by Paul Rudnick
“If they must,” said the queen.
We kissed in the Throne Room at Buckingham Palace. I could hear Miriam declaring, “Let me take a picture.” I could see Abby cheering and wrestling me to the ground until I admitted that she’d predicted all of it. Somewhere Adam and DuShawn were singing “People Will Say We’re in Love” from that terrific multicultural revival of Oklahoma! where the cast had served chili at intermission. I could sense Louise making gagging noises.
“That’s quite enough,” decreed Queen Catherine.
CHAPTER 33
This was the controversy: is a lavish royal wedding an obscene anachronism, a waste of time and money poured into an overproduced spectacle of regal, prejudiced crap? Or is it, like the royal family at their best, a symbol of unity and joy, a celebration shared by all? And, in the case of a gay royal wedding, is it assimilationist dreck, a hideous example of queer people being every bit as obnoxious as straights? Or is it an LGBTQ triumph, a hugely visible win for our side, kind of like a royal pride parade?
Edgar and I argued about every aspect: Should we have a small, quickie ceremony and build a website for wedding day contributions to worthy causes? Or would everyone, especially gay people, feel cheated out of what could be a highly original blowout?
“You’re the associate event architect,” Edgar finally decreed. “You figure it out.”
I got busy. In my profession, a royal wedding is a dream, a pinnacle, the Nobel Prize for centerpieces. I invited Cassandra and the Eventfully Yours staff to assist me, in coordination with the palace and Abby, as my associate event cochair—I appointed her because Edgar demanded it, and because I didn’t want her to kill me in my sleep. The wedding was scheduled for June, in the sunshine. My first meeting with Abby, over a hypersecure conferencing app engineered for the occasion, began like this: “Okay, Carter, you know that every cell in my body is hyperventilating with bliss, for you and Edgar and me. Because ever since my wedding, I’ve been thinking about yours. I didn’t want to tell you, because I know how nervous you can be, but I’ve totally got this.”
She went on: “This wedding can’t be just about the happy couple—it’s for everyone. It’s a world wedding. Which means it’s big. The biggest. Which doesn’t mean money, it means poring over every detail and opening up the guest list. We need bits from every all-stops-out traditional royal-palooza but also stuff that no one’s ever seen. It’s like a UNICEF commercial, a Hallmark Channel Very Special Event and the inauguration of a nonbinary president, if they all adopted a baby. It’s everything.”
I trusted Abby. She was an intersectional bridezilla—a bridezilla of tomorrow.
So here I am, on the morning of our wedding. Edgar and I have spent the night apart, out of respect for the Crown and because we both like the idea of seeing each other in our nuptial couture for the first time at the altar of Westminster Abbey. Booking the abbey hadn’t been easy, because of the conservative outcry. Queen Catherine had settled matters by issuing a statement expressing her affection for Edgar and me and explaining that every royal couple deserves the abbey, and that was that. When I thanked her she’d gestured to herself and said, “Queen of England. Done.”
Abby and I were in a suite with my friends and family at a hotel near the abbey. I was wearing a custom-made morning suit in navy, with a rainbow-striped vest. I’d worried about coming off as a queer ringmaster, but the tailoring was so precise that even I had to admit I looked tall, dashing and broad-shouldered. “You finally have the body you’ve always wanted,” Abby said admiringly. “Just never take off the suit, because it’s built in.”
Earlier in the morning, for a personal touch, Adam had added a subtle, royal blue stripe to my hair. He inspected it, concluding, “It’s the perfect accent. It says ‘I love being a royal and I just couldn’t help myself.’” He and DuShawn were dressed in matching jumpsuits hand-painted with images of their heroes, from James Baldwin to Patti LuPone. “You all look fabulous,” Louise informed us. “And the proceeds from the Royal Wedding Ken dolls are going to the American Civil Liberties Union.”
Edgar had promised to find Louise a new girlfriend, and at our rehearsal dinner he’d sat her beside his cousin Lady Isabelle, who was spearheading a drive to repatriate artworks from British museums to the countries they’d been stolen from. She also had waist-length red hair and a tattoo of a medieval sorceress covering her back, so Louise had been very pleased, because, in Abby’s words, “Louise likes drama.”
“We couldn’t be more proud,” my mom told me, “not because you’re marrying a prince, although that doesn’t hurt, but because you’re marrying the man you love.”
“But if you’re not sure,” said my dad, “there are precedents for canceling a royal wedding. In 1528, Princess Hildegarde of the Netherlands—”
“I’m good, Dad, I’m ready. But thank you for the research, and you both look fantastic.”
“Is this all right?” said my mom, referring to her flawless pale yellow shantung dress.
“No,” I said. “You’re a disgrace. You look like you went to the mall and shut your eyes. You’re embarrassing everyone on two continents.”
“You have such a smart mouth. I hope Edgar knows what he’s getting into.”
“We can leave now,” said a voice. “I’m here.”
Miriam had on a gold brocade suit, which she’d worn when accepting an award as Accountant of the Year; she’d had it reconfigured for today with the addition of blooming pink chiffon roses everywhere. She looked great, like a garden party in heaven.
“I love all of you,” I told the group. “And I’d never get married without every one of you being part of this.”
“Of course not,” said Miriam. “It wouldn’t be legal.”
Dane, who’d been incredibly supportive of Abby’s wedding mania, and who was wearing the fashion-forward tux from a Japanese designer that Abby had picked out, led a toast, saying, “What a cool day. I thought just marrying Abby would be kick-ass, but here’s to the dudes!”
While I’d wanted to walk to the abbey, as a man of the people, or a person of the people, Abby and Miriam had insisted that I ride in the traditional gilded royal carriage drawn by six white horses wearing feathered headpieces. The streets were thronged, and I’d asked Abby and Miriam to ride with me. They were in their element, waving to the cheering, whistling crowd and calling out, “You look gorgeous, too!” “Thank you for being here!” and “Can you believe this?”
I couldn’t decide if I felt like some new, progressive Disney prince or more like Jiminy Cricket, but I was fine either way. I’d feared that, given my history, no one would show up, or people would understandably jeer me, but this wasn’t the case. Because while the English people could be skeptical, once they’d established that Edgar was happy, they were all in, at least for today. The shops were brimming with souvenirs, including tea caddies, dish towels, commemorative platters and pillow shams, all with often unrecognizably retouched images of Edgar and me standing side by side. Conservatives assured one another we were just staunch coworkers.
“It’s like the best kind of fairy tale,” Abby told me, assessing a window stacked with Edgar-and-Carter bobbleheads, “because it’s got a fifty-percent-off sale table.”
The night before, Edgar and I had sponsored five free concerts at venues across the city, with pop and hip hop stars performing along with local bands, solo artists and choirs, all celebrating the country’s diversity. At the abbey, in addition to hymns, we had a children’s chorale, a fifty-member all-female a cappella group, the Brighton Gay Men’s Chorus and a klezmer band. The pews were filled with dignitaries seated among postmistresses, fast-food workers, schoolteachers and health care aides, all of whom had entered a lottery (Edgar and I had also made sure to invite Harriet and Edith, from the Baking Jubilee). We had a no-gifts policy, except for donations to the Royal Clean Water Initiative and a list of global charities.
I followed, with my parents on either side. “I’m crying,” whispered my mom. “Because I’m so happy and because I just saw Oprah.”
“What a thrilling day,” said my dad. “Now you’re part of English history, like Sir Thomas More, who presided over the Abbey before he was convicted of treason.”
We passed Gerald and Maureen, barely concealing their disappointment over Edgar not abdicating. They’d given interviews championing LGBTQ rights and were building a new tennis court on the grounds of their estate. As I passed their pew, Maureen mouthed, “Congratulations! Fingers crossed!”
Miriam sat across the aisle beside Queen Catherine, who’d insisted on this partnership. I’m not sure if they’d planned it, but the queen was also wearing gold and pink, so the women looked like sisters, or cowinners of a beauty pageant, splitting the title of Ms. Senior Boca Raton. Miriam was clutching the queen’s gloved hand, and they both mouthed “Kina hora poo poo poo” at me and mimed spitting on the floor. The queen smiled, something I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before. It was like a benediction, and Miriam turned to her and whispered, “Good for you!”
I let myself see Edgar, in his amazing royal outfit, which combined a military jacket looped with gold braid and a sash dripping with jeweled medallions and ribbons, atop a splendid kilt and lustrously polished boots. He looked so impossibly handsome and sexy that I turned to James, who was by Edgar’s side as his best man, and we exchanged the universal gay facial expression meaning, “Oh my GOD!”
The security team, while technically on duty, was clustered nearby, also serving as Edgar’s groomsmen. They scanned the crowd discreetly, but as Lucky glanced at Edgar and me, I saw Terry pass him the handkerchief the team was sharing to manfully dab at their eyes.
Edgar and I faced each other. We were being married by the archbishop of Canterbury, Rabbi Kottleman from my family’s temple in Piscataway, and Louise, who’d had herself ordained online at the Church of the Unicorn Renaissance, a nondenominational group that charged ten dollars for a certificate. As Louise had told me, “You need a black woman up there, and because I’m a Unicorn Goddess I get to say anything I want.”
My framed photo of Ruth Ginsburg had been placed on the altar beside a crystal vase of roses. Ruth needed to be here, and I might’ve heard her murmur, “Very nice. And you know, I could’ve performed the ceremony, because I’m a judge.”
Edgar and I had already initiated a tradition, as we’d celebrated our mutual birthday a few months back. We’d thought about a party, but with the wedding approaching, it would’ve been overkill. So we’d had a small cake for just the two of us, in the nursery. Edgar had told me, “Thirty looks good on you” and I’d answered, “Fuck you, because everything looks good on you.” We blew out the candles together and sang to each other, which we agreed was perfect and also too revoltingly cute for any guests to witness. I was, and remain, deeply superstitious, but I let myself envision the two of us devouring cake and laughing and making love, in this room, every January 22, for many years to come. I no longer dreaded turning thirty with nothing to show for it; now I wanted to be equal to the task, and the opportunities, and the man who was about to become my husband.
We’re at the altar. Edgar and I can’t stop smiling in joy and disbelief. As Abby always told us, we’d both gotten so lucky, to have found each other and to have her in charge of our wedding; she’d commissioned an official oil portrait of herself with the title Westminster Abby. No, I couldn’t stop her.
This day, and our meeting at the appropriately named United Nations, and our marriage, were loony and enchanted, and I had no idea what would happen next, once we left the abbey. But I was exactly where I should be, with exactly the right guy. So for the moment, I let myself stop fretting, second-guessing and doubting. If Edgar believed in me, that was more than enough. So I let myself believe that this was my life, or at least a fabulous beginning. I let myself be in love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank Cindy Hwang, my wonderful editor, for welcoming this book and for her terrific guidance and enthusiasm. I’m also so grateful for the efforts of everyone at Berkley, including Ivan Held, Christine Ball, Claire Zion, Angela Kim, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Jin Yu, Bridget O’Toole, Jaime Mendola-Hobbie, Dana Mendelson, Craig Burke, Erin Galloway, Loren Jaggers, Lauren Monaco, Jennifer Trzaska, Brian Contine, Max Felderman, Jennifer Myers, Christine Legon and Colleen Reinhart.
As always, David Kuhn was instrumental in helping this book find such a great home.
For their ongoing support, good humor and forbearance, I’m indebted to Patrick Herold, Dan Jinks, Richard Garmise, Todd Ruff, Dana Ivey, Arlene Donovan, Scott Rudin, Jamie Krone, Scott Berlinger, Albert Mellinkoff, Kim Beaty, Allison Silver, Adrienne Halpern, Candida Scott Piel, William Ivey Long (a true royalist), Christopher Clarens, David Colman, and the Klahr sisters, who are no longer with us but remain a glorious inspiration.
I began writing Playing the Palace long before the COVID-19 crisis, but it was rewritten and edited during that awful period, so I’d like to salute the healthcare workers who’ve been so brave and tireless, along with everyone else who’s been staying safe and doing their best to keep our world functioning.
I’ll also pay tribute to the English royal family, especially Queen Elizabeth, a group that’s fascinated and entertained us all. It’s strange that Americans, in particular, are often so obsessed with a monarchy, but the personalities involved can be hilarious, admirable, questionable and delicious fun.
Finally, and with love, I need to thank John Raftis, who’s willing to make German chocolate cake frosting from scratch, create the most beautiful garden, explain so many things and keep me sane or thereabouts.
Photo by Matthew Murphy
Paul Rudnick is a novelist, playwright, essayist and screenwriter. His plays have been produced on and off Broadway and around the world and include Jeffrey, I Hate Hamlet, The Most Fabulous Story Ever Told, Valhalla, Regrets Only and The New Century. He’s won an Obie Award, two Outer Critics Circle Awards and the John Gassner Playwriting Award. His novels include Social Disease and I’ll Take It, and his YA novels include Gorgeous and It’s All Your Fault. The Collected Plays of Paul Rudnick was published by HarperCollins, along with an essay collection entitled I Shudder. Mr. Rudnick is rumored to be quite close to film critic Libby Gelman-Waxner, whose reviews have appeared in Premiere Magazine and Entertainment Weekly, and whose collected columns have been published under the title If You Ask Me. Mr. Rudnick’s articles and essays have appeared in The New York Times, Esquire, Vogue and Vanity Fair, and he’s a frequent contributor to The New Yorker. His screenplays include Addams Family Values, In & Out, the screen adaptation of Jeffrey, Sister Act and HBO’s Coastal Elites.
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