Cara Lockwood Page 2

  girl, do something about that hair of yours!"

  My hand went up to my head, where I could feel the dark strands hanging loose from the clip I had naively thought would hold the Medusa-like mess atop my head. I smiled uneasily and began tugging

  and poking at the thick wavy wires as I backed slowly from her office.

  At that moment, the corner of the door jumped up from nowhere and slammed into my elbow. I yelped. G only clucked at me, raised her eyes heavenward, and shook her head. G always had a knack for making me feel like a fourteen-year-old with her jeans pockets stuffed with shoplifted lipsticks, and as a result, I always bumped into things when she watched me. It must be her critical scrutiny that makes me so uncomfortable. I'm not usually so clumsy.

  I padded down the hall rubbing my elbow (it really did hurt) and ducked into the master bath to fix my hair. G could hardly expect me to do so in the tiny little half bath near my cubbyhole, now, could she?

  The master bath had the best lighting, but unfortunately also had six mirrors in a semicircle, which enabled me to see my entire butt all at once (not exactly a sight anyone wants or needs to see, let me assure you). I wasn't sure how G stood the glass shrine of self-doubt (as I liked to call it), being slighdy plump in the hips, even for a healthy fifty-five-year-old. I assumed her incredible powers of self-actuali2ation made such petty self-esteem issues moot. I wished I had more of a talent for self-delusion.

  But then, I haven't told you what I look like, so you don't know. I suppose I could lie to you. Tell you that I'm a younger, shapelier Cindy Crawford. But I'm afraid I simply wouldn't be able to pull off that ridiculous lie. I mean, if my life story were ever turned into a made-for-TV movie, it's not like there would be a host of A-list stars lining up to play me, if you know what I mean. The best I could hope for would be Shannen Doherty. Diane, one of my best friends, says Minnie Driver or Andie MacDowell would be better fits, but I think she's just being nice and lying like good friends are supposed to do.

  I'm of average height, dark-haired (jet black, really), and very white-skinned. It's appalling how little

  I actually tan (I consider wearing shorts a danger to society, since my stark white legs have been known

  to blind passing motorists). I've got big brown eyes and thick eyelashes, admittedly my best features, a nondescript, forgettable nose, an average mouth that's neither pouty and sexy nor sleek and thin. I have straight teeth, thanks to two sets of braces in adolescence that probably did more harm to my self-esteem than a slight overbite ever would. I am, I guess, reasonably average in weight, but not thin by any means. I have one of those bodies that simply failed to respond to exercise of any kind. I'm convinced I could

  run a marathon and still weigh exactly the same. My muscles, if I do have them (and that's a fact in serious contention), don't understand the concept of self-improvement. They staunchly refuse to tighten up, grow stronger, do anything but sit there, all soft and formless, craving potato chips and French fries.

  And then there's my hair. My own mother called it a bird's nest all the while I grew up, partly because

  she couldn't get a comb through it despite all her best efforts. If a bird had taken up residence there, I'm sure I wouldn't have been able to find it, as my hair is so thick and curly that shampooing it effectively takes an hour. Using clips or pins is a losing battle, but one that I never really had the heart to stop fighting.

  I looked into one of the six mirrors and assessed the hair situation. It had sprung free of the new assortment of clips I had used to clamp it down, and was hanging in curly handfuls here, there, and everywhere. These weren't pretty, perfectly formed curls, mind you; these were straggly, frizzy, half-dead snakes. I looked like a member of Poison after a night of debauchery. I sighed, shook my

  hair free, wresded it back into a knot at the back of my neck, and barely managed to contain it with a rubber band. "Stay," I told it sternly, though it never listened to me, no matter how often I threatened

  to cut it all off.

  Back at my desk, I found Whiskers had left me one of her presents, a particularly large and gruesome specimen, and I only just managed to get it cleaned up before G's friend arrived.

  Her name was Missy Davenport. I am surprised to say that I liked her almost immediately, but not for any of the reasons one should like a person. Ms. Davenport was abrupt, bossy, and, technically, rude. And she wore fur, for goodness' sakes. (Ludicrous on two counts: 1. It was June and 95 degrees outside, and 2. Hadn't wearing fur pelts long since gone the way of leg warmers and frizzy perms?)

  I didn't think anybody remotely with a conscience wore fur, but then again, I also couldn't imagine anyone finding the courage to douse this old lady bulldog in red paint. She looked just like the sort who ate Green-peacers for breakfast.

  Ms. Davenport was taller than me, stouter for sure, and had an amber-colored, shellacked helmet atop

  her head, which I figured must be hair. Her face, stern, wrinkled, and absent of humor, reminded me strongly of the football coach from my high school, and at any moment I thought she might tell me to drop and do fifty.

  Instead, she barked, "You must be Lauren."

  "Ur, yes" I began, but she cut me off.

  "Quit babbling, girl," she huffed, impatiently whipping her mink stole around her large and, I must say, manly neck. "I don't have time for empty-headed remarks."

  Empty-headed? I was shocked and prepared to dislike her immensely, when Whiskers ran into the room, catching her eye.

  "You again," she said, turning to the animal. "I haven't forgotten what you've done to my Persian rug

  you little ninny." Ms. Davenport stomped her foot hard against the floorboards near where the cat was standing. Whiskers let out a frightened hiss and burst from the room as if she'd been electrocuted.

  "Thanks," I said, smiling. "You probably saved my desk from another desecration."

  Ms. Davenport grunted in what I thought might have been amusement, and then bellowed up the stairs: "When are you going to get rid of that filthy thing, G?"

  When no answer came, Ms. Davenport yelled again.

  "G? Where are you? Get down here!"

  G poked her head around the corner at the top of the stairs and smiled.

  "Missy! How good to see you."

  "Stuff the nonsense, G. I really can't take any more today."

  I admit that what I liked most about Ms. Davenport was how she put G and Whiskers in their respective places. It's terrible, I know, but I have such few pleasures at work, you must allow me this one.

  "How's your daughter?" G said, changing the subject. "Is she looking forward to her wedding?"

  "Daughter? Wedding?" Ms. Davenport looked baffled for an instant, then recovered. "G, you've got it

  all mixed up again. It's not Jenna who's having the problems; it's Darla, my niece, who's had the

  wedding from hell. Lord, G, I don't know how you ever got this agency off the ground with you mixing up everything like you do."

  G flushed slightly, and Ms. Davenport let out a gruff laugh. I thought she might lean over and punch

  G good-naturedly in the shoulder, like Coach Sanders would, but she didn't. "I'd say you're losing your memory faster than any of us, if you had a memory to lose!"

  I understood immediately that G realized it had been a mistake to have Ms. Davenport here in my presence. It went a long way toward undermining G's authority. G managed to amble on uncomfortably, sending me out of the room whenever she could, to fetch coffee or albums or some other such nonsense, so I only managed to hear bits and pieces of the conversation.

  The problem, as Ms. Davenport explained it, was the world was full of idiots, her niece and niece's

  fiancé included. I don't know exactly why she thought they were idiots, because I was sent out of the room to find an old photo album, but I do know that they had hired and fired one wedding consultant so far, for reasons I didn't get to hear. I became suddenly wary, because people who have a habit of firin
g wedding consultants aren't exactly the ideal clients, especially if they're related to an old and dear friend

  of one's boss. Needless to say, I had a very bad feeling about the whole situation.

  By the end of Ms. Davenports visit, it was decided by G that I would call the niece and set up lunch with her within the week, tomorrow if possible, as time was running out, if we were to bring about a wedding in three months. Meanwhile, at the mention of lunch, Ms. Davenport declared that she wanted an early one. As it was 10:30 in the morning, I couldn't imagine where they might find a restaurant open, but with the will of the two ladies, I was confident they would succeed in bullying some poor waiter into tossing them a salad.

  *

  Left alone, I decided it would be best to make the dreaded call to Ms. Davenports niece, Darla Tendaski. Darla, according to Ms. Davenport, might be an idiot, but she was a successful and very wealthy idiot, being the founder of her own public-relations firm, one of the youngest such executives in the nation at twenty-eight. A graduate of Harvard, Darla came from a successful family, her father being a U.S.

  senator and her mother a famous philanthropist who had been profiled in Vanity Fair . I tried very hard

  not to hate her on principle.

  "Ms. Tendaski's office, how may I help you?" A deep male voice answered her number. She had a male secretary? I stomped down another tiny surge of envy. I imagined him looking like a Hugo Boss model: broad chest, tight black T-shirt, dark hair, chiseled chin, sexy tortoiseshell glasses.

  "I'm Lauren Crandell, from Forever Wedding. Ms. Davenport suggested I call..." I didn't get to finish.

  "Yes, Ms. Crandell, Ms. Tendaski has been expecting your call. She would like to have lunch with you today, if your schedule allows."

  "Well..." I hesitated. G would be furious if she was left out of the meeting.

  "Ms. Tendaski has quite a busy week this week and next. We have a major promotional campaign with Dell to finish by next Friday, and I'm afraid today is the only time she'll be able to meet with you."

  "In that case . . ." What choice did I have? "Where would she like to meet?"

  "The Four Seasons at noon."

  *

  I pulled into the Four Seasons' driveway downtown, and stepped out of my tiny Honda hatchback, sheepishly handing the keys over to the valet, a clean-cut college student who probably made more in

  tips in one Friday night than I made in one week picking through bridal veils. I sighed.

  Inside, the lobby was impressively intimidating, with thick marble tables and pretty tiled floor, and it smelled like rich-people smell, all leather and cinnamon. The only things that made it bearable were the design attempts at being rustic and Texanthe chandelier made of steer bones, the longhorn orange leather couch in the foyer. It's impossible for the rich to be snobby while sitting on a couch with deer antlers for feet, I decided, and felt better about the whole place.

  The hostess in the dining area smiled at me, recognizing one of her own, I thought, as she had hair

  almost as wild as mine, except hers was red with icy blond, Farrah Fawcett streaks. I smiled back.

  "I'm here to meet someone, a Ms. Tendaski."

  "Oh, you mean Darla!" The hostess beamed. "Follow me."

  Hmmm. The bride-to-be was on a first-name basis with the hostess at the Four Seasons? I didn't know what to think about that.

  The hostess led me to a table outside, in a shady part of the patio, with a nice view of Town Lake and

  the perfectly manicured lawn of the hotel.

  Darla Tendaski sat with one slim, tan leg crossed over the other, with a cell phone pressed against one

  ear and her Executive Palm Pilot on her lap. I knew before I saw her that she had to be pretty, because incredibly successful and wealthy people are almost always better-looking than average, but Darla was more than pretty, she was beautiful, the kind of tall, thin, enormous-cornflower-blue-eyes beautiful that put Gwyneth Paltrow to shame.

  "The thing of it is," she was saying into her cell phone, "is that we just can't wait that long on the proofs, Joel." She motioned for me to sit down, then ran a hand through her ridiculously shiny and bouncy blond hair. She looks like she could be in the middle of a shampoo ad, I thought bitterly.

  "I'd consider it an enormous favor, Joel, if you could get the proofs to me this afternoon," she continued, oozing charm from every syllable. I could feel Joel melting on the other end of the line. She broke into a warm smile that I'm sure Joel could feel through the phone. "I knew you could come through for me, Joel. You're the best!"

  She flipped her phone closed and turned her full attention to me, studying me without distraction for the first time. I squirmed under the scrutiny, imagining my hair poking out in all directions and the pallid complexion of my skin looking wan and washed-out in the sunlight. She, of course, wore a healthy, golden tan.

  "Lauren," she said sweetly. "It's nice to meet you. I've heard good things about you."

  She extended a well-manicured hand, and shook mine firmly and with confidence.

  I smiled, feeling tongue-tied and awkward. Good-looking people always made me think I was back in

  high school, sitting at the band table in the cafeteria with the other clarinet players, hoping no one would throw food at me.

  "I heard you've had some troubles with the wedding planning," I blurted without much grace. God,

  where did that come from? If G were here, she would be rolling her eyes at me, stumbling over herself

  to apologize to Darla.

  Darla, however, laughed. "Have I ever!" she said, leaning forward. "Let me tell you one time ..."

  Before she could finish, her lap started ringing. I thought it was her cell phone. It was her electronic organizer.

  "Oh! I forgot about my twelve-thirty," Darla said, peering at the tiny screen. "This thing has saved me more times than I can remember!"

  I didn't have a Palm Pilot. Not because I didn't want one. I knew, as an organization freak, that I really ought to have one. G, however, didn't pay me enough to buy brand-name cereals, much less the latest gadgets.

  "Basically, Lauren," Darla said, leaning forward, "my fiancé and I need help. We've already bungled

  one ceremony and, well, we need someone who will just make things happen."

  "Bungled?"

  "Botched," Darla said, whipping her shiny blond bangs from her eyes. "If I had more time I'd tell you

  the whole story, but it would take a half hour alone."

  I found myself staring at the perfect eyeliner line across the top of her eyelids. How did she keep it from smudging like everybody else? By the end of the day, I always found dark smudges in the crease of my eyelid, and sometimes, on a particularly humid afternoon, it would seep and run out the corners, slipping into the laugh lines or underneath the bottom fringe of my eyelashes.

  "Do you think you can help us?" Darla said, blinking her two perfectly lined lids.

  "Of course," I said, with the sure confidence of someone who doesn't really know any of the details.

  Darla reached down below her chair and pulled out a filled-to-bursting portable accordion file and

  dumped it with a clang on the glass-top table.

  "If you really think you can do this," she said, "take a look at these files and they'll bring you up to

  speed on where we are with planning. The new date of our ceremony is June twenty-eight."

  I did a quick calculation. Five weeks? Was that right? There was no possible way I could pull this

  together in little more than a month!

  Darla just looked at me.

  "Is that going to be a problem?" she challenged.

  "Er, no. No," I said, smiling feebly. It was so going to be a problem.

  "Is there anything special . . . ?" I trailed off, not really sure what I was asking, and I was distracted by the disorganized and crumpled papers seeping out of the file. I couldn't stand to see the wrinkled corners sticking this way and that. The urge
to open the case and start rearranging the papers right there at the lunch table was almost overpowering.

  "Oh, sure, it's all in the file. The last consultant working on this made quite the report on my likes and dislikes, right down to shoes the flower girl should wear."

  Darla's lap rang again, but this time it was her cell phone. "Don't say it, Joel," Darla said. "Don't tell me what I think you're going to tell me. Stop right there. Joel? Joel! I said stop talking. I'm coming over."

  Darla snapped her cell phone shut and let out a deep sigh. "I'm going to have to go, everything's gone to hell. Doug, my assistant, can help you with anything you need. Oh, and Lauren . . ." She paused. "Good luck."

  Why did I suddenly feel like I would very much need it?

  Two

  "Get over here right now or I swear I'm going to eat this entire gallon of Blue Bell rocky road." The hysterical voice on the other end of my cell phone belonged to Diane, my best friend since ninth grade, who happened to be getting married in four weeks and was a complete wreck. She had asked me to