THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1) (6 page)

One for punctuality, I got to Enid Moore’s office early. Located not far from Conquest Broadcasting’s headquarters, it was housed in a lovely two-story brick townhouse right off fashionable Robertson Boulevard. Upon entering it, I was greeted by a stylishly dressed male receptionist, handsome enough to be called pretty.

“You must be Jennifer.” His voice was effete yet warm.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Have a seat, sweetie. I’ll let Enid know you’re here. Can I get you some tea or water in the meantime?”

“I’m fine,” I said, plunking down on the very formal loveseat and soaking in my surroundings.

The reception area was elegantly decorated in shades of ivory, all silk and gilt, and lit by a crystal chandelier. Antique oil paintings of aristocratic brides were artfully scattered on the walls. Soft classical music piped through hidden speakers.

The coffee table in front of me was lined with impeccably arranged bridal magazines from around the world. In the center was a thick leather-bound album labeled “Moore is More.” I lifted it into my lap and began flipping through the parchment leaves. Page after page was filled with photos of events that Enid had created. My eyes widened. Each event was more extravagant than the one before—ranging from a baseball-themed bar mitzvah featuring namesake baseballs at every seat and a life-sized ice sculpture of a young boy swinging a bat—oh my God, it was thirteen-year-old Blake!—to a Cinderella-themed wedding, complete with a pumpkin-shaped horse-driven carriage carrying the bride and groom and flower-entwined cages of white mice for centerpieces. I shivered, not knowing if the mice were real or not.

The sound of an intercom buzzed in my ear. I looked up from the album.

“Enid can see you now,” said the receptionist. “Her office is upstairs.” With a roll of his twinkly blue eyes, he wished me good luck.

I set the album back on the coffee table and clambered up the marble stairs. As I neared the last step, a shrill voice pierced the air.

“I personally don’t care if you have to rent a private plane and go to France yourself. My client wants
fresh
mussels flown in from the Côte D’Azur. Period!”

Enid was still on her cell phone when I stepped into her office. She acknowledged me by lifting a perfectly manicured bony finger that silently said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Studying her spacious office, which was even more elegant than the reception area, I took a seat on a gold-leafed velvet armchair facing her desk. I kept my purse on my lap while she finished up her call.

“I will not take no as an answer. You’re fired!” With a loud, exasperated huff, she terminated the call and slammed her phone onto her pristine desk, which looked to be a museum quality antique. My eyes stayed on her as she lifted, pinky finger out, a cup of tea.

For a woman likely in her fifties, she was extremely beautiful though surely preserved with the help of some nips and tucks and the magic of Botox. Her tight-skinned face with its high cheekbones and emerald eyes was made even more regal by her tightly pulled back jet-black hair. Substantial diamonds glittered on her earlobes, and a pair of pearl encrusted reading glasses dangled from a gilt chain and rested on her ivory silk blouse. She twitched a small smile. Something told me that was as far as her mouth ever went to avoid smile lines and other wrinkles. There was seriously not a line on her face.

“Sorry about that. A ridiculously impossible vendor. Trust me, he won’t be working in this town again.” Her voice was now deep and breathy.

“No problem,” I squeaked, admittedly intimidated by her.

“Well, let’s get down to business. I’m extremely busy and am doing my dear friend Helen a big favor by squeezing you into my jam-packed schedule. Consider yourself lucky.” She gave me the once-over. “I do hope you own a pair of contacts. Those hideous eyeglasses will never do on your wedding day.”

“I do,” I muttered, not happy with her insult. I liked my tortoiseshell glasses. They suited me.

“Good. One less thing to worry about. As you know, Helen wants her son’s wedding to be the wedding of the century.”

I nodded wordlessly.

She took a sip of her tea and then set the flowery bone china cup down. “I always thought my daughter would end up with Blake. Helen and I used to joke about it all the time.”

A soupçon of suspicion niggled me. I wondered who her daughter was. My father’s words of wisdom—curiosity killed the cat—stopped me from asking.

Enid sighed. “Bygones are bygones. Though you’re not exactly in Blake’s league—or my daughter’s—I can’t let my dear friend Helen down.”

Internally, I cringed. How dare this haughty woman insult me like that? I had the burning urge to lash out at her and defend myself, but I bit down on my tongue. Starting things off badly wouldn’t benefit anyone.

“Did Helen tell you anything about the way I work?”

“Not really.” But I was already getting an idea.

“My motto, ‘Moore is more’ has made me the most sought after event planner in Los Angeles. In fact, the world. I just got back from Dubai where I created an
Arabian Nights
wedding for a young Saudi princess. At the reception, the bride and groom came flying in on a magic carpet. We’re going to have to top that, aren’t we?” She flashed that half-smile again.

Speechless, I nodded my head like one of those bobble head dolls. Gah! I just wanted something simple and elegant. I guess she never heard of the expression: Less is more.

“So tell me, do you have a favorite movie?”

What did that have to do with my wedding? I searched my mind. I loved animated movies and had several favorites, among them
Frozen
,
Despicable Me,
and
The Little
Mermaid.
I randomly spewed the latter.

Enid’s almond-shaped eyes lit up. “Fabulous. I love it. We have a theme.”

“A theme?”

“Darling, all my events have themes. Yours will be an underwater fantasy. I can see it now. Guests will dance on a glass-topped aquarium filled with tropical fish of all sorts. You’ll get married under a canopy encrusted with exotic seashells. We’ll do a coral and white color scheme, and at the reception, we’ll have stations of seafood flown in from all over the world—from fresh sushi made by the chef I work with in Japan to a boatful of shrimp straight from the Louisiana bayou. And of course, mounds of Beluga caviar from my preferred vendor in Russia.”

As I listened, unable to get a word in, her voice grew more excited, and she began gesturing dramatically with her hands. “And pearls! What fun we can have with them! Hmm. Maybe pearl encrusted invitations. Ooh! Maybe we’ll place them in giant iridescent plastic clamshells. With oyster white bows! A first! And of course, edible pearls all over the ocean-inspired wedding cake. And your dress. Don’t even get me started on that. I’ll have to call Monique right away.”

“Monique?” I peeped. Talking about clams, I was clamming up.

Enid shot me a quizzical look. “Monique Hervé. She’s one of my dearest friends as well as Helen’s. Anyone who’s anything in this town has a gown custom-designed by Monique. I’m sure you saw the one Star Davis was wearing at her nuptials, which, by the way, I coordinated. It was on the cover of
In Style
.”

No, I didn’t and I didn’t care. There was only one person in the world that was designing my dress. “Excuse me, Enid, but I already have a designer in mind.”

She looked taken aback. Unable to lift her brows or scowl, she pursed her fire-engine red lips. “Really? And who might that be?” Her voice was frosty. She obviously didn’t like being challenged.

“Chaz Clearfield.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“A young, up-and-coming designer. He’s very talented and happens to be one of my best friends.”

Enid’s eyes bugged out. Suddenly, she reminded me of Cruella de Vil, and in fact, they could have been separated at birth.

“I. Don’t. Think. So.” Each word was a sharp staccato.

“What do you mean?”

“Monique is already committed. And the publicity this wedding will get will assure her hundreds of thousands of dollars in business. You should know she is a very big supporter of Helen’s charities.”

“But—”

Enid rudely cut me off. Her eyes flared. “Let’s get something straight, Jennifer. I’m in charge here. Helen has put her trust in me to create a spectacular wedding. There are no buts. Are we clear on this?”

Shriveling in my chair, I nodded.

“Good. With the ridiculously tight time frame, there’s absolutely no room for second guessing.”

I twitched a nervous smile, acknowledging her. In the near distance, I heard footsteps—the clickety-clack of high heels on the hardwood floor in the hallway.

“My assistant should be here any second. With my hectic schedule, she will be your point person.” She directed her gaze at the doorway. “And here she is.”

I swiveled my head and my jaw crashed to the floor.

Enid’s voice drifted into my ears. “This is my daughter, Katrina, who will be working with you.”

Shooting eye daggers my way, Enid’s daughter faced me.

Blake’s ex hook-up.

Kitty Kat.

Jennifer

I
couldn’t get my mouth to close. I was in a state of semi-shock. I just couldn’t believe who was standing at the entrance to Enid’s office. Kitty Kat. The catty bitch who had butted heads with me the night of Jaime Zander’s art gallery gala and then kissed Blake at some black tie affair while we were broken up. The photo of her all over Blake had appeared in numerous magazines, including
The Hollywood Reporter
. If it hadn’t been for Chaz, who’d been at the event and witnessed her aggressiveness, Blake and I might have never gotten back together.

Dressed to the nines in a body-hugging black mini-dress and six-inch stilettos, she was as stunning as ever. A tall, blond, D-cupped goddess who could have easily been a supermodel. The epitome of every woman Blake fucked until he met me. Her cat-green eyes, identical to her mother’s, continued to clash with mine.

Enid’s face lit up at the sight of her daughter. “Darling, don’t just stand there. Do come in.”

My gaze stayed glued on her as she slinked into her mother’s office. Her lustrous, shoulder-length tresses bounced like the hair you saw in one of those shampoo commercials. And her bountiful boobs bounced along in perfect rhythm. She held up her head proudly. Everything about her oozed confidence and sex.
And
trouble. My stomach twisted into a painful knot.

“Why, hello, Jennifer,” she huffed, as she lowered herself into the armchair next to mine. Her cloying floral scent, the same as her mother’s, assaulted me.

“Oh, I didn’t know you two knew each other,” chimed in Enid.

“Yes, Mommy. We met on one occasion.”

One time too many, I thought to myself.

Enid continued while my blood curdled. Her words about a potential marriage between Blake and Katrina whirled around in my head. Did Blake have some kind of history with her?

Enid cut my disturbing thoughts short. “Since you’ll be working so closely together, I thought it best you get to know each other. I’ve arranged a lunch for the two of you at The Ivy.”

“And when would that be?” I asked, hoping the answer would be never.

“Why today, of course. With the wedding so close, we can’t waste any time.”

“But—” I had a boatload of work with deadlines.

Enid’s eyes narrowed. “Jennifer, I thought we agreed. The word ‘but’ is no longer in your vocabulary. We must work on a very strict schedule.”

“Right.”

I didn’t know whom I despised more. And even worse, feared. Enid or her daughter.

*

The Ivy, the original outpost of the popular Santa Monica restaurant Blake and I frequented, was located on Robertson Boulevard, walking distance from Enid’s office. Except I needed to drive. Not thinking our initial meeting would last long, I’d parked my car in a metered space with a thirty-minute time limit. There was an underground parking structure located just down the street and that’s where I went. As I exited my car, a sharp pain stabbed at my gut. I winced. Just nerves, I told myself. The thought of having lunch with Kitty Kat was stressing me out.

I arrived at The Ivy before Kat and was shown to the umbrella-shaded patio table that had been reserved for us. As the waiter handed me a menu, I took in my surroundings. The place was bustling. Filled with slick Hollywood mover and shaker types, supermodels, and those philanthropic, fashionable ladies who lunched like Helen. I even spotted a couple of celebrities. I could handle coming to one of these Hollywood hot spots with Blake or Chaz, but by myself, I felt uncomfortable. Out of my league to use Enid’s phrase.

My eyes darted to the street, and I saw Kitty Kat pulling up to the valet in her black Mercedes convertible. An attendant ran to open her car door and she gracefully stepped out of it. She kissed and made small talk with a couple of stylish women, who were waiting for their cars, and then loped up to the equally attractive hostess. They hugged. Obviously, she was a regular here. She spotted me and strode over to our table. All eyes turned to look at the long-legged beauty.