Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? (5 page)

“I
got an A on my first diary entry!” Philippa squealed, her pink-and-white face looming over the rim of my cubicle on Tuesday afternoon. “I am
so
getting promoted to assistant editor at my next performance review!”

My diary entry had no grade. Apparently, it was so far afield from what Astrid wanted that it didn’t even merit a D+ for effort.

“What did you get?” Philippa asked.

I was saved from answering by the ringing of Philippa’s phone.

“Philippa Wills, editorial assistant,
Wow Weddings
magazine,” she chirped into the receiver. A moment of silence. A happy shriek. “Hi, Parker! I love you too, sweetsums. No,
you’re
sweetsums. No,
you
are! Okay, bye, Parkie.”

Parker Gersh was not a Parkie.

Philippa’s face appeared over my cubicle again. “I’m getting married—and to the greatest guy on earth!” she
trilled. “And it’s all thanks to you, Eloise! Four months ago, I didn’t even have a boyfriend! And now I’m getting married. Whoo-hoo!”

Four months ago, when I thought I’d been having a private telephone conversation with Jane in my cubicle, Philippa had poked her head in the moment I hung up and said, “At least you
have
a love life, Eloise. At least you
have
a boyfriend, even if he’s always away on business with whatshername—What
is
her name, his flirty co-worker who’s always all over him?”

Did Philippa listen to every phone conversation I had? Apparently so.

“Ashley,” I’d said.
But you can call me Ash because I smolder.
Really. I heard her say it twice at Noah’s company Christmas party last month.

“That’s right,
Ashley.
It’s number two on my list of baby names—not that I even have a boyfriend, let alone a husband. Let alone a baby! Hey, which do you like better for a girl—Ashley or Hayley?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. After a five-minute monologue on the merits of each name in turn, she sat herself down in my guest chair and told me every detail of her lack of a love life at age twenty-five. I realized the only way to shut her up was to find her someone to date. So a few days later, when Noah returned from his latest trip, I asked him if he knew anyone to set Philippa up with, someone sort of nerdy yet polished. A refined geek. He came up with Parker Gersh,
Hot News
’s managing editor at age twenty-seven. For their first date, the four of us went out for dinner, and four months later Philippa waltzed into work with a two-carat diamond ring from Tiffany’s sparkling on her finger.

She insisted she owed her happiness all to me and Noah,
that both of us simply
had
to be in their wedding as bridesmaid and usher. From that moment on, she’d tortured me with what she referred to as my bridesmaidly duty: flipping through bride magazines on our lunch hour, attending the New Brides Expo at the Javitz Center, listening to every single thing Parker Gersh said and did. When I myself came to work with my own ring, she said, “Fabulous! Now we’ll be in
each other’s
weddings!” (It was then that Astrid happened by, and none too soon, since Philippa had been about to put deposits down on a reception site.)

Just like that, Philippa was one of my bridesmaids. Three or four or ten times a day ever since, she’d dropped by my cubicle to talk wedding, and I’d gleaned that she wasn’t close to her family and had no girlfriends. None. My girlfriends were, outside of my grandmother, the most important people in the world to me. I didn’t know what I’d do without them. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have no friends. Had Philippa not gone to high school? College? Work?

“The Modern Bride and the Classic Bride are wanted in the conference room for a meeting,” announced Astrid’s assistant.

Philippa’s face disappeared. I could hear her shoes clicking in the hallway as she ran.

When I walked into the conference room, I had to blink. Twice. Where was I? The set of a horror movie?

One end of the room had been turned into a dominatrix’s parlor. The other end was pure Laura Ashley. Both ends were clearly created out of Astrid’s office furniture.

Philippa sat on a tall-backed toile-covered chair beside a lace-covered table. She was ogling the two wrapped gifts on the table. Behind her was a backdrop of a living room.
A fake window with blue-and-white-checked curtains. Wood furniture, heavy on the Americana. A vase of sunflowers. A bookcase with…quelle surprise, the classics.
Portrait of a Lady
was prominent.

At the other end of the room was Astrid’s bloodred leather ottoman. Propped behind it was another backdrop featuring the living room of a vampire’s New York City penthouse. The walls were painted gunmetal. There was one window, with a drawn shade that looked to be made of aluminum foil. A sofa, seemingly made of concrete. A coffee table made entirely of Popsicle sticks.

“Eloise, please seat yourself in the Modern Bride’s dwelling,” Astrid said.

“Which one is it?” I asked, but no one even cracked a smile.

I sat on the leather ottoman. Next to it was Astrid’s tray table, imprinted with a subway map of New York City, upon which sat two boxes wrapped in smiley-face paper.

Astrid clapped once. “I’ve come up with a brilliant promotional campaign for the Today’s Bride feature.”

There were awed whispers of “just brilliant” from her minions.

“We’ll run promos in the April and May issues with a photo shoot of the Classic Bride and the Modern Bride opening two engagement gifts in their homes, allowing the
Wow
readership a personal glimpse inside your private worlds.”

People were going to think I lived here?
I thought, eyeing the metal walls and Popsicle-stick coffee table.

“Readers will be invited into your homes to share in the experience as you each open two gifts,” Astrid continued. “One that suits your personality and one that
doesn’t. You’ll smile for the gift that suits and you’ll facially express your displeasure at the one that doesn’t.”

Oh, brother.

Devlin eyed me and let out a disgusted breath. “Somebody fix Eloise’s hair—it’s too bouncy today. Press it more against her head.”

The beauty editor ran over and pressed the sides of my hair against my ears. “Much more modern,” she affirmed before flitting away.

“I want it flatter,” Devlin ordered, shaking his head. “Let’s start with the Classic Bride.” He turned his attention to Philippa. “I want to capture you looking at the gifts with pure excitement.”

“Yet not greedy excitement,” Astrid interjected. “The Classic Bride appreciates the tradition of gift giving, yet she is humble.”

Philippa wasn’t. She ogled her gifts with the intensity I reserved for chocolate.

“
Not
greedy, Philippa!” Devlin shouted. She toned it down, and he shot a Polaroid. He and Astrid studied it, moved Philippa’s seat and table a bit to the left (she was slightly blocking the row of classic books on the backdrop), and then Devlin shot a couple of rolls of film. “Okay, now I want you to open the silver-wrapped present and beam with joy when you see what’s inside.”

Philippa grabbed it and ripped open the gift, but she didn’t beam.

“I said to beam with joy!” Devlin scolded.

“But it’s an iron,” Philippa pointed out. “It’s hard to beam at an iron. And I’ve already got one, a good one—”

“Philippa, now we have to waste valuable working time
rewrapping the iron,” Astrid cut in with a frown. She snapped, and her assistant grabbed the iron and made quick work of the beautiful wrap job. “Again, Philippa.”

Philippa reopened the gift and fake smiled.

She was supposed to “facially express” slight dismay as she opened the next gift, touching her hand to her heart with an “oh my” expression. But when Philippa saw the kitschy wineglasses with tiny cartoon kissy couples hand-painted, she squealed with delight. “I love these!”

They were cute, but nothing you’d want to drink wine out of.

“Philippa, you are supposed to show
displeasure
at the wineglasses,” Astrid said. “They are not a traditional gift that befits the taste of the Classic Bride. Get it?”

One Astrid snap later and her assistant was rewrapping the wineglasses.

Philippa unwrapped the glasses again—and giggled with delight.

Astrid glared at her. Devlin sighed with disgust. “Let’s move on to the Modern Bride,” Astrid said, continuing to glare at Philippa.

I was instructed to open the smaller of the two gifts on my table and flash a huge smile. I unwrapped and frowned. Inside were two more of the cartoon wineglasses that Philippa adored.

Devlin slapped his hand against the table. “Eloise, you’re supposed to smile!”

But I hate these stupid glasses!

Astrid snapped. I reopened. I smiled as best I could.

I did well with the gift I was supposed to sneer at. A gold-plated mini-broom and dustpan set, it looked exactly like the one Dottie Benjamin had sent a couple of days ago as an engagement gift with a little note:

Dear Noah and Eloise,

I told everyone “no gifts” at the engagement party I’m hosting next weekend, but how could I not send my little boy and his bride-to-be a “small something” to get rid of all those dust bunnies? You’re not the “Modern Bride” for nothing, El. Hee-hee—just kidding! See you this weekend, Love, Mom and Dad Benjamin

I’d torn up the card in a hundred tiny pieces and threw the stupid mini-broom and dustpan in the garbage can. An hour later, I pulled them out (it took me an hour to pick off the coffee grounds and stewed tomatoes), just in case Mrs. Benjamin needed to sweep something up during a visit. And she did like to visit. And sweep dust bunnies out from under the sofa.

“That was great, Eloise,” Devlin said. “Let’s get another of you holding the broom by the handle as though it were a dead raccoon.”

What?

Apparently, that was the expression on my face at the moment, because Devlin began clicking away.

Wait a minute! “No!” I told him. “You can’t put this in the magazine! I received this exact broom set from my mother-in-law-to-be!”

Devlin chuckled. “That’s quite funny, actually. I’m sure your future mother-in-law has a sense of humor.”

All the women in the conference room turned to stare at Devlin with
you’re definitely not married
eyes.

Dottie Benjamin did not have a sense of humor. What she had was a warped point of view.

The day after I moved into Noah’s apartment, his parents had come over for our housewarming with resigned expressions and a droopy spider plant. “Herbert and I are
traditionalists,
dear,” Mrs. Benjamin had said. “We don’t believe in living together. Even if you eventually marry, it’s not the same. Anyway, in my day, a man didn’t buy the cow when he got the milk for free. So if you did marry, you’d still be a free cow.”

That’s almost verbatim, really.

My grandmother had a good laugh over that entire episode. “There’s nothing wrong with living with a man, marriage or no marriage,” Grams had said. “If I’d tested out your grandfather before saying my vows, I might have run for the hills.”

Thank God for my grandmother.

“Devlin, it’s not funny,” I yelped. “She’ll think I’m making fun of her gift!”

As Devlin slipped his camera into its case, Astrid said, “Eloise, there’s a reason neither you nor Philippa have photo approval—if we let you pick and choose every little photo, nothing would be printed. You’d say you looked fat or that your hair looked too brassy or that you had something in your teeth.”

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

This was so much worse than handing over control to bossy relatives. I’d handed over control to a bossy…boss.

In my in-box, as though it were one of
Wow
’s to-the-circular-file memos about wasting copy paper or a warning that lunch was one hour, not one hour and fifteen minutes, was the Modern Bride’s Wedding Plans Schedule.

I picked up the three-page packet, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and started reading.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

I was getting married on February 29.

Take head, thump on desk. Hard. Repeat.

Why did this year happen to be a leap year? Why, why, why?

Modern Bride’s Wedding Date: February 29: Marrying on a day that comes only once every four years is a truly modern thing to do.

Take head, thump on desk. Again.

My friends were wearing rubber dresses to my wedding, the anniversary of which I would celebrate only every four years.

February 29 was two months from now. Less than two months, really.

It could take me eight weeks alone to work up the guts to tell Astrid that my bridesmaids were not wearing rubber to my wedding. That I wasn’t getting married on leap year. That they weren’t running that photo of me grimacing in pain over the mini-broom and dustpan set.

With one eye opened, I read the rest of the schedule.

Wedding-gown shopping:
For photographs, please bring along one of the following: a mother, a grandmother or your maid or matron of honor. Eloise, as the Modern Bride, if you have a gay male friend, you may substitute him. Note: Veil and other accessories to be chosen as well.

Rings:
Please have your groom available for this shoot.

Caterer:
Please have groom available.

Registry:
Please have older family member available.

Honeymoon: Modern Bride and Classic Bride only.

Invitations:
Personal guest list of no more than fifty people (advertisers will be invited, of course) by February 1.