the minister from Jeffrey’s church will preside. Jennifer’s sister, Elaine, of Cats fame, will perform the solo; song TBA
.
6:45–7:30 P.M.
Receiving line of Jeffrey, Jennifer, and Max
only,
which will be held on the pathway between the two tents
.
7:30 P.M. –TBA
Guests and wedding party are served dinner in the large tent. Dancing and music again provided
by the “Hey, Don” Quartet. Photographers and video crew will film throughout the evening
.
“Okay, any questions?” I say.
“I still don’t get why we all had to be here if there’s no media other than
InStyle,”
Caitlin says, flopping back into her chair.
“Yours is not to wonder why,” Steven says.
“Let’s just say it’s a comfort factor for the bride,” I say. “You’ll see. There’ll be plenty to do.”
“So we are or are we not wearing headsets?” says Allie.
“There’s an office pool about that,” Steven says.
“We are
not
wearing them,” I say. “Trust me.”
5
But First We Have to Get Through This Damn Ceremony
An hour later, the party is under way. Oscar’s A/C units have
arrived, Hot Fat has not passed out, and the temperature in the tents has dropped out of the triple digits, according to the crew guy running around with the portable thermometer. The bad news is, it’s still about 100 degrees everywhere else, and I’ve lost the fight about the headsets with Jennifer.
“Alex, it’s
not
a request,” she’d said, standing in the bedroom where I was summoned after she emerged, sleepy-eyed but not discernibly calmer, from her “bride’s massage.” “I’ve rented them and you’ll wear them,” she said, her hand clutching her fluffy white robe across her even fluffier breasts, her white blond pony-tail bobbing in fury. “It’s a security issue, and it’s what I
want.”
God, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that expression. It’s always about people’s wants. But then, that’s what I’m paid to do. Satisfy those wants. In the
Upstairs, Downstairs
of Hollywood, Jennifer is the lady of the manor and I’m her servant.
“Fine,” I said, shrugging, cutting my losses. “It’s your party, and if you want it to look like a commercial event, that’s your choice.”
“Well, it already looks like a funeral,” she said, glaring at my dress. “I can’t believe you wore black to my wedding.”
I’m tempted to tell her that it’s Jil Sander — since I’m required to look at least worthy of being in her company — and that black
is
the new black at weddings, but I think better of it. How can you argue with a woman whose taste tops out at white lattice and llamas?
“Would it make you feel any better if you thought of it as dark gray?” I said.
She peered at the dress again. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t let it happen again.”
We can only hope.
Now I’m standing on the front porch in my shades and the headset —
set it to channel 1, everybody! — a
glass of sparkling water in hand, watching the stream of guests make their way across the lawn, trying to pick out Patrice when — and if—she arrives. The “Hey, Don” Quartet is sawing away — “Lara’s Theme,” like that’ll cool anybody off—while the fleet of waiters circle with the requisite trays of champagne and sparkling water. Most of the guests are in black tie, but a few, like Richard Lewis, who’s wearing a black T-shirt under a black suit, are in typical fuck-you-
I
’
m
-a-star attire.
“I see Richard Lewis dressed up” crackles in my ear. Allie, who’s somewhere down in the crowd with Maurine and Michelle keeping tabs on the magazine’s writer. Jill, Marissa, and Caitlin are out back tag-teaming the video crew and the magazine’s photographer, who are shooting setups with Jennifer and the bridesmaids. I’ve got Steven down by the valets, ready to send up a signal should Patrice show.
“Yeah,” I say into the microphone. “There’s always somebody who has to give the finger to the dress
.
6:45–7:30 P.M.
Receiving line of Jeffrey, Jennifer, and Max
only,
which will be held on the pathway between the two tents
.
7:30 P.M. –TBA
Guests and wedding party are served dinner in the large tent. Dancing and music again provided
by the “Hey, Don” Quartet. Photographers and video crew will film throughout the evening
.
“Okay, any questions?” I say.
“I still don’t get why we all had to be here if there’s no media other than
InStyle,”
Caitlin says, flopping back into her chair.
“Yours is not to wonder why,” Steven says.
“Let’s just say it’s a comfort factor for the bride,” I say. “You’ll see. There’ll be plenty to do.”
“So we are or are we not wearing headsets?” says Allie.
“There’s an office pool about that,” Steven says.
“We are
not
wearing them,” I say. “Trust me.”
5
But First We Have to Get Through This Damn Ceremony
An hour later, the party is under way. Oscar’s A/C units have
arrived, Hot Fat has not passed out, and the temperature in the tents has dropped out of the triple digits, according to the crew guy running around with the portable thermometer. The bad news is, it’s still about 100 degrees everywhere else, and I’ve lost the fight about the headsets with Jennifer.
“Alex, it’s
not
a request,” she’d said, standing in the bedroom where I was summoned after she emerged, sleepy-eyed but not discernibly calmer, from her “bride’s massage.” “I’ve rented them and you’ll wear them,” she said, her hand clutching her fluffy white robe across her even fluffier breasts, her white blond pony-tail bobbing in fury. “It’s a security issue, and it’s what I
want.”
God, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that expression. It’s always about people’s wants. But then, that’s what I’m paid to do. Satisfy those wants. In the
Upstairs, Downstairs
of Hollywood, Jennifer is the lady of the manor and I’m her servant.
“Fine,” I said, shrugging, cutting my losses. “It’s your party, and if you want it to look like a commercial event, that’s your choice.”
“Well, it already looks like a funeral,” she said, glaring at my dress. “I can’t believe you wore black to my wedding.”
I’m tempted to tell her that it’s Jil Sander — since I’m required to look at least worthy of being in her company — and that black
is
the new black at weddings, but I think better of it. How can you argue with a woman whose taste tops out at white lattice and llamas?
“Would it make you feel any better if you thought of it as dark gray?” I said.
She peered at the dress again. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t let it happen again.”
We can only hope.
Now I’m standing on the front porch in my shades and the headset —
set it to channel 1, everybody! — a
glass of sparkling water in hand, watching the stream of guests make their way across the lawn, trying to pick out Patrice when — and if—she arrives. The “Hey, Don” Quartet is sawing away — “Lara’s Theme,” like that’ll cool anybody off—while the fleet of waiters circle with the requisite trays of champagne and sparkling water. Most of the guests are in black tie, but a few, like Richard Lewis, who’s wearing a black T-shirt under a black suit, are in typical fuck-you-
I
’
m
-a-star attire.
“I see Richard Lewis dressed up” crackles in my ear. Allie, who’s somewhere down in the crowd with Maurine and Michelle keeping tabs on the magazine’s writer. Jill, Marissa, and Caitlin are out back tag-teaming the video crew and the magazine’s photographer, who are shooting setups with Jennifer and the bridesmaids. I’ve got Steven down by the valets, ready to send up a signal should Patrice show.
“Yeah,” I say into the microphone. “There’s always somebody who has to give the finger to the dress
Similar Books
