code.”
“Who’s giving who the finger?”
blares in my ear. Steven.
“
No
one is giving anyone the finger,” I hiss. “And will you turn down your volume? You nearly blew out my eardrums.” It’s another reason why I hate headsets. Not only do they make you look like a telemarketer, but most of the time you wind up just playing one big game of telephone.
“Hey, Alex, can you send one of your team out here for a second?” Oscar breaks in. “I need to figure out exactly where the receiving line is going to be.”
I’m about to say that I’ll do it when I catch sight of Jeffrey coming through the front door firing up a cigar. It’s the first time I’ve seen him all day, and with his Armani tux, his tan (probably spray-on, but a good one), his rakish black hair (clearly a dye job, but a good one), and cigar, he looks much younger than he does on TV.
“Marissa, can you go?” I say, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ve got the groom here now.”
I click off and turn toward him. “Hey, Jeffrey, you look like a man who’s ready to get married.”
“Alex!” he says, blowing smoke over my head and grabbing me in a bear hug that practically knocks my headset off. “Thanks for coming, and thanks for all this,” he says, releasing me and nodding at the guests milling around below. “This is great. You guys have done a great job. And, God,” he adds, turning back toward me, “don’t you look beautiful.”
You have to give him credit. Whatever train wreck he had been, however many motorcycles he had crashed and marriages he had busted up, he has a winning artlessness about him. Sad, really, he’s winding up with Jennifer.
“Hey, thanks,” I say, pulling my headset from my neck. “It’s only just starting, but yes, Oscar has done a great job.”
We stand there in the blazing late summer sun for several minutes, the murmur of the guests and the music drifting up and mixing with the smoke from his cigar. I look over at him and see abead of sweat rolling down his cheek. He’s probably even hotter than I am in that wool tux, but for some reason it makes him look nervous, even a little scared.
“Can I help you with that?” I say, reaching out with my cocktail napkin.
“Oh, thanks,” he says, taking it and pawing at his cheek. “I should probably get out of this sun.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s pretty brutal.”
He balls up the napkin, shoves it in his pocket, and reaches to stub out his cigar. “Guess I better go down.”
“Want me to go with you?” I say.
“Nah,” he says, reaching over to kiss me on my cheek. “Just wish me luck. I’ll see you afterward.”
“Okay, I’ve got The Beast in sight” comes crackling over my headset. Steven with the first Patrice alert. We click over to channel 2 as we agreed. So he and I can talk without being overheard by the rest of the team.
“Okay,”
I say, gazing down on the crowd, trying to make out Patrice picking her way across the lawn from the valet stand. “I can’t see her,” I say, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece. “What’s she wearing?”
“White linen. To upstage the bride.”
“Thoughtful,” I say, shading my eyes. I finally spot her — a gawky, lanky column of wrinkled white. A column of white, which happens to tower over Mickey, who’s dressed like a Mafia don in black suit, black shirt, and black tie.
“You want me to talk to her?” Steven says.
I sigh. “Well, that would have been good, but no, I’ll come down. Meanwhile, stay on two.” I click off, pull off my headset, and head for the stairs. I’m not anxious to confront Patrice. In myone lunch meeting with her, at the Ivy, which she insisted on because it reminded her of home with all the chintz, she was so patronizing, I’d vowed to deal with her only by phone and e-mail. Of course, now that she’s the point person on the magazine’s holiday gala, that’s impossible. Still, I’m not anxious to cross paths with her again. Not here,
“Who’s giving who the finger?”
blares in my ear. Steven.
“
No
one is giving anyone the finger,” I hiss. “And will you turn down your volume? You nearly blew out my eardrums.” It’s another reason why I hate headsets. Not only do they make you look like a telemarketer, but most of the time you wind up just playing one big game of telephone.
“Hey, Alex, can you send one of your team out here for a second?” Oscar breaks in. “I need to figure out exactly where the receiving line is going to be.”
I’m about to say that I’ll do it when I catch sight of Jeffrey coming through the front door firing up a cigar. It’s the first time I’ve seen him all day, and with his Armani tux, his tan (probably spray-on, but a good one), his rakish black hair (clearly a dye job, but a good one), and cigar, he looks much younger than he does on TV.
“Marissa, can you go?” I say, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ve got the groom here now.”
I click off and turn toward him. “Hey, Jeffrey, you look like a man who’s ready to get married.”
“Alex!” he says, blowing smoke over my head and grabbing me in a bear hug that practically knocks my headset off. “Thanks for coming, and thanks for all this,” he says, releasing me and nodding at the guests milling around below. “This is great. You guys have done a great job. And, God,” he adds, turning back toward me, “don’t you look beautiful.”
You have to give him credit. Whatever train wreck he had been, however many motorcycles he had crashed and marriages he had busted up, he has a winning artlessness about him. Sad, really, he’s winding up with Jennifer.
“Hey, thanks,” I say, pulling my headset from my neck. “It’s only just starting, but yes, Oscar has done a great job.”
We stand there in the blazing late summer sun for several minutes, the murmur of the guests and the music drifting up and mixing with the smoke from his cigar. I look over at him and see abead of sweat rolling down his cheek. He’s probably even hotter than I am in that wool tux, but for some reason it makes him look nervous, even a little scared.
“Can I help you with that?” I say, reaching out with my cocktail napkin.
“Oh, thanks,” he says, taking it and pawing at his cheek. “I should probably get out of this sun.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s pretty brutal.”
He balls up the napkin, shoves it in his pocket, and reaches to stub out his cigar. “Guess I better go down.”
“Want me to go with you?” I say.
“Nah,” he says, reaching over to kiss me on my cheek. “Just wish me luck. I’ll see you afterward.”
“Okay, I’ve got The Beast in sight” comes crackling over my headset. Steven with the first Patrice alert. We click over to channel 2 as we agreed. So he and I can talk without being overheard by the rest of the team.
“Okay,”
I say, gazing down on the crowd, trying to make out Patrice picking her way across the lawn from the valet stand. “I can’t see her,” I say, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece. “What’s she wearing?”
“White linen. To upstage the bride.”
“Thoughtful,” I say, shading my eyes. I finally spot her — a gawky, lanky column of wrinkled white. A column of white, which happens to tower over Mickey, who’s dressed like a Mafia don in black suit, black shirt, and black tie.
“You want me to talk to her?” Steven says.
I sigh. “Well, that would have been good, but no, I’ll come down. Meanwhile, stay on two.” I click off, pull off my headset, and head for the stairs. I’m not anxious to confront Patrice. In myone lunch meeting with her, at the Ivy, which she insisted on because it reminded her of home with all the chintz, she was so patronizing, I’d vowed to deal with her only by phone and e-mail. Of course, now that she’s the point person on the magazine’s holiday gala, that’s impossible. Still, I’m not anxious to cross paths with her again. Not here,
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