Wedding Season (30 page)

“Shut up, Silverman,” Topher says, and kisses me.

“This movie has a very bad ending,” I tell him, and he stops kissing me. Without precisely intending to, I sit back down on the couch. He sits beside me, and puts his arms around me. He gives me the serious look again, and draws me closer. I am attempting to push him away when the door swings open, and a man and woman tumble into the room, laughing. I look up. The couple notices they have company. I shove Topher away, and he falls onto the floor. The woman stares at us. It is, of course, Ora. The young man with her stops laughing. It’s Damon. I feel suddenly and extremely sober but not, luckily, for long.

“Joy!”

“Damon.”

“Joy?” Topher looks at me slightly cross-eyed.

“Topher!” Ora has gone exceedingly pale.

“Hi,” Topher tells her.

“Topher? I mean, Ora?” For some reason this strikes me as funny. “I mean, Topher, you know Ora?”

“What do you mean, do I know Topher? Do
I
know Topher?” Ora goes from white to red with fury. “Oh, I don’t
believe
this. This cannot
possibly
be true.” She stalks toward the exit. I stare after her.

“You know her?” I ask Topher, who is getting up off the floor.

“I’ll explain later,” he says, and weavingly follows Ora out. The door slams shut behind them.

“I very much look forward to seeing you attempt that,” I call after him, as Damon drops down on the couch beside me. Two shifty, semitransparent doppelgängers of Damon sit down next to him.

“Hello,” I tell all three of him, and giggle. “I’m drunk.”

“Looks that way,” the three Damons agree.

“Are you following me? You’re supposed to be at the office. In New York.”

“Well, first of all, guy, it’s Saturday night.” The Damons flip their hair. I close my eyes. “Second, you sent me out here for work, remember? Screenplay, Transgression Enterprise, that stuff.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Right. And one of the ladies on the Transgression Enterprise just broke up with her man and she asked me to be her escort, and so here I am. Pretty cool, huh?” He studies me for a long moment. “So, what just happened in here?”

“That is an excellent question.” I sigh, and slouch into the cushions. “And one to which I’m not at all sure either you or I want an answer.”

“Gotcha,” Damon says. “Okay. You all right? Do you need anything?”

“I need,” I say, “to sleep.” And with that, I slip onto the floor, curl up under the love seat, and do so.

I
MEET HENRY AT PANTHEON
for a pre-Girls’ Night drink. Since my return from Los Angeles, I have refused to discuss the events that transpired there on the grounds that no events whatsoever transpired. Everything is just fine; that’s my story and I’ve stuck to it.

Alas, Henry knows me too well to believe it for one red-hot second. When I walk into the restaurant, she leaps from her bar stool and gallops to meet me. Her pale pink T-shirt is emblazoned with elegant script that reads
I only date crack whores.
She grabs me by the shoulders, peers down at me, and snorts with annoyance.

“You are such a goddamn liar.” Henry throws an arm around my waist and leads me to the bar. “I
knew
it. Your voice has been weird all week. You have some explaining to do.”

“Lovely to see you, too, Hank. How’s everything? How’s Delia? Everything set for the big day?”

Henry and Delia sorted things out a few weeks ago and, several premarital counseling sessions later, their wedding plans are back on track.

“Your diversionary tactics are pathetic, Jo.” Henry tosses her head. “Barkeep, a drink for my pathetic best man.”

“How was your Labor Day, little gal?” Luke ignores her and leans across the bar to kiss my cheek. My Labor Day, as
it happens, was spent in the company of the Winslow family, up in Maine, and I have vowed not to discuss it in polite society. “Hey, I got the invite for your engagement party,” Luke says. “Thanks, I’ll be there.”

“Go away now, barkeep. We’re having a girl talk.” Henry waves her fingers at Luke, who rolls his eyes and walks, very slowly, to the other end of the bar. “God, he’s so annoying. In that annoying sort of way.”

“One of these days he’s going to eighty-six you from this place and I, for one, will stand up and cheer.”

“Are you kidding? He loves it. Luke’s one of those men who thrives on abuse. He probably goes to a dominatrix on his nights off and gets whipped.”

“He doesn’t have to with you around.”

“Lucky him. Now what the fuck went down in L.A.?”

“I don’t think I want a best friend anymore, Hank. You’re fired.”

“And don’t spare the details—you know I’ll know if you leave anything out.”

S
HE’S RIGHT
, of course. So I relate, unexpurgated, what I can remember of Theo and Angelina’s wedding. The parts that come after the second bottle of champagne I recall with less than perfect clarity. I do know—not because memory serves but because Gabe told me so—that he spent nearly two hours looking for me, and located me asleep on the screening-room floor only after being tipped off by Damon, who helped him get me into a waiting car and back to the hotel.

Henry starts laughing more or less the instant I begin my tale; by the time I finish, she is convulsed with amusement.

“Thank you for your support,” I tell her. “Your compassion rivals the saints’.”

“Stop, stop! I have a cramp.” She laughs, gasping for air. “Jo, that is
funny.
Gabe must have laughed his ass off when you told him about it.” Henry swivels suddenly on her stool, gives me a piercing look, and throws her hands up. “Oh, good grief, Charlie Brown. You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell him what?” I raise an eyebrow at Henry. “That I accidentally almost made out with my high school boyfriend while he was dancing with the psycho-tart who appears to be obsessing over both of them? And whom I would mutilate out of unfounded petty jealousy given a quarter of a chance? I’m sure he’d be hugely entertained. So entertained that he’d take this nice diamond everyone admires so much and run screaming. What a good joke.”

“Luke!” Henry calls. “Emergency drinks!”

Luke eyes her from the other end of the bar and does not move.

“I’m betting he would find it funny, if
you
told him,” Henry says. “I’m thinking he’ll find it a hell of a lot less funny when Ora tells him, though.”

“When…
what?”
I consider fainting.

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you hadn’t already thought of that. It’d be just like her to do it. Jesus, can we get some service?”

“Mind your manners,” Luke calls back. “Try asking nicely.”

“Lucas, dear, would you be so very kind as to serve us another round? Pretty fucking please?”

Luke sighs and sidles toward us.

“I hadn’t thought of it.” I push my glass toward Luke and he refills it. “Oh, hell. Of course she would.”

“Lucas.” Henry turns to him, oozing sweetness. “May I ask you a personal question? If your girlfriend told you that she’d run in to an ex at a party, and that he got drunk and made a pass at her, what would you do?”

“Depends.” Luke hands her a fresh martini. “Probably something mature and levelheaded like hunt the guy down and beat him to a pulp.”

“Defending her honor.” Henry claps her hands together. “That’s so macho and adorable of you. Okay, but what if she didn’t care, if she just thought the whole thing was funny? Shut up, Joy. Don’t interrupt.”

“I don’t know. Just forget it as best I could, I guess. And dream about beating him to a pulp.”

“Right.” Henry looks at me triumphantly. “But what if she didn’t tell you? What if she kept it secret, and then someone
else
told you? Someone who saw it happen?”

“I guess I’d probably break up with her. If she didn’t just tell me herself, seems like she’s got something to hide, or something to feel guilty about. Doesn’t seem like a trustworthy girl would act that way.”

“Objection. Leading.” I point at Henry.

“Oh, stop, I was not.”

“Were, too.”

“Was not.”

“Anyway,” I say, turning to Luke, “don’t you think that’s a little extreme? Breaking up with her, just like that? Maybe she had her reasons for not mentioning it, and you’d just—”

“Want to tell me what this is all about?” Luke asks.

“Hey, Henry,” says Anabel Kappler, setting her purse on the bar. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re early,” Henry tells Anabel.

“I’m confused,” I tell Henry.

“Stop the fucking presses,” Henry says.

“I think I met you at Theo’s wedding last week.” Anabel sits next to me. “Right? You work with my husband, Hector?” She smiles and turns to Luke. “A kir royale, please.”

“We were just talking about that wedding.” Henry kisses Anabel on both cheeks. “What were you doing there?”

“It was my husband’s nephew’s wedding.”

“And your husband works with Invisible Inc.?” Henry plucks an olive from her glass and studies it. “Small white world.”

You don’t know the half of it, I think to myself.

“Invisible ink?” Anabel frowns.

“My company. We just did an assignment for him.” I wave off the questions. “How do you know each other?”

“Love at first sight.” Henry flutters her lashes at Anabel. “We met at that lingerie store up near Union Square earlier this summer.”

“Bonded over push-up bras,” Anabel says.

“Very romantic,” I say.

“Joy’s the jealous type. So watch out, Bel. And speaking of romance, let me get your opinion on something.”

“Hank, please.” I put my head down on the bar. “Please drop it.”

“Bel, if your husband told you he’d run in to a former girlfriend at a party, and she made the moves on him, what would you do?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Aha! Now, what if he didn’t tell you, but somebody else saw it happen, and they told you. Then what would you do?”

“Nothing, Henry.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all? Not even have a little temper tantrum?”

“Nothing at all.” Anabel sips her drink.

“Oh, go on.” Henry pokes her shoulder. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe it, Henry. My husband is having an affair. I couldn’t care less. Cheers.” Anabel raises her glass to us. I
swallow my drink the wrong way, choke on an ice cube, and am taken by a violent coughing fit.

“How do you know? Did he tell you?” Henry asks, slapping my back.

“No, of course not. But it’s not hard to figure out.” Anabel hands me a napkin.

“And you really don’t mind, Bel? Honestly?”

“No. I honestly don’t.”

“I used to think I wouldn’t.” Henry looks thoughtful. “How’s that work for you?”

“I married Hector for money,” Anabel says. “Oh, please, don’t look so shocked. I wanted security, Henry. I wanted comfort. That’s what I get. Hector does love me, I think. In his way. But it doesn’t matter that much. He takes good care of me, and he’s kind to me. That’s all I care about. I know this may sound very Victorian to you.”

“It sounds very wacko to me,” Henry tells her. “No offense.”

“None taken. But it’s not like nobody’s ever done it before. Marriage was all about financial security until maybe fifty years ago. And social status. Right? So what’s the big deal?” Anabel looks to me for confirmation. I stare back, trying to factor this new twist into my moral dilemma regarding her husband’s account with my firm. “Look,” she continues, “I’ve tried the true love thing. I was engaged to a guy I was madly in love with. He broke it off three days before the wedding and ran off with some other woman.”

“Oh, god,” Henry says. “I’m so sorry. That sucks.”

“It was pretty bad. I moped around for a couple of years, and then I met Hector. We dated for a while, and eventually he asked me to marry him. I’d been trying to make it as an actress, and got myself into thousands and thousands of dollars of debt, and Hector made it clear that he’d bail me out, and take care of me.” Anabel tucks a strand of bright red hair
behind her ear. I notice her engagement ring, which sports a diamond the size of a small dog. “I wasn’t hunting for a rich husband,” she says. “It just happened that way. I’d decided I wasn’t really interested in romance. I don’t think I could even feel that way about anyone again. But I want kids. I want a safe life. I just wanted out of the game, you know? Hector offered me all that. And he’s a great guy. He’s good to me. He’ll be a great father. So I thought, why not?”

“And you said yes.” Henry gives her a thumbs-up.

“I said yes.”

She said yes, I think to myself. She signed on for it. I should be comforted to know that Hector’s affair, in which I may or may not be implicated, is causing no grief. Why is it, then, that I feel so unsettled? Am I, after all, as Topher insisted, a romantic—or is it some other discrepancy that is making me feel so weird and cranky?

“I still don’t get why you don’t care about the affair, though,” Henry says.

“Why should I?” Anabel takes a sip of her drink. “I know he won’t leave me. I’m the trophy wife.” She smiles. Henry laughs. I blanch. I can’t tell whether she’s joking. “Honestly,” Anabel says, “there’s no reason it would bother me. He’s just as good to me as he ever was. His affairs don’t deprive me of anything because, remember, I was never in it for that kind of romance. Although—it’s funny, Hector’s really not the romantic type anyway. But when he proposed to me, my god. It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard. It was like some angel was speaking through him. I think I was actually in love with him for a day or two just because of the proposal.” She stares into space for a few moments, then shakes her head. “I got over it before I accepted him, though.”