Cara Lockwood Page 3

  be her maid of honor (in other words, to be a wedding consultant for free). But I owed her (in brief summary: four messy breakups, one false pregnancy test, one semi-eating/dieting disorder, one wedding [self], and one divorce of first husband [also self]), so I couldn't say I really minded. Besides, I wasn't looking forward to telling G that I had gone and met with Darla without her, nor was I feeling up to the task of tackling Darla's horribly overstuffed file case. The thought of the crumpled disorganized papers made me shiver. I put them in my trunk and tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to forget they were there.

  When I arrived at Diane's apartment, she was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by open

  bridal magazines, and as usual, things in her life were chaos. To give you a bit of background about Diane, she's one of the truly sweetest people I've ever known and because of this she has a history of people taking advantage of her. Take her fiancé, for example. I didn't like him. For one thing, he reminded me a little of Brad, but then again, every man I don't like reminds me of Brad. Seriously, I thought Robert, her fiancé, was, how to put this delicately ... a pig. The evidence: 1. He went to strip clubs with his friends every Friday night. ("They have great rib-eye," he said. Right.) 2. He told Diane

  she was fat. 3. He walked around their apartment wearing only his boxers ... when company was present .

  I had fought with Diane about him in the past, and had urged her to break up with him, but she wouldn't have it. In fact, the whole argument had almost tanked our friendship, so I'd promised her to try to like him, and to be happy for her because all she really wanted was to marry Robert and be happy (while I believed those desires were diametrically opposed, Diane assured me that Robert was actually very sweet and considerate, though I had never seen any such tendencies in him). So, I'd stopped talking badly

  about him, and I'd done what any best friend would do in that situation: wish for his untimely death.

  I rather thought a stroke of lightning had a nice ring to it, or sudden and deadly cardiac arrest. Something that wouldn't endanger anyone else, mind you. I wasn't really a horrible person.

  "I am so fat," Diane said, slapping her hand against her thin, StairMastered-to-death thigh.

  "What are you talking about? You are not fat. If you're fat, then I'm horribly obese."

  Diane smiled, unconvinced. "Robert said I could lose a few pounds off my butt."

  "Robert is a ..." I was about to say "pig" but caught myself in time. "Er, you aren't fat. And if you lost anything from your butt you'd have two nasty pelvic bones sticking out of your jeans. Very unattractive."

  Diane smiled. "I'm being a psycho bride, aren't I?"

  "It happens to the best of us."

  It's common knowledge that the worst part of a wedding consultant's job is dealing with psycho brides,

  or PBs, not to be confused with PBMs (perpetual bridesmaids). Psycho brides are people who completely lose touch with reality and perspective during the wedding planning and wedding event. Of course, every woman experiences a certain amount of stress and craziness during the planning of her own wedding. PBs, however, take that anxiety to a whole other self-serving level. The sneaky thing about them is that they masquerade as perfectly nice and well-adjusted human beings, until they get engaged and begin planning their weddings. There's just something about weddings that can turn reasonable women into fork-tongued, head-spinning she-devils. The signs of a PB are simple. You know you're one if:

  1. You demand of bridesmaids that they perform fantastic tasks in the name of friendship,

  including, but not limited to: plastic surgery, abortion, and/or quitting job to help full-time with wedding planning.

  2. When bridesmaids refuse requests, you burst into tears and scream, "It's supposed to be my day!"

  3. You often go around bursting into tears and screaming, "It's supposed to be my day!"

  4. You are incapable of talking about anything except your own wedding, even at the most inappropriate times, such as funerals or wakes.

  5. You have an unreasonable paranoia that everyone who cares about you is out to ruin your wedding day.

  6. You have a reasonable paranoia that everybody who hates you also is out to ruin your wedding day.

  7. Your obsession about weight leads you to ask everyone involved in the wedding, including

  your seventy-year-old grandmother, to lose five pounds.

  8. Despite more than a millennium of wedding ceremonies, you believe that no one before you has ever planned and successfully executed a wedding, and that you are the only person on the planet

  to make the weighty decision of hiring a caterer.

  9. You don't care anything about the groom (Groom? Who's he? Who cares?), because you are caught up in this elaborate, self-indulgent orchestration of your own girlhood fantasies.

  10. You forget (or never understood) that a wedding is supposed to be the celebration of a serious, long-term commitment between two people, and not a stage for you to show your friends (and enemies) how fabulous you look in satin taffeta and a rhinestone tiara.

  Now, I couldn't imagine Diane ever turning into a PB. She's far more likely to go into the other direction and be a bride-who-wants-to-make-everyone-happy (or a bride who believes she can accomplish the impossible). The only trouble with brides-who-want-to-make-everyone-happy is that they tend to make

  a lot of speeches imploring friends and relatives to be noble and put aside past differences for one day. Enough of those speeches can make one feel very selfish and petty (more so if it's actually the case that you are being selfish and petty). But I decided that I'd be able to handle those speeches from Diane.

  "Diane, you look gorgeous," I said. "You don't have anything to worry about, because for one thing, you'll be standing right next to me, and I'll make you look at least twenty pounds thinner."

  Diane rolled her eyes. "I don't want to hear another word about you being fat. You so aren't fat."

  But Diane was smiling, so I could tell I had made her feel better, and that's really the number-one responsibility of a maid of honor.

  *

  I dreaded going back to the office, because I would have to explain to G about the meeting with Darla, and G tends to ask questions rapid-fire, interrupting you in midsentence of your answer, so that you

  never really get to explain the whole of anything. So, after leaving Diane in a happier mood, I stopped

  by the drugstore to pick up a new lip gloss (because it's common knowledge that finding that elusive perfect shade of lipstick will change your whole life forever). I also picked up my dry cleaning (which shows how much I didn't want to go back to the office, because I never pick up dry cleaning unless

  I absolutely have nothing left in my closet to wear).

  When I finally got back to the office (about 2:45 P.M.), G was waiting for me.

  "Where have you been, Ms. Crandell?" G bellowed down the stairs as soon as the door closed behind

  me. It was obvious she was perturbed, because she never used formal titles unless she was. "Your

  phone has been ringing off the hook!"

  "Meeting with clients," I shouted, which was mostly the truth. "Let me check my voice mail and I'll

  come right up."

  There were four messages for me, and two of them were from Alyssa Darvisa rather spoiled twenty-two-year-old who wasn't getting married for five years, but still felt the need to call me on a daily basis. One message was from my mom, and the other was from my sister, Lily, who never called unless she needed money (being a perpetual student, she took turns asking members of the family for loans,

  and I figured I must have been next on the rotation). Reluctantly, I trudged up the stairs to face G.

  When I got there, G was acting uncharacteristically sheepish, avoiding eye contact.

  "Ms. Davenport, as you know, is an old friend." G cleared her throat. Was she nervous? "I want us

  to do what we can to help her niece."

  I blinked. Was G still embarrassed about this morning? G rearranged some papers on her desk, still

  not looking at me.

  "I think it would be best if you took a leadership role with this one," G continued. "I don't think I

  need to meet with Darla Tendaski. I'm just swamped this week and anyway it will be a good growth opportunity for you."

  Swamped? I thought, With what? Had she fallen behind on her reading of Cat Fancy?

  Fortunately, I quickly concealed my skepticism.

  "I understand," I said, relieved. Now I didn't have to explain about the Darla meeting at all. Or the fact that the nuptials were only one month away. What a stroke of luck.

  Hmmmm. I wondered suddenly what sort of terrible thing would happen in the near future to offset

  my good fortune. I am not a lucky person, as a rule. Good luck only happens in the case of something awful being just around the corner.

  In this case, I thought that something awful was the second gift Whiskers left for me underneath my

  desk. Distracted by my near miss with G, I actually stepped in it, potentially ruining my favorite pair

  of platform Nine West loafers.

  It was clear I needed to go home. It was almost four, and I had two weddings on Saturday I had to mentally prepare for, and, besides, I'd already logged about a thousand overtime hours this month alone. (Does it sound like I'm making excuses? I am. If there's anything Mom and Dad taught me, it's to feel guilty if you're not working.)

  *

  "Lauren, is that you? My, you are home early. Are you sick?"

  This was my mother, who had called my house just as I had walked in the door.

  "Hi, Mom. I'm not sick, I'm just home early."

  "Early? Were you ... what do they call it... laid off?"

  "No, Mom, I just" Call waiting beeped. "Hold on a second, I've got a call on the other line."

  "Hello," I said.

  "Hey," said my sister Lily.

  "I've got Mom on the other line."

  "Oh! Don't tell her it's me," Lily said, sounding slightly panicked or slightly high, I couldn't tell which.

  "I owe her a hundred dollars from last month."

  "OK, but" Lily hung up before I could finish. I clicked back over to Mom.

  "Mom?"

  "So I told your father that..."

  "Wait, Mom, I didn't hear the last part, I had another call."' '

  "What was that, dear?"

  "Another call. You know, call waiting."

  "Call what?"

  "Never mind."

  "So I told your father he better pay for it."

  "Pay for what?"

  Mom sighed irritably. "Your sister's car."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "Didn't you hear a word I said? She's wrecked it again."

  I didn't bother to try another explanation of call waiting.

  "So it's up to your father . . ."

  Call waiting clicked. "Hold on for a second, Mom, OK?"

  I clicked over. A telemarketer wanted to sell me bikini wax that swimsuit models use. I told the poor saleswoman that it would take far more than hot wax to change me into a supermodel.

  I clicked back.

  "Mom?"

  "That's the plan at any rate. . . . So, I'll look forward to seeing you Monday for dinner."

  "Huh?"

  "A lady says hmmmm or what but not huh, dear. . . . Frank!" She shouted at my father in the background. "Leave that pie alone. That's for my Women's Republican Club. . . . I'm sorry, dear.

  Now, I wanted to tell you that I saw Brad's mother the other day ..."

  Oh, boy. Here it comes. Mom never fails to slip in some mention of Brad.

  "And we were both talking about what a shame it is that you two split up," Mom was saying, as she let out a long, plaintive, guilt-inducing sigh. "She still has a lot of fond feelings for you, Lauren."

  Too bad her son didn't.

  "Look, Mom"

  "Lauren, now, it's not too late to reconsider this divorce thing."

  "The papers are already signed!"

  "Well, you shouldn't be so hasty, dear. If I had given up on your father, well... I haven't. Marriage

  isn't a vacation, you know, it's something you have to work hard to keep together. . . . Hold on a

  minute, dear. Frank!" she barked at my dad. "Frank! You're dribbling crumbs all over the floor.

  Use a plate for goodness' sakes. Oh, dear, Lauren. I have to go." And with that, she hung up.

  *

  For the life of me, I could never understand how my parents ever got together. My dad, whose only passion in life was barbecuing various kinds of dead mammals, shares no common interests with my mom, whose single most important pursuit in life has been perfecting etiquette. She cherishes her very extensive collection of Miss Manners books and has never, as far as I know, eaten anything with her fingers. My dad, on the other hand, still tucks his napkin into the collar of his shirt before he eats and

  has been known to burp loudly at the end of a particularly satisfying meal. Don't get me wrong. I love both parents, and they love me, and I wouldn't exchange them for any other parents (at least, I don't

  think I would), but they are after all my parents, which means they drive me crazy.

  As far as I can tell, the entire foundation of Mom and Dad's relationship relies on Dad ignoring

  everything Mom says, and Mom ignoring everything Dad says. Forget good communication as being a cornerstone to any lasting marriage. In my parents' household, single-minded deafness seems to work much better. A typical conversation between my parents goes something like this:

  Mom: Would you please remove your feet from the coffee table?

  Dad: Hmpf.

  Mom: Frank, I said would you please remove your feet from my coffee table?

  Dad: Hmpf.

  Mom: FRANK!

  Dad: What?

  Mom: Your feet!

  Dad: Huh?

  Mom: Your feet are on the coffee table.

  Dad: Uh-huh.

  Mom: PLEASE move them!

  (Dad moves his feet a smidgen to the right . . . believing Mom's request has something to do with them obstructing her view of the TV.)

  Mom: NO! Off the coffee table!

  Dad: (unintelligible grumble)

  Mom: Your shoes are going to scuff the table.

  Dad (eyes glued on the television and not listening to a single word): Um-hmm.

  Mom: FRANK!

  Dad: WHAT?

  Mom: Your feet!

  Dad: Huh?

  The argument goes around and around much like this for the next half hour, until Mom gets so frustrated she pushes Dad's feet off the table herself, only to find a half hour later he's put them right back on the glass top in the exact same place. My parents have been married more than thirty-three years, and after

  all this time, my dad has never learned to keep his feet off the table, and Mom has never figured out that despite the first three hundred attempts, Dad never listens. This is the bedrock Mom keeps referencing every single time she lectures me on the evils of divorce.

  Unfortunately, that's every single time I talk to her.

  My stomach growled loudly, and so I went to the kitchen to look for something to eat. Despite my mother's assertions that I'd never get a man unless I learned to cook, I never managed to bother to

  figure out the most rudimentary cooking tasks, like how to brown ground beef. I'm not a vegetarian,

  per se, but the thought of handling raw meat makes me want to gag. Ground beef, in particular, I find repulsive. I know secretly you thought I might be a Martha Stewart, pie-baking type, but that's not me

  at all. For one thing, cooking is entirely too messy for me. For another, my philosophy on cooking is that if it takes longer for me to cook it than eat it, I'm not going to make it. That pretty much means my diet consists of frozen dinners, PBJs, and takeout. This night, I nuked a rather soggy frozen dinner (I swear those chicken strips weren't chicken at all but some form of space-age, barely digestible plastic) and fell asleep on the couch watching a documentary on the migration of geese on the Discovery Channel.

  Expected more glamour? Sorry to disappoint. Friday nights before weddings are strictly at-home affairs.

  Three

  The sky was perfectly clear, with only the whisper of white clouds at the horizon's edges. A few

  ducks skittered across the horizon, some dipping their webbed feet into the calm surface of the lake.

  A crowd of about 150 had gathered on the shore, dressed in their wedding finest, and all craning their necks, eyes fixed on the plane that glided overhead. From the plane, a skydiver, a speck no bigger than

  a flea, plunged into a heart-stopping free fall. He pulled the cord on his parachute, which instantly