This One Is Mine: A Novel (28 page)

Kurt stopped at the light at Mulholland and checked his hair. His curls always looked sharpest two weeks after a perm. And the goatee was a nice addition. The single gold hoop earring was pure inspiration, which came to him while chanting. This Captain Morgan look was a keeper.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer

Count the headlights on the highway

Lay me down in sheets of linen

You had a busy day today.

The light turned green. Kurt trusted that the universe was leading him to David Parry’s for a reason. He just needed to stay openhearted when the opportunity presented itself. He turned off the radio and chanted the rest of the way there.

“Nam My
h
Renge Ky
, Nam My
h
Renge Ky
, Nam My
h
Renge Ky
. . . .”

W
HEN
Violet had offered Sally and her entourage the “spare bedroom” to use as her bridal suite, Sally couldn’t picture it. That’s because there was nothing to picture! The room was the size of a postage stamp, barely big enough for the measly twin bed shoved in the corner. Here Sally sat, having her hair ironed by Clay, a ghoulishly Botoxed, brow-lifted, and spray-tanned hairdresser.

“Ouch! That burned my scalp!” Sally swatted his hand away.

The door opened, knocking into a tiny Vietnamese manicurist who carried a pan of swaying soapy water. A caterer, balancing plastic-wrapped cookie sheets, entered and zeroed in on a small dresser piled with purses. “Whose are those?”

“Mine,” offered the old-lady makeup artist from the bed, where she lounged on her side, recovering from “the altitude.” Her name was Fern and she smelled musty. Who knew where Pam had dug her and the rest of these clowns up?

“I’m going to need to move them,” announced the caterer.

“Wait a second!” Sally jumped up and accidentally flipped over the pan of water.

“Oh no!” squawked the manicurist.

“This is the
bridal suite!
” Sally blocked the caterer from the flat surface. “You can’t put those here.”

“Is that sushi?” asked Fern, coming to life.

“Soft-shell crab rolls,” said the caterer. “Have one.”

“No!” Sally said. “Stop that! They’re all about to touch me. Put those somewhere else! Where’s Pam? Could someone get Pam!”

“Honey, I need you to sit down,” said the hairdresser.

“Is my scalp burned?” Sally patted her forehead.

“Your scalp is not burned.”

“It’s still stinging.” Sally went to the teensy bathroom and examined her hairline in the mirror. She could make out a faint red mark. “There it is,” she told Clay, not a little triumphantly. “A burn.”

“So Fern will fix it with powder,” he said.

“Hunh?” Fern looked up from her deteriorating sushi roll and touched Sally’s face with roe-speckled fingers.

Sally yelped. “Wash your hands! They’re covered in fish!” She felt her face. Tiny orange fish eggs stuck to her fingers. “Oh, my God! Where’s Pam? Or Maryam or anyone? I need help! Did someone call Pam?”

“Everyone looks so beautiful,” hummed Fern, perched at the window.

“My guests are arriving?” Sally jumped out of her chair.

“I
will
burn you next time you do that.” Clay slung the curling iron over his shoulder.

Sally peeked through the blinds. A familiar Escalade pulled up to the valets.

“Nora and Jordan Ross are here!” Sally cried.

Nora emerged, draped in yards and yards of chiffon. Sally prayed that Nora would identify herself as Sally’s friend, not a Core-de-Ballet student. Sally wanted no accountability for
that
body. Nora had some kind of Band-Aid on her cheek. Why was it that you reached a certain age and you suddenly had no qualms about leaving the house with Band-Aids on your face? The passenger door opened, and out climbed Nora’s son, J.J.

“I didn’t invite
him!
” Sally’s eyes widened. “Where’s Jordan? Don’t tell me
that boy
is Nora’s plus one!” The valet got in the car and zoomed away.

“Relax!” laughed the hairdresser.

“You have no idea!” spit Sally. “That boy is autistic.”

“He looks very sweet,” said Fern.

“Yes, but he could throw a fit and ruin everything!”

The manicurist, ready with a pair of cuticle scissors, tapped one of Sally’s feet. Sally would be wearing closed-toe pumps, of course. Still, she wanted her feet to be beautiful underneath.

“No cut cuticles,” Sally said. “Only polish.”

The hairdresser opened the door and shouted into the hallway, “Can someone please tranquilize the bride? And me, too, while you’re at it!”

“That is
not
funny!” Sally fought back tears. She had made a special trip to the foot doctor yesterday to get her nails cut. “I just want nail polish.”

“Polish?” asked the Vietnamese woman. Her accent made it sound as if she were talking around a big ice cube in her mouth.

“Polish only. No cutting.”

Finally, Pam traipsed in, swinging a glass of champagne. “The peach Bellinis are to die for,” she said. “I’m taking orders.”

“Get us all doubles!” said the hairdresser. “With a Valium chaser.”

“Pam!” Sally grabbed the wedding planner. “We’ve got to move Nora Ross. She brought her son instead of her husband.”

“No Jordan Ross?” Pam pouted. “Boo-hoo. I hear he messes around.”

“Put them at table sixteen,” Sally said, “with Maryam and the people from the gym.”