THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1) (10 page)

And then one sound overtook them all. That of my tiger screaming to come. I moved my fingers to her clit, working it vigorously in circles the way she adored, and in a few breaths, she came with a roar. Craving my own release, I gave her one more forceful thrust, and as I exploded, the mattress crashed to the floor. Bang bang. Boing boing.

“Oh my God, Blake!” shouted stunned Jen as we went down.

“Fucking shit!” I growled, my cock still inside her.

Then we both burst out in hysterical laughter. I was laughing so hard it hurt, and Jen was practically in tears. After the stress of the last few days, laughing our asses off felt so fucking good. Still roaring with laughter, I cradled her head in my hands.

“Baby, we’re going mattress shopping right after this.”

“To replace this one?”

“No, baby, to buy us one just like it.”

Jennifer

O
ver the next few weeks, I learned that planning a wedding was a lot like producing a movie. It was a huge ordeal with much to commission, coordinate, and approve. Except unlike the erotic romance telenovelas I was overseeing, I was not the executive in charge of production. I would sum up the credits as follows:

Slate: Jen’s Wannabe Wedding

Executive In Charge of Production: Enid Moore

Co-Producer: Helen Bernstein

Associate Producer: Katrina Moore

Gopher: Yours Truly

I was the bride. I was supposed to be the star
and
executive producer. The one in charge. Making the decisions. Selecting and approving invitations, flower arrangements, the menu, and lots more. Even being catered to. But this was hardly the case. I was more like a dispensable extra from central casting.

Because of the tight time frame, much of our correspondence and decision-making was done online. And it wasn’t like I had a say. Whenever I got an e-mail from Enid regarding the wedding, it started off with two words “We have” As in…

We have created a Pininterest board to keep you abreast of our creative decisions. Please check it regularly. Today, I posted the most positively divine floral arrangement for the tables. A seascape of exotic flowers and seashells. Don’t you just love the coral pedestal?

I must say, however, she worked at breakneck speed and was super organized. She’d created a To Do List and a timeline. Within one week, the following had been accomplished:

*    A Save the Date had been sent to all twelve hundred potential guests via a Paperless Post custom design. Rather than a virtual envelope, a virtual scallop shell opened when you clicked on “You’re Invited.”

*    A caterer was in place. Claim to fame: the coveted
Vanity Fair
Oscar party.

*    A florist had been selected: “The Florist to the Stars.”

*    Extras had been hired to be part of my bridesmaid troupe. Per Enid, having only three—Blake’s sister Marcy, Vera Nichols, and Gloria Zander—would look “positively pathetic” in publicity photos. I only hoped none of Blake’s blond bimbos were among them.

*    Photographers were in place. A dozen of them. Many would be shooting photos for various magazines, including
In Style.

*    A videographer was in place. Actually, it was the production team from one of Conquest Broadcasting’s reality series.

*    A twenty-piece band had been hired. But Enid was still hoping the Disney orchestra would come perform.

*    Security was in place. There couldn’t be enough. Paparazzi and wedding crashers were likely to abound at the Hollywood wedding of the century.

And that was just a partial listing. There was so much more to do—or should I say sign off on—including the final wedding invitation (to Enid’s chagrin, the “right” pearls from her “preferred” supplier hadn’t yet arrived), setting up a wedding registry, locking the menu, and putting together a play list. I wouldn’t be surprised if Enid picked out all the gift items and decided what songs I should dance to with Blake and my father.

Last but not least, there was still the issue of my wedding dress. My dream dress. Or so I hoped it would be. Monique was out of town. I should have been thrilled at the prospect of meeting with her, but instead, the more time that passed by, the more I dreaded it.

My mom called me everyday to find out how things were going. So much of me wanted to unload on her. I missed her so much. I so wish she lived close by and could be here for me. I’m sure, if I asked, the Bernsteins with their billions would put her up (and my dad too) in a nano second, but that was so not my humble parents’ style. Nor mine. Moreover, Enid, the shark, would likely eat my poor my mother alive. I assured her everything was going well. The truth: I felt overwhelmed and disconnected from my own wedding. The most important day of my life. To make matters worse, Blake had to embark on his yearly round of meetings with SIN-TV affiliates, which meant he was going to be out of town, traveling across the country for two weeks.

“Tiger, I’m going to miss you,” he said on the morning of his whirlwind trip. Earlier, we’d fucked our brains out as if there were no tomorrow. “Are you going to be okay?”

I nodded. “The telenovelas are moving along great.”

Standing at the doorway, his roll-away bag by his feet, he tilted up my chin with a thumb. “I mean about the wedding and everything.”

I met his gaze. “Yes, baby, I’ll be fine, but I’m going to miss you terribly.”

“Same. I’ll text you whenever I can and let’s try to Skype every day. And you let me know if Enid or Kat cause you any problems.”

The thought of sexting him every day and Skyping him—and having virtual sex—cheered me up a little, but I knew the brunt of Enid and Kat was mine alone to bear while he was gone. Thank goodness, I hadn’t had to deal with Kat since that horrific lunch, but who knew how long that would last. Standing on my tippy-toes, I kissed Blake for a long time, not wanting to let go of his kissable lips, and not wanting to say good-bye.

That morning I got into my office, feeling overwhelmed and downtrodden. I already missed Blake. I booted up my computer. My inbox was besieged with a barrage of e-mails from Enid, all
Subject: Wedding Detail
. One, in particular, marked URGENT, captured my attention and I opened it immediately. It was straight and to the point.

We have our first dress fitting today. Details below. It’s imperative you be there. Be sure to bring a nude strapless bra and heels.

Where: L’Atelier de Monique Hervé

Address
:
8420 Melrose Place, 2nd floor

Time
:
Noon

My stomach bunched up. With nerves, not excitement. What was wrong with me? I should have been excited about picking out my dream gown but strangely wasn’t looking forward to it. Not one bit. And didn’t Enid have any idea I had a high-powered job? She just assumed I could drop everything I was doing and race to meet her. Two words resounded in my head.
No buts
. I checked my Outlook Calendar, and luckily, my schedule was open at lunchtime, though I had no time to fetch the heels and bra. I immediately speed-dialed an important number. I wasn’t going there alone.

*

I arrived at Monique’s atelier early. Having boned up on my French in preparation for the
Pearl
telenovela, I know that atelier meant studio. It was located just above her eponymous boutique on chic Melrose Place—a short drive from Enid’s office.

My eyes took in my surroundings. I felt like I was in some kind of fairy tale. Everything was white, gilt, and velvet with accents of girly hot pink. A regal crystal chandelier bathed everything in a warm glow, including breathtaking arrangements of fragrant white flowers on scattered pedestals. Above a glass console sat a huge, almost ceiling-high gold-leaf mirror, and in the corner, there was another massive tri-fold mirror. Bolts of tulle, lace, silk, and other fine fabrics were stored on built-in glass shelves, and elegant mannequins were clad in the most extravagant bridal dresses ever. There were also several racks of gowns gracing the marble floor.

A familiar breathy voice caught my attention. “Hello, dear.” Theatrically stepping out from a pair of pink velvet curtains was Helen, wearing a stunning one-shoulder coral gown and flanked by Enid and Kat, dressed almost identically in designer black V-necked body-hugging silk dresses. My jaw dropped.

“Oh, Helen,” I gushed with sincerity. “You look beautiful.” She truly did, the magnificent silk-satin gown accentuating her svelte figure and the color complementing her platinum hair, cerulean blue eyes, and alabaster skin.

“Thank you, my dear,” she beamed. “Monique is absolutely brilliant. She came up with the idea of the scalloped edges—so in tune with the theme of your wedding. By the way, Monique needs your mother’s measurements. She has an equally wonderful idea for an oyster-white suit for the mother of the bride.”

“Sure,” I murmured, wondering how my mother would take this and wanting her to look as fabulous as Helen. I suddenly missed her. Terribly. Wishing she was here with me on the day of my first fitting.

An attractive petite brunette woman emerged from a back room. She was clad in a stunning chartreuse sleeveless sheath with matching heels. A tape measure was draped around her neck.

“Helen, darling, you must take a look-see in the mirror.” I assumed she was Monique Hervé. I expected her to have some kind of foreign accent, but she didn’t. She instead sounded very Valley.

Helen slinked over to the three-way mirror to admire herself. “Oh, Monique! It’s positively divine.”

Enid echoed the sentiment while Kat’s poisonous eyes stayed focused on me. Monique turned her gaze to me and gave me the once-over. “So you must be the bride-to-be.”

“Yes, I’m Jennifer.”

She plastered a big fake smile on her face. “Wonderful. I have another very important client coming in shortly so let’s get started.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m waiting for someone.”
Where was he?

Enid sneered at me. “Dear, we can’t be wasting Monique’s precious time. She squeezed you in today as a favor to me.”

“Well, I guess I can start looking through the dresses on the racks.” Having perused bridal magazines, I had in mind what I wanted—something with a vintage feel, either flapper-like from the twenties or Grace Kelly-like from the fifties.

Monique rolled her eyes. “Please, darling, there’s no need. Enid and I have already chosen your dress.”

I felt my blood bubbling. Didn’t I—hello, the bride!—get a say?

My stormy eyes stayed fixed on Monique as she waltzed over to one of the racks and pulled out a gown. Folding it over her arm and not giving me the slightest chance to view it, she headed back my way and ushered me into the fitting room.

Fifteen minutes later, I shuffled out of the fitting room wearing “my” wedding dress and a pair of heels that were three sizes too big for me. Monique trailed behind me. Kat shot me a smirk.

“Take a look-see,” trilled Monique.

I wobbled over to the tri-fold mirror. I glimpsed all three angles of my bridal self and not one put a smile on my face. My heart sunk.

“It’s
magnifique!”
I heard Monique say.

Yes
, maybe
the dress was magnificent, but it was just not right for me. It was an extravagant shimmering white satin sheath that flared out in a cascade of ruffles below the knee. A mermaid-style dress, apropos to the wedding’s under-the-sea theme. I could barely fill out the strapless top which was encrusted with crystal starfish, and what was supposed to be a body-hugging column hung loosely on my petite, boyishly narrow body. It was so baggy you couldn’t even see my panty lines. The dress was definitely made for someone much taller and curvaceous. Someone like—

“Katrina, what do you think?” asked Enid, cutting my thoughts short.

She smirked again and snickered. “Personally, Mommy, I think it would look much better on me.”

Her words stung me like a stingray but ran true. That’s who this dress was made for. Blake’s wannabe bride.

Enid absorbed her daughter’s words and then turned to Monique. “Monique, darling, it
is
a little big.”

A little big? I was swimming in it. No pun intended.

Grabbing a heart-shaped pincushion from a nearby table, Monique asked me to step up onto a pedestal and began sizing the dress. “Don’t move,” she murmured, pinning the edges. My eyes stayed on my reflection in the three-way mirror. Even with all the nips and tucks (there were almost as many pins as there were crystals), the dress did nothing for me.

Monique admired her handiwork. “Much better. And we’ll pad the top, maybe add a couple of spaghetti straps to hold it up, and sew in a butt pad to give you some curves.”

“A butt pad?”

“Of course, darling. Everyone’s wearing them ever since Pippa wore one to the royal wedding.”

So I was going to be sitting on some kind of whoopee cushion at my wedding. My heart sank deeper as if an anchor was pulling it down. This was supposed to be one of the best days of my life, but it was so far from it. I felt like the Titanic.