, that both of us simply had to be in their wedding as bridesmaid and usher. From that moment on, she’d tortured me with what she referred to as my bridesmaidly duty: flipping through bride magazines on our lunch hour, attending the New Brides Expo at the Javitz Center, listening to every single thing Parker Gersh said and did. When I myself came to work with my own ring, she said, “Fabulous! Now we’ll be in each other’s weddings!” (It was then that Astrid happened by, and none too soon, since Philippa had been about to put deposits down on a reception site.)

  Just like that, Philippa was one of my bridesmaids. Three or four or ten times a day ever since, she’d dropped by my cubicle to talk wedding, and I’d gleaned that she wasn’t close to her family and had no girlfriends. None. My girlfriends were, outside of my grandmother, the most important people in the world to me. I didn’t know what I’d do without them. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have no friends. Had Philippa not gone to high school? College? Work?

  “The Modern Bride and the Classic Bride are wanted in the conference room for a meeting,” announced Astrid’s assistant.

  Philippa’s face disappeared. I could hear her shoes clicking in the hallway as she ran.

  When I walked into the conference room, I had to blink. Twice. Where was I? The set of a horror movie?

  One end of the room had been turned into a dominatrix’s parlor. The other end was pure Laura Ashley. Both ends were clearly created out of Astrid’s office furniture.

  Philippa sat on a tall-backed toile-covered chair beside a lace-covered table. She was ogling the two wrapped gifts on the table. Behind her was a backdrop of a living room. A fake window with blue-and-white-checked curtains. Wood furniture, heavy on the Americana. A vase of sunflowers. A bookcase with…quelle surprise, the classics. Portrait of a Lady was prominent.

  At the other end of the room was Astrid’s bloodred leather ottoman. Propped behind it was another backdrop featuring the living room of a vampire’s New York City penthouse. The walls were painted gunmetal. There was one window, with a drawn shade that looked to be made of aluminum foil. A sofa, seemingly made of concrete. A coffee table made entirely of Popsicle sticks.

  “Eloise, please seat yourself in the Modern Bride’s dwelling,” Astrid said.

  “Which one is it?” I asked, but no one even cracked a smile.

  I sat on the leather ottoman. Next to it was Astrid’s tray table, imprinted with a subway map of New York City, upon which sat two boxes wrapped in smiley-face paper.

  Astrid clapped once. “I’ve come up with a brilliant promotional campaign for the Today’s Bride feature.”

  There were awed whispers of “just brilliant” from her minions.

  “We’ll run promos in the April and May issues with a photo shoot of the Classic Bride and the Modern Bride opening two engagement gifts in their homes, allowing the Wow readership a personal glimpse inside your private worlds.”

  People were going to think I lived here? I thought, eyeing the metal walls and Popsicle-stick coffee table.

  “Readers will be invited into your homes to share in the experience as you each open two gifts,” Astrid continued. “One that suits your personality and one that doesn’t. You’ll smile for the gift that suits and you’ll facially express your displeasure at the one that doesn’t.”

  Oh, brother.

  Devlin eyed me and let out a disgusted breath. “Somebody fix Eloise’s hair—it’s too bouncy today. Press it more against her head.”

  The beauty editor ran over and pressed the sides of my hair against my ears. “Much more modern,” she affirmed before flitting away.

  “I want it flatter,” Devlin ordered, shaking his head. “Let’s start with the Classic Bride.” He turned his attention to Philippa. “I want to capture you looking at the gifts with pure excitement.”

  “Yet not greedy excitement,” Astrid interjected. “The Classic Bride appreciates the tradition of gift giving, yet she is humble.”

  Philippa wasn’t. She ogled her gifts with the intensity I reserved for chocolate.

  “Not greedy, Philippa!” Devlin shouted. She toned it down, and he shot a Polaroid. He and Astrid studied it, moved Philippa’s seat and table a bit to the left (she was slightly blocking the row of classic books on the backdrop), and then Devlin shot a couple of rolls of film. “Okay, now I want you to open the silver-wrapped present and beam with joy when you see what’s inside.”

  Philippa grabbed it and ripped open the gift, but she didn’t beam.

  “I said to beam with joy!” Devlin scolded.

  “But it’s an iron,” Philippa pointed out. “It’s hard to beam at an iron. And I’ve already got one, a good one—”

  “Philippa, now we have to waste valuable working time rewrapping the iron,” Astrid cut in with a frown. She snapped, and her assistant grabbed the iron and made quick work of the beautiful wrap job. “Again, Philippa.”

  Philippa reopened the gift and fake smiled.

  She was supposed to “facially express” slight dismay as she opened the next gift, touching her hand to her heart with an “oh my” expression. But when Philippa saw the kitschy wineglasses with tiny cartoon kissy couples hand-painted, she squealed with delight. “I love these!”

  They were cute, but nothing you’d want to drink wine out of.

  “Philippa, you are supposed to show displeasure at the wineglasses,” Astrid said. “They are not a traditional gift that befits the taste of the Classic Bride. Get it?”

  One Astrid snap later and her assistant was rewrapping the wineglasses.

  Philippa unwrapped the glasses again—and giggled with delight.

  Astrid glared at her. Devlin sighed with disgust. “Let’s move on to the Modern Bride,” Astrid said, continuing to glare at Philippa.

  I was instructed to open the smaller of the two gifts on my table and flash a huge smile. I unwrapped and frowned. Inside were two more of the cartoon wineglasses that Philippa adored.

  Devlin slapped his hand against the table. “Eloise, you’re supposed to smile!”

  But I hate these stupid glasses!

  Astrid snapped. I reopened. I smiled as best I could.

  I did well with the gift I was supposed to sneer at. A gold-plated mini-broom and dustpan set, it looked exactly like the one Dottie Benjamin had sent a couple of days ago as an engagement gift with a little note:

  Dear Noah and Eloise,

  I told everyone “no gifts” at the engagement party I’m hosting next weekend, but how could I not send my little boy and his bride-to-be a “small something” to get rid of all those dust bunnies? You’re not the “Modern Bride” for nothing, El. Hee-hee—just kidding! See you this weekend, Love, Mom and Dad Benjamin

  I’d torn up the card in a hundred tiny pieces and threw the stupid mini-broom and dustpan in the garbage can. An hour later, I pulled them out (it took me an hour to pick off the coffee grounds and stewed tomatoes), just in case Mrs.
Benjamin needed to sweep something up during a visit. And she did like to visit. And sweep dust bunnies out from under the sofa.

  “That was great, Eloise,” Devlin said. “Let’s get another of you holding the broom by the handle as though it were a dead raccoon.”

  What?

  Apparently, that was the expression on my face at the moment, because Devlin began clicking away.

  Wait a minute! “No!” I told him. “You can’t put this in the magazine! I received this exact broom set from my mother-in-law-to-be!”

  Devlin chuckled. “That’s quite funny, actually. I’m sure your future mother-in-law has a sense of humor.”

  All the women in the conference room turned to stare at Devlin with you’re definitely not married eyes.

  Dottie Benjamin did not have a sense of humor. What she had was a warped point of view.

  The day after I moved into Noah’s apartment, his parents had come over for our housewarming with resigned expressions and a droopy spider plant. “Herbert and I are traditionalists, dear,” Mrs. Benjamin had said. “We don’t believe in living together. Even if you eventually marry, it’s not the same. Anyway, in my day, a man didn’t buy the cow when he got the milk for free. So if you did marry, you’d still be a free cow.”

  That’s almost verbatim, really.

  My grandmother had a good laugh over that entire episode. “There’s nothing wrong with living with a man, marriage or no marriage,” Grams had said. “If I’d tested out your grandfather before saying my vows, I might have run for the hills.”

  Thank God for my grandmother.

  “Devlin, it’s not funny,” I yelped. “She’ll think I’m making fun of her gift!”

  As Devlin slipped his camera into its case, Astrid said, “Eloise, there’s a reason neither you nor Philippa have photo approval—if we let you pick and choose every little photo, nothing would be printed. You’d say you looked fat or that your hair looked too brassy or that you had something in your teeth.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  This was so much worse than handing over control to bossy relatives. I’d handed over control to a bossy…boss.

  In my in-box, as though it were one of Wow’s to-the-circular-file memos about wasting copy paper or a warning that lunch was one hour, not one hour and fifteen minutes, was the Modern Bride’s Wedding Plans Schedule.

  I picked up the three-page packet, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and started reading.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  I was getting married on February 29.

  Take head, thump on desk. Hard. Repeat.

  Why did this year happen to be a leap year? Why, why, why?

  Modern Bride’s Wedding Date: February 29: Marrying on a day that comes only once every four years is a truly modern thing to do.

  Take head, thump on desk. Again.

  My friends were wearing rubber dresses to my wedding, the anniversary of which I would celebrate only every four years.

  February 29 was two months from now. Less than two months, really.

  It could take me eight weeks alone to work up the guts to tell Astrid that my bridesmaids were not wearing rubber to my wedding. That I wasn’t getting married on leap year. That they weren’t running that photo of me grimacing in pain over the mini-broom and dustpan set.

  With one eye opened, I read the rest of the schedule.

  Wedding-gown shopping: For photographs, please bring along one of the following: a mother, a grandmother or your maid or matron of honor. Eloise, as the Modern Bride, if you have a gay male friend, you may substitute him. Note: Veil and other accessories to be chosen as well.

  Rings: Please have your groom available for this shoot.

  Caterer: Please have groom available.

  Registry: Please have older family member available.

  Honeymoon: Modern Bride and Classic Bride only.

  Invitations: Personal guest list of no more than fifty people (advertisers will be invited, of course) by February 1.

  Thump head on desk. Harder, this time. Repeat.

  I couldn’t bear to read further.

  When I lifted my head, an addendum had been added to my in-box.

  Wow Weddings Memorandum

  From: Astrid O’Connor

  To: To the Modern Bride and the Classic Bride

  Re: Sibling Photo Shoot

  Please note that as Devlin is going on vacation the last week of January, your sibling-photo shoots have been moved up to Monday. If your siblings cannot attend, please hire the appropriate stand-ins, reimbursable at WowWeddings’s standard, not industry standard.—AO

  Translation: If you hire someone really good-looking, you’ll have to pay the difference between the averagely good-looking models we use and the gorgeous models other magazines shell out big bucks for.

  Mini Flirt Night Round Table Discussion 1, 000, 000: Which Fake Father and Brother Look Most Like Eloise?

  During our lunch hour on Friday, Jane and Amanda and I headed to Perfect People, the model agency Wow used. We sat in the reception area, poring over huge leather binders filled with eight-by-ten glossies of men, men and more men. There were gorgeous men. Average men. Ugly men. Tall, short, medium. With hair. Without. With potbellies. Without. (There was even a book labeled Ugly Men Without Hair and Potbellies. According to the Perfect People associate who handed us the books, ugly men without hair and potbellies were in demand for “reality-based” commercials and “before” shots for print ads.)

  I asked for the Men With Urban Appeal book. Jane, Amanda and I were each handed a stack of four. There were six books of men over thirty-five with urban appeal, and six under thirty-five. We also received the celebrity look-alike book. Wow Weddings had been sued three times by celebrities who claimed the magazine had hired models of their likeness to sell products they wouldn’t endorse. Wow Weddings won each time and continued the practice.

  Jane was flipping through the look-alike book. “Oohla-la—check out Ewan McGregorly!” She slid out the photo and held it up. A label along the border indicated that his name was indeed Ewan McGregorly. The back of the photo listed his vital stats and real name: Harold Flubman. Jane laughed. “Ewan looks like he could be your brother, Eloise.” She kissed the photo. “Oooh, he’s so hot!”

  “Ewan or the model?” Amanda asked.

  Jane blew another kiss at Ewan. “Both.”

  “Well, he isn’t supposed to be hot,” I pointed out. “He’s supposed to be my brother.”

  “Your brother is hot,” Jane said.

  “Jerks aren’t hot,” I countered. “They’re just jerks.”

  Jane closed the book and sat down on the sofa next to me. “What happened between you and your brother, anyway?”

  I bit my lip, stared at the ceiling, kicked my toe against the beige carpet.

  “Does it have something to do with your grandmother and her stroke last year?” Amanda asked.

  I bit my lip and fidgeted.

  “Eloise, I don’t know what happened between you and Emmett,” Jane said. “You never told me. I just know that when your grandmother was recovering from the stroke in the hospital, he never came to see her. I also know that you haven’t spoken to him since. And that’s way too long.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

  “Honey, you’re at a modeling agency to hire a stand-in brother for a photo shoot of your wedding plans,” Jane said. “But you have a brother.”

  “Where is he, then?” I asked. “I also have a father, but I haven’t seen him in twenty-seven years. What the hell is the difference?”

  “The difference is that until a year ago, you were nuts about your brother,” Jane said. “I know he drove you a little crazy, but I also know how much he means to you. I know you’ve been very protective of him your entire life. And I know that you love him to pieces.”

  “Call him, Eloise,” Amanda said.

  I fidgeted, still staring up at the ceiling.

  “Will you call him?�
� Jane asked.

  Blank page. Blinking cursor.

  “Eloise?”

  “Maybe I should just back out of the whole thing,” I said.

  Jane raised an eyebrow. “Out of a free hundred-thousand-dollar wedding?”

  “Out of everything,” I said. “The engagement, the wedding, everything.”

  “Don’t make this about Noah when it’s not,” Jane told me.

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Meaning, this is about you and your feelings about your father and your brother. It’s not about Noah. Don’t hurt what’s there and working.”

  “Maybe Noah and I aren’t working. Maybe I want a husband who’s around more than twice a week.”

  “And maybe you want a husband who you love very much,” Amanda said. “A husband who loves you very much.”

  Jane nodded. “And a husband who does quite inadvertently push buttons that force you to deal with stuff.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to deal with stuff. I just want to—”

  “Bury your head in the sand?” Amanda finished for me.

  Was that what I was doing? If you didn’t deal with something that you couldn’t deal with, were you a big fat ostrich?

  Jane squeezed my hand. “Eloise, I’m just saying that the fates of the universe have conspired against you—or for you, actually. You’ve got to produce a father and brother for your wedding feature. One of them is in your life—okay, he hasn’t been this past year. But you can remedy that.”

  “Does your grandmother have his phone number?” Amanda asked.

  I nodded.

  “Call him, El,” Jane said.

  I shook my head.

  “Call him,” she said again.

  Call.

  Don’t call.

  Call.

  Don’t call.

  Ah. The fates of the universe had conspired again and landed on Don’t Call.

  Two minutes later, I had a fake brother named Ewan McGregorly signed, sealed and available for delivery on Monday.

  chapter 5

  Whereas I had three relatives, one AWOL since I was 5 and one I hadn’t spoken to in a year, Noah Benjamin had a cast of thousands. I tried to imagine Thanksgiving dinner with his family.