But, it would have been nice to have some back up – someone else to chime and tell Ginger that we really get it already – and I don’t have any of that, either. Instead, Ginger continues with her complaints, further subjecting me to her crazy, while the various members of her current posse sit there silent and looking bored out of their minds.
“I don’t know who in their right mind likes to eat stinky, scaly fish that came out of some ocean or some gross, dirty lake, but I refuse to have to deal with their disgusting smell. If the caterers ruin my wedding, I will ruin them and then I will ruin you.”
I want to rub my temples to relieve the headache pounding between my ears. I feel like I’ve had this headache for three straight months. Yes, I know that Ginger doesn’t want fish at her wedding because she’s told me so many times that I’ve begun to have nightmares about what will happen if even a sliver of salmon pops up at the reception.
Yes, I know that Ginger will ruin anyone who comes between her and her “perfect wedding” because she’s let me know that I am also a candidate for potential ruin at least – at least – once a day. Yes, I know it’s my job to make all this happen, because I’ve already accepted her deposit and I can’t back out now without repercussions.
I’ve wanted to throw up my hands and quit so many times I’ve lost count, but I’m already three months into planning the Prentiss/ Sheppard wedding and giving up now would be a slap in the face to all I’ve worked for. Plus, I didn’t invest all this money and time, I didn’t quit my old job, I didn’t take all these risks just to be defeated by one difficult woman… and her difficult family.
Ginger is part of the Prentiss clan, which is one of the super-rich families that have invaded my coastal hometown in the last ten years. At first, I had thought that taking Ginger on as my first client was the best idea ever. Not only is she from one of the wealthiest families in Buckingham Downs, meaning the wedding I’d be planning would be extravagant and show off so many of my planning and coordination skills, but also the connections the Prentiss family has would open so many doors for me – so many, many doors. There’s money to be made in Buckingham Downs, and weddings are a billion-dollar business.
That all would have been fine and dandy if the bride wasn’t literally the worst person ever. An exaggeration, one might think – but then one would be wrong because Ginger Prentiss is a pill. She has this amazing quality of being a wholly annoying person.
Just her entire being is irritating. I tried to find something redeemable, something I could grasp onto and connect to and like about her, but that didn’t work.
In fact, I’m not going to sit here and act like Ginger is the only one causing me stress. Almost her entire wedding party – from the snobby Maid of Honor down to the consistently distracted groom – has managed to embody all the traits I could hate in any one person, all combined into the bunch of them. There’s a fundamental disconnect in their minds regarding how to treat others with common human decency or how to just be nice people in general.
“I am doing everything in my power to make sure you get the exact wedding you want,” I try to reassure the bride, but it doesn’t work. It never works. But my job is to keep trying anyway, so I do.
Chapter Two
Masters Wedding Planning
My attempts to reassure the bride that her wedding will come off without a hitch seem to upset her more, instead of comforting her as I’d hoped. The corners of Ginger’s red lips slide out into a disgusted frown as she turns away from me.
I don’t know what to do with her or how to respond, but she momentarily gets preoccupied with her fiancé, Blake, giving me a few seconds of reprieve. She slaps his bicep – for like the fifth time – hoping to get his attention away from his phone.
“What is it, babe?” the dark-haired groom says with a sigh, barely lifting his head. Oh, man, this guy is almost worse than his fianceé.
The apathy in his voice grates against my ears. I don’t know why he bothers to come to all these wedding planning meetings. Blake only looks up from his phone once every – never mind, Blake doesn’t ever look from his phone. He’s glued to it like it’s what’s keeping him alive.
What could he possibly be doing on that phone all the time? I often wonder. He likes to say it’s for work when Ginger bugs him to get off of it, but I don’t believe it. Honestly, how much work could this spoiled rich boy have?
As far as I know, he lives off his parents’ trust fund, although he’s probably the type that likes to dabble in filmmaking or guitar playing and call it “work.” I could imagine him selling bro-dude type t-shirts on an Instagram account where he pretends to be a model, so maybe he’s always staring at the number of likes and comments he gets on each post.
Ginger lets out a frustrated sigh through her nose before narrowing her frustrations on her fiancé. “You’re supposed to be contributing, Blake. It’s your wedding, too. You said you’d start doing more. No, you promised you would.”
This is something that Ginger and I can agree on. I’ve never understood the idea that the groom doesn’t have to participate in the wedding preparations. A couple is literally building their foundation and if they can’t talk about what color napkins they want at the reception table or how they want them folded and still want to be happy together, then life’s gonna get real boring real quick for them.
Blake, amazingly, puts his phone down and uses the side of his hand to rub his eyes, just like I was wishing I could do a moment ago. His facial expression gives away how much he doesn’t want to be here, but Ginger won’t let him get away with it.
“What are we talking about?” he asks, half-heartedly trying to engage.
Unfortunately, we were actually talking about nothing. We were listening to Ginger whine for the hundredth time about something I’ve told her one hundred and one times would not be a problem.
I can’t say that of course, but now, all four of them are looking at me like it’s my job to explain the circumstances. I mean, I can do that in a way that doesn’t sound mean, but not happily.
I hold in a sigh and let Blake know, “We’re talking about the caterer and the menu you’ll be having at your wedding reception. Ginger has a very big no fish rule. I don’t know if you knew that already.”
That was meant to be a dig more at how little he participates than how often she tells us all about her rule, but he doesn’t even wait for me to finish my statement before he’s back on his phone. Nor does Ginger pick up on the hint.
In fact, Ginger has apparently forgotten about her tiff with Blake now that he has pacified her by half pretending to pay attention, and she’s refocused her attention on airing her grievances to me.
“And speaking of the caterer, what about the cake? Did the baker finish our order? Did you send him my new sketch? The type of frosting change I want? My new color schemes? Will it be ready for the wedding in two days?”
I nod because I did all those things. And Ginger knows this – or should know this – because I sent her the confirmation email three days ago. But I don’t say this. There’s no need for added confrontation. I know it would only make me feel better for about three seconds before the consequences got a little too real.
“And the photographer,” Ronnie Williams, Ginger’s raven-haired Maid of Honor adds. Her name is short for Veronica but nothing else about her says casual or down to earth, so I’ve thought it ironic that she has such a cute, tomboy-ish nickname. “Did you tell her all about our angles? Ginger wants her left side featured and we need at least fifty shots of her in the wedding dress. The design is one-of-a-kind, and we want a whole slew of pics to choose from for her social media accounts, obviously.”
I nod again, this time a little more aggressively.
I gave the photographer, who is my roommate Megan, a ten-page document outlining their stipulations. Let me list a few. Ginger’s younger sister, Sage, the bleached-blonde, cannot be in more pictures than Ginger is. Saffron, the oldest sister who has dark hair, is to onl
y be photographed from the waist up – if she must be photographed full-body we have to make sure she’s sucking in her stomach.
Ginger wants a lot of pictures with Quinn, her mousey cousin, because she feels like, comparatively, she herself is so much better looking that the contrast will make for more stunning photos. But then Kaylee, a friend of Ginger’s who rounds out the bridal party, must always be photographed from a distance, with no close-up facial shots next to Ginger because
Kaylee is a makeup artist and Ginger is afraid that her own makeup will pale in comparison.
Ironically, Ginger is having Kaylee do her makeup for the wedding, but she’s afraid Kaylee will purposefully not do a great job just so that she can outshine her. With friends like these…
Basically – to summarize – the photography notes are ten pages of vapid, insulting nonsense. I just hope no one else sees it because it’s just a document detailing how little Ginger thinks of everyone involved in her wedding.
“The photographer received all your requests. She is more than ready for this wedding,” I assure Ronnie.
“Ugh, and that DJ. What is it? Meow Meow?” Ginger spits out his name.
This finally gets Blake’s attention and he glances up from his phone. The DJ is the one contribution he made to the wedding. The DJ is a friend of Blake’s and apparently Blake is also really into the house music or dance music or whatever it is that DJ Meow Meow always plays.
And, apparently, DJ Meow Meow is kind of a big deal in our small town. He DJs at the only night club around here, Posh, which is where rich and famous celebrities come while on vacation, and I have seen him perform a few times. His music isn’t exactly my taste, but I suppose it’s good for the club scene, and all the partygoers always seem to enjoy it. I just don’t get how he looks or why.
DJ Meow Meow always has his hair in this crazy obvious bleach blond color, in the style of a mohawk. And he wears the type of sunglasses that kind of look like blinds – the ones that seem like they’re impossible to look out of.
To simplify, think of a caricature of a DJ and then multiply it by ten, add twenty and a faint outline of DJ Meow Meow begins to form. Long story short, he’s a bit over the top.
“He’s booked,” I tell Ronnie, “and I promise no one will request the Chicken Dance.”
At first I was wondering why no one could request the Chicken Dance. I had soon found out it’s because it doesn’t fit in with Meow Meow’s “avant-garde” aesthetic, so – literally in his contract, it states that if anyone asks for that song, he reserves the right to walk out on the gig. Keeping the money we’d been contractually obligated to pay him in advance, he will simply leave the venue. Which is dumb. He could just not play the song.
I didn’t agree to this, but Blake wanted him so badly that he said yes to whatever the DJ wanted. Rich people are weird.
“Well, good,” Ronnie says. “Because if anything goes wrong with the music, it’ll be all on you.”
I can see Ronnie and Ginger revving up to start this whole conversation over again and I shut that down quickly. I can’t do this again. I need some time to myself.
It’s been way too long of a day to continue being harassed about the same thing. I’m a very patient person, but everyone has her limits.
“Well, it looks like we went through everything we needed to today. Call me if you need anything before the wedding. I’m here to help.”
Putting on my most pleasant smile, I stand up, so that they can’t argue with me. I get paid hourly for these extra meetings we have, but more money isn’t worth spending another five minutes on these annoyances. I’m getting them out the door, but Ginger stops me, by placing her well-manicured hand on mine.
Darn, just when I thought I was done with this exhausting bunch for a while.
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