A Rather Charming Invitation (11 page)

But, now that it was for real, there was just something about actually orchestrating my wedding that unnerved me in a most surprising, peculiar way. Worse, I found myself clamming up. I couldn’t even raise the subject with my mother or my friends. Something inside me felt secretive, as if a wedding ought to be a private affair and was simply nobody else’s business. Would anyone understand this? I doubted it. There was, perhaps, only one person that I felt I might actually confide this to.

Jeremy. He came into my office one day to tell me about various conversations he’d had with potential clients, and he was regaling me with what he thought was a particularly funny anecdote about a guy who wanted us to handle his estate—to ensure that, upon the man’s death, he would be buried with his favorite Picassos and Monets. I must have been staring blankly at Jeremy with glazed eyes, nodding automatically, because he broke off in the middle of a sentence and said in amusement, “Pardon me, am I boring you into total catatonia, or what?”

I blinked. “Sorry.”

Jeremy flung himself into the chair at the opposite side of my desk. “What’s the matter, Penny?”

I didn’t really want to admit to failure as a bride this early in the game, so I attempted a casual tone, but to my surprise my voice sounded woeful as I said, “Oh, it’s just the wedding plans. The dress is no problem; I finalized that awhile ago. But I really can’t seem to pull the rest of it together, and I’m running out of time.” When I reached the end of that sentence, I sounded as if I was on the verge of tears, which horrified me.

Jeremy absorbed this in that intelligent way of his, then said, “Hell, why don’t you just hire somebody to deal with all the details? Aren’t there professionals who do this stuff?”

“Wedding planners,” I said in a small voice. “Jodi recommended one, right here in London.”

“So? Why not?”

“It just seems impersonal, and I feel like I ought to be able to do this myself,” I said.

“Can I help?” Jeremy asked.

“We could pick out the music,” I said, shuffling through my notes. “And the caterer, although all the good ones must surely be booked up by now.” There it was again, that panicky edge in my tone. I was deeply embarrassed. What an idiot. Besides, there were things on my list that I didn’t want to consult Jeremy on. The groom’s gift, for one thing. I wanted to find him something truly special.

My intercom buzzed. Honorine had an important call for Jeremy. When I gave him the name of the person, he said apologetically, “I have to take this call. Don’t worry, we’ll get the wedding sorted.”

After he had gone, I looked out the window of my office, which had a view of a pretty little garden in the back, with a cherry tree and a bird hopping about, singing. Jeremy, the sweet guy, had let me have dibs on this room, with its lovely sunlight. His office—on the opposite side of the townhouse, overlooking the tree-lined square and street—was big, dark, clubby- looking, and private in the way of a man who prefers to work like an undisturbed bear in a cave. The day that we’d fixed up our dream offices, I’d vowed to become the productive best that I could be.

Remembering this, I said aloud, “Pull yourself together, ducky. Take Jeremy’s advice, and let the professionals get you started.” Then I picked up the telephone and called the wedding planner. She told me to come right over.

T
he wedding planner’s office was smack-dab in a posh section of town that was known as a shopping haven for the wealthy daughters of the world’s moneyed families. Old townhouses had been combined and converted into exclusive, discreet salons for exercise, hair, diet, couture, and surgery. Many of these places were by-appointment-only, their front doors locked to discourage drop-in browsers. The wedding planner, however, was supposedly not just another caterer to the idle classes; she was the businesswoman’s businesswoman who could “get things done right the first time”. Everyone I’d talked to in London said that this was the wedding guru who couldn’t be topped. She had “done” most of the “important” weddings in the world, specializing in exciting ceremonies for brides determined to make a splash; yet she could also engineer discretion and privacy for shyer celebrity clients. Her banner,
Roberta’s Rapturous Weddings
, hung in one of three enormous windows in her second-floor office.

So, up I went, in a glass-and-chrome elevator run by a sphinx-like little gnome of a man in cap-and-uniform. The door opened onto a surprisingly large lobby, blindingly decorated in every conceivable shade of white, with white feathers pluming out of flower-pots; white chiffon curtains in the hall doorway; and a circular white reception desk presided over by a bevy of sharp young women in white suits, which gave them the antiseptic, no- nonsense look of nurses running a mental asylum for particularly difficult patients. I could not help thinking of that old joke about a blank white sheet of paper supposedly being a painting of a “polar-bear-in-a-snowstorm-eating-a-marshmallow”.

The white-suited females all smiled when I came in, and they immediately began to bustle solicitously around me, with offers of spiked passion-fruit cocktails and all manner of cookies and pastel-colored candies. Despite the enormous size of the waiting room, nobody else was sitting there; this hour was to be exclusively mine. Apart from receptionists speaking in short staccato sentences into their multiple phones, the room was quiet, with low, dreamily romantic music that made me want to doze off. I was handed a clipboard with a five-page questionnaire.

“Fill out everything,” one girl ordered with a smile. “Don’t leave any blanks.” She gave me one of their fat white pens that were like big cigars.

The multiple-choice questions were the kind that you wished had one more choice for each question, because you can’t connect to any of the options they’re offering. I studied each with mounting panic, such as: If you had to decorate a one- room shack on a desert island, what color would you choose? (
Red. Pale grey. Yellow.
) What’s your idea of a great evening? (
Alone on a mountain-top. A rock concert. An exclusive nightclub.
) A great vacation? (
Extreme hiking. Snapshot safari. Arctic rafting.
) How would you like to express your gratitude to your guests? (
Edible favors. Jewelry. Handmade scrapbooks.
) Then there were photographs of three brides displaying their wedding “styles”, with a “unique” dress, shoes, jewelry, and table setting. Which is your wedding style? (
Romantic. Nature-lover. Modern.
) Trouble was, I could see very little difference in the accoutrements of each. Finally, there were what I considered some very nosey-parker questions about the health of the bride and groom, their diet and body structure.

Just as I was beginning to consider sneaking out and consulting a fortune-teller instead, I was summoned, and the white gauze curtains were parted for me. I was led down a long white corridor whose walls were covered with gigantic framed photos of bridal couples. Every size, every age, every pairing imaginable. By the time I reached the end of the corridor, I was already sick of the idea of coupledom. There is nothing less inspiring to the course of true love than visions of self-conscious strangers enamored with the limelight, and putting on amateur expressions of being inspired by love. The thought of hoisting Jeremy and me into this rogue’s gallery made me actually feel faint.

But I’d apparently succeeded in running the gauntlet, because now I was in a sunny office, the very room with the big windows and the banner that fronted onto the street. Here I would have my free initial consultation with the queen bee of this hive—Roberta of the Rapturous Weddings.

She sat at a rectangular glass table with a computer, a pen and a telephone on it. There were two chairs in this minimalist room, both black; one for Roberta and one for me. When she rose to greet me, I discovered that she was the only woman in this entire establishment dressed in black. Her tight suit had a frighteningly tiny, nipped-in wasp waist. Her ash-blonde hair was spiky and short. She had startlingly pale skin, in sharp contrast to her fearless blue eye shadow, and lipstick of dark vampire red. But she had a disarmingly friendly smile, and a cheerful bluntness.

“Hullo!” she said in a melodious, whispery voice that gave her a deliberately otherworldly aura. “You’re here not a moment too soon, you look
so
scared,” she informed me; then, speed- reading my questionnaire, murmured, “Mmm, mm-hmm. Mmm. You are
definitely
the No-Fuss No-Muss Bride.”

Glancing up with a confident smile, she proclaimed, “You hate details and like to delegate. You want to simply show up and get it done. You’d love it if someone just handed you the dress, the cake, the church, the vows, the reception, and the limo. You want everything stark, simple, modern, clean, and easy. You don’t like a lot of fusty, musty traditional clutter. You’re not sentimental, you’d rather eat out than cook, and go to parties rather than read a book. Your taste is trendy, modern, edgy. Am I right?”

She was so entirely off-base that I actually felt embarrassed for her. Yet with all her aggressive blissyness, I noticed that she never once looked me directly in the eye. As for myself, I struggled mightily to repress a weird giggle that was filling up my nostrils and threatening to become a snort.

“Actually,” I managed to gasp out, “I just want to get organized with a few things.” But I didn’t dare take out my overstuffed organizer, with all its slips of paper and sticky notes. I just couldn’t. Where would I put it? Not on that pristine table.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “That’s what we
do
. Wait till you see how
easy
it can be. We could make it all happen for you. The cake. The invitations. The favors for the guests. The attendant’s dresses. The rehearsal dinner. The groomsmen’s gifts. The venue. The gift registry. The music. The testimonials. Are you journaling? You really should. It will help you write your vows, and your Bride’s Speech with your ‘best memories’, so you can tell each and every special person in your life how much you appreciate their support and love. We can even do the Best Man’s toast. Or, you might consider a little bride/groom duet on video; for shy people like yourself, the prerecorded testimonial is the best way. You can always run it with a modified laser light show to make it feel ‘live’.”

You may wonder why I sat silently through this list. Actually, I was, the entire time, struggling to speak. But it was like a bad dream when you are being chased by an axe murderer, and if you try to scream for help, your words just get caught in your throat and lodge there, until finally you wake up.

Well, it was the word “laser” that did it. My voice started out as a little mouse-squeak, then developed into a full-blown roar. “NnnnoooOOOOO!”

At least she put down her cigar- shaped pen. I quickly explained, “We’re not doing a rehearsal dinner. Or favors. Or attendants and best men. Or speeches to our parents, or a bridal registry.” I suddenly realized that this meeting had been productive, after all. I’d discovered that all I really had to do was pick the date, the time, the place, the music, and the food. Compared to all this other hoopla, they suddenly seemed like the modest tasks they really were.

A tiny crease of displeasure appeared on her face, between her perfect brows. I realized I’d just accidentally discounted her most expensive packages. But then wispy-voiced Roberta said something truly unkind. “Sweetie,” she responded. “It sounds to me like you just don’t want a wedding. Are you sure you even want to get married?” She laughed a little, as if to imply that it was a joke. But it wasn’t funny. For a second we just sat there, until the silence forced Roberta to finally look me in the eye.

“Is that what you really meant to say?” I asked her quietly.

“Okay,” she said briskly, “in these economic times, I understand perfectly. If you don’t want the Full Fabulous Wedding, then I would say you’re a perfect candidate for the 4-Day Consultation, which means that we put it together for you in four half-hour sessions. You might also want to do our BrideBody Boot Camp”—here she glanced at my figure—“because let’s face it, we can
all
use a little resculpting. Brides are into being sexy now, and you’re the star, so
yours
will be on view, you know. It’s five sessions; the last visit includes one Couples Yoga Massage, to help you and your man de-stress, detox and unwind.”

I could just see Jeremy showing up here and being told by Vampira to strip down and detox. Roberta ignored my disconcerted look and said, as if speaking to a child, “Even if you are on a tight budget, I
do
think you and your fiancé are perfect candidates for video testimonials. You can express your love for each other and your parents, and you might even want to write a song together.”

She rose, went to a closet and retrieved a black folio containing what appeared to be a twenty-page contract. She returned, clicking that enormous cigar- pen. “So,” she said briskly, “let’s make Your Big Day a reality.”

At this point, the sound that came out of my mouth was something between a hiccup and a hoot. “Shhrwy,” I said apologetically, rising. “Terly Thhks. Bleebye.”

The rest was a blur. My mind froze, but somehow my feet took over, and propelled me past the hall of grinning couples . . . I believe at that point some of the girls-in-white began to chase me, so I must have sped up . . . then I sprinted across the waiting room, past the reception desk where someone called out to my deafened ears as I went bursting out the doorway . . . into the pixie-man’s elevator . . .

. . . and baby, I didn’t look back.

I
ended up in some tea shop, sitting at a table in the window area, in utter defeat, watching the world go by. Obviously, I told myself as I sipped tea from a big china cup, it was not simply the wedding and all its details that were overwhelming me. Much more important to me was the prospect of marriage itself.