Party Girl (16 page)

“Calm down, Kir, you’re lovely and Jake loves you—” Meg tries carefully. I wonder how long they’ve been back here trying to talk her down from the ledge.

“You have to say that!” Kira says desperately. “You’re my best friend!”

Kira takes a deep, dramatic breath and seems to come to some sort of conclusion.

“No, no, I don’t think I can do this to him. He convinced me to marry him, and I will
never forgive
him for that, but I cannot ruin his life. I won’t do it to him!” She looks at Selah. “You have to tell him that I—” Her voice breaks and she starts to whimper. “That I can’t do this.”

I look at Selah, who is calculating her next words—carefully measuring, I’m sure, what a cancellation of this wedding would mean for her reputation—and I know what will happen next. I’ve seen this scene a thousand times in
The Wedding Planner
. It’s the moment when Selah will deliver a rehearsed speech she’s crafted to perfection. It’ll have the perfect amount of sincerity and romantic words to calm the bride and get her down the aisle.

“Kira, take a breath, doll.” Selah steps over to her, looking all calm and cool. “There are two hundred people out there waiting to see you in this gorgeous Lhuillier. Not to mention the press coverage of both this and the honeymoon will be ruined if you walk away now. It’ll be disastrous for you. Let’s get you some champagne.” At this she snaps a finger at me, and I hurry over to fill a flute with champagne. “You can take a moment to calm down, maybe have another cigarette, and then just get through today. It’s not like you can’t get divorced later. Kim did it after what, three months, and now she and Kanye have the baby and her profile is bigger than ever. You just need to get through today.” She says it emphatically as I hand over the champagne.

It’s the least romantic speech I’ve ever heard in my life. It actually makes me a little sick to my stomach. Is that all this day is for them, just another opportunity for press?

Kira takes a big swallow of the champagne, and when she speaks again her voice is small and sad. “I really am sorry about all of this, but I can’t do it. I won’t do that to him. He’d end up hating me, and I can’t—I couldn’t ever handle that. At least this way, he could, I dunno, maybe move on or something.” Tears slide down her cheeks, and without thinking I step forward and grab her hand. She and I both stare down at our joined hands for a moment, surprised.

“Kira, I don’t know you and Jake well . . . But I know without question that you love each other very much.”

“No, you know what you’ve seen on TV and in the magazines. I’m a very good actress.” She sounds jaded and sad, but she’s holding on to my fingers like a lifeline.

“No. I know what I’ve seen in you. How hard you worked on Thanksgiving to make it special for him even though you didn’t know how to bake. And then at the tasting, I’ve never seen a man so excited to plan a wedding before. I don’t think he let go of your hand once, and he gave you all of the tomatoes from his salad before he even took a bite.”

“He knows I love tomatoes—” she says, sniffing.

“And he laughed at all of your jokes, which, please excuse me for saying so, really weren’t that funny—”

“She’s right, Kir, your jokes are terrible,” Meg pipes up helpfully.

“Oh, sod off,” Kira tells Meg weakly. But for the first time since I walked in, she smiles a little. She looks back at me. “I know he loves me. But I still can’t marry him. I’ll ruin everything. It’s in my DNA.”

I don’t know what I’m talking about here, or if I’m saying the right thing. I only know that she’s upset, and so I tell her what I’d tell my very best friend in the same situation.

“I don’t believe that.” I squeeze her hand emphatically. “It sounds like your parents didn’t have a good marriage, but you know what? Mine do. They’ve been married for thirty-two years and you’ve never met two people who are still so in love and happy. It’s possible to have a great marriage; it just requires some effort. But I’ve seen you two together, and I believe you both care enough to put the effort in.”

“But he’s so great, and I’m such a mess—”

“My mama always told me that grace is giving someone the opposite of what they deserve. I know I’ve never been married, but I think that means that sometimes he’s going to have to let you get away with being a mess. And that sometimes you’re going to have to let him get away with, well, whatever he does that bothers you—”

“That creepy collection of Dune figurines might be a good place to start,” Meg says, handing Kira a Kleenex.

Kira twists up the tissue nervously in her fingers.

“You think—you think that I should do it then?” She looks me dead in the eye and a small part of my brain cannot believe this woman is asking me, a relative stranger, whether or not she should make such a huge decision. But I don’t even hesitate.

“I think if you love him, and he loves you, that you shouldn’t let what happened with your mama and daddy affect your decisions now. I think you say a prayer and take a leap of faith, and if you fall, well, now you’ll have a husband there to help pick you back up.” I smile at her, and I’m completely sincere.

After a few more tense seconds she smiles too. A full-out, gorgeous, bride-on-her-wedding-day-happy smile, and I know I’ve succeeded. Apparently, Selah does too because she snaps back to it.

“Brinkley, call hair and makeup back in so we can have a quick touch-up before we head to ceremony.”

“Yes ma’am.” I hurry to beckon the beauty team back inside and then watch as they quickly restore Kira’s hair and cover up the lines the tears have made in her foundation. I feel a light pinch on my elbow, and look up at Meg.

“Well done, you,” she whispers with a smile.

Saying thank you would feel a little odd since it was far too intimate a moment already and my interference could have just as easily backfired. So I don’t respond. I just smile back and then slip out of the room to make sure the best man has the rings before lining up the men in their positions.

Later that night after a beautiful and extremely emotional ceremony, the first dance during which Kira and Jake giggled like grade-schoolers, and the near-inappropriate speech that Jake’s little brother made after one too many of the specialty martinis, I am able to sneak back to the kitchen and swipe some food from the caterer. Dinner has long since passed, and all the kitchen has to offer is a hodgepodge of random appetizers and unclaimed vegetarian meals. Everything is cold and rubbery, but I haven’t eaten all day so I dig in like it is my last meal. It is here where Selah finds me, crouched over a busser’s tray, smearing butter onto my second sourdough roll.

“I’m leaving now.” She holds out a white envelope like the object is personally offending her. “Kira asked me to give you this.”

I lick a dab of butter off my finger. There are no napkins, so it’s either that or wipe it on my dress, and I reach out to take it from her. She watches me intently while I open it, which makes me more than a little nervous. I don’t know what I am expecting, but it’s certainly not five crisp hundred-dollar bills.

“I don’t understand.” I look to Selah for an answer.

“It’s a tip,” she says, annoyed.

“But that’s a ton of money! I didn’t even really—”

“She likes you,” Selah says imperiously. “Brides are emotional, and actress brides are the
absolute worst.
For whatever reason, you were able to calm her down. I suppose this is her way of thanking you. You should feel honored; assistants don’t usually get tipped.”

“Oh my Lord.” I stare down at the money in my hand. Five hundred dollars cash is huge! Maybe not for someone like Selah, whose shoes probably cost twice that much, but for someone like me it’s a cushion, a safety net. For me, this five hundred dollars is time, a little more time to keep living in LA, more time to keep reaching for my dream.

“Thank you so much for letting me work on this with you. I learned so much today,” I tell her sincerely, because I really have learned more in one single day of working a wedding for SSE than I have in years of assisting random planners back home. Even though none of the knowledge has come from her, I am still grateful.

Selah turns to leave, not deigning to reply, but then she calls out as she walks out the door. “You did well today, Brinkley.”

She says it sort of begrudgingly, but she said it! It is the first time—for all I know, the only time ever . . . But Selah Smith has just given me a compliment.

Chapter FOURTEEN

“Wait, is this one for this week’s party or next week’s? I can’t keep them straight.”

One of the designers on Miko’s team waves a sketch dramatically in the air in our direction. We are all huddled around desks in the design team area long after quitting time, because we have to finalize the details of six separate holiday parties that have popped up on our radar out of the blue. Miko says it’s typical for our corporate clients to hold out until the last minute before deciding whether or not to have their parties, but the end result means all of us scrambling to try and fit everything in before Christmas.

“That one is for next week,” I say, pointing to the paper being waved at me like a flag. “Remember, they wanted the tropical theme?”

“Right. You’re right.” The designer studies the picture. “They’re all starting to run together in my mind.” She rubs at her eyes, desperate. “Jin, you’ve got to call it. It’s almost nine and you know I’m incapable of dreaming up anything pretty after seven.”

Miko and I both laugh.

“All right, fine, why don’t you guys take off? We’ll finish up in the morning,” Miko tells her little crew. The small group packs up eagerly and hurries off towards the elevator, infinitely more animated now that they’ve been given a reprieve.

“You don’t need to stay either,” she tells me.

I look up from my laptop where I’ve been adjusting proposals and inputting numbers into bid sheets to go along with their design schematics all evening.

“Actually, I don’t mind. I need to finish these proposals anyway.” I look down and keep typing.

Miko looks at me suspiciously. “Writing proposals isn’t even part of your job.”

“It’s not my job, but it’s important that I know how.” I’ve told her this at least three times today.

“I guess,” she mutters, looking back down at her sketch.

We both work a few more minutes in silence and then she stands up.

“Come on, we’re taking this on the road.” She sandwiches her pencil in between the pages of her sketchpad and throws the whole thing into her shoulder bag.

“Where are we going?” I ask, but I’m already packing up my laptop to follow her.

“I need food . . . more specifically, orange chicken.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” I follow her like a dutiful puppy as we jog across the street to grab a table at Chin Chin. We immediately set up our work on the corner table we are given, but it isn’t quite as tedious now that we are both munching on fried wonton strips and sipping the first fruity cocktails we spotted on the menu.

“I think I’m tapped too,” she says as she looks up from her sketch and takes a big sip of her drink. “Six designs in one day is a little much, even for me.”

My phone buzzes with a text message and I grab it.

“Is Max gonna come meet us?” Miko guesses who my text is from.

“Doesn’t look like it. She’s still fighting that flu, and she says she’s too exhausted to leave the couch.” I read the text aloud.

Miko looks confused and I understand why. I don’t think either of us has ever heard Max admit weakness.

“Did she work tonight?”

“Not sure, but she’s been working a ton lately and writing her thesis nonstop. I’m sure she’s just worn out.” I drop the phone back into my bag.

The waitress comes over and sets down our “assorted pleasures” dim sum, and I reach for a piece of gift-wrapped chicken. Just like always, I burn my thumb on the hot foil wrapping when I try to open it up. “Which one are you working on now?”

“Donahue, Capell, and Michelson. You’d think a bunch of lawyers would be OK with access to an open bar and the musical stylings of whatever cheesy cover band they book every year, but they’re pretty big on the design.” She pinches a pot sticker with her chopsticks.

“What was the direction?”

Miko sorts through the piles of paperwork in front of her before finding the scrap she’s looking for. She reads her notes to me.

“Elegant but unique. Whimsical without being gauche.”

“Not very specific, are they?”

“Not this client, no. I’m just trying to think of something we haven’t already done.”

I stab the last morsel of chicken on my plate. “What about an Asian theme?” I point around the restaurant with my fork.

Miko looks at me like I’ve just suggested vomit as decor inspiration.

“Landon, that idea is long dead and the time of death was somewhere back in 2001. Also, nobody does
overt
anymore. It’s all about subtlety in a theme or statement in an element.”

“Um, can you translate that for the new kid?” I stare at her, confused, and take another sip of my cocktail.

“It’s like this, you either have a sort of underlying theme that guides your hand with the decor . . . maybe the type of flowers or the colors you use. Or you have some big-impact statement piece at the party and everything else is just there to help show it off.”

“OK, I get it. Let me try again.” I look around for inspiration, but the decor in the restaurant is sort of nondescript. I give up and go back to my cocktail, hoping it will offer some insight. And as it turns out . . .

“What about this?” I hold up the little red drink umbrella.

“You’re kidding, right? Drink umbrellas are beyond cheesy.”

“Not a drink umbrella, dummy! What about regular umbrellas? I saw a wedding once in a magazine where they hung painted Japanese parasols upside down from the ceiling and it was really pretty.” I hold the little umbrella upside down to illustrate the point.

“Hmmm.” Miko considers it a moment. “I feel like someone did an art installation like that a few years ago. They were all the same color, I think.”

I open my laptop and Google for a better example of what she’s talking about. The page fills with various pictures of the example she’s mentioned. Red umbrellas hang open, upside down, and create a canopy down the middle of the street. The effect is striking. I spin it around to show her.

“Could this be your statement element?”

Miko looks at the screen intently, and I start babbling to further support my theory.

“I mean, the ceilings in the ballroom are really high, so maybe you could, I don’t know, create a trail of umbrellas that kind of float there. You could light them from above so they sort of glow? And the rest of the lighting and decor could be subtle so it’s like the whole party sort of wraps around under this magical little canopy.”

She smiles at me with a bemused expression on her face.

“What?” I ask nervously. “Is it terrible?”

“It’s chic, it’s different, it’s impactful without being too expensive.” Her expression turns into a full-blown grin.

“Hot damn, intern; you just designed your first party!”

I laugh loudly, thrilled that she likes my idea. We start brainstorming other ideas and different ways to set up the space to best highlight the design. Once we get the layout nailed down, we celebrate this milestone in my career by splitting the last vegetable spring roll.