Until he proposed.
Get back to work, I yelled at myself.
For Julie G.’s graphic, I decided on a balding, potbellied cartoon man wagging a finger at an emaciated woman in lingerie, a thought-bubble over his head that said: “No sex for you until you lose that one pound! I saw you sneak that M&M, you Tubby!”
Today’s Modern Bride couldn’t get fired, could she?
chapter 14
The moment I let Astrid know that Emmett was interested, after all, in being the “young, hip father” for the Grooms-and-Fathers-To-Be feature, she buzzed her assistant.
“Carol, call Perfect People and cancel the young, hip male for tomorrow’s G&F To-Be shoot.” She glanced up at me. “Gold star, Eloise.”
Three days later, Emmett arrived on time at the studio. Astrid and Devlin looked him up and down, down and up, and nodded.
“Perfection,” Astrid said, taking in his faded The Cure T-shirt, black leather jacket and huge black boots. “Gold star, Eloise.”
“Is she for real?” Emmett whispered.
“’Fraid so,” I said.
“If I could just add a tiny drop of hair gel,” Devlin said, squeezing a tube of Dippity-Do at Emmett.
“No way,” Emmett protested, holding up his hands.
“Devlin, please don’t upset the talent,” Astrid intervened.
“Fine, whatever,” Devlin muttered. “I won’t upset the talent.”
“Waaah. Waah! Waaaaaaaaaah!”
“What is that earsplitting noise?” Emmett asked. “It sounds like someone stepped on a seal.”
“It’s a baby.”
We whirled around. Coming toward us with a baby in a Baby Bjorn strapped to her chest was Brianna Harris, Wow’s cranky managing editor.
I kissed her on the cheek and oohed and aahed over the baby, who was beautiful but loud. “Brianna, I thought you were still on maternity leave!”
“Yeah, me too,” she muttered in my ear. “But Astrid insisted I drag in the baby for a shoot. She said she was desperate for an infant because a real-lifer backed out of a shoot at the last minute.”
Who was I to tell her that the last minute was actually last week, and Astrid just wanted to save money. Infant models weren’t cheap. Except when they were free. Translation: the newborn of your terrified-of-you employee.
“The talent should practice holding the baby,” Devlin said to Emmett.
“The talent has a name,” Emmett snapped.
“The talent has an attitude,” Devlin whispered loudly.
“The talent is a teenager,” Brianna said, eyeing Emmett. “No way is he holding Caitlin.”
“I happen to be twenty-nine,” Emmett said.
“Have you ever held a baby?” Brianna asked.
“I’ve held a puppy,” he told her.
“Oh, that’s really the same,” she muttered.
“Brianna, since you were kind enough to come in on your maternity leave, why don’t you show Emmett how to hold the baby,” Astrid suggested. She had her as my second in command, I would think you could have thought of that yourself expression.
Hey, guess what, Astrid, Brianna shouldn’t even be here!
“You have to be really careful,” Brianna told Emmett, taking tiny Caitlin out of the Baby Bjorn, which hardly seemed possible to do yourself. “If you don’t support her neck, you’ll break it.”
Emmett backed away.
Uh-oh. When Emmett had turned up this morning, on time, no less, I’d sneaked away for a moment to call Charla and let her know that Emmett hadn’t freaked out on the way. She was sure that the moment Emmett laid eyes on a baby, a sweet, baby-powder-smelling, cooing, gurgling baby, he would either turn to mush or turn to the nearest airport for a one-way ticket to Anywhere Else.
At this rate, it was Destination Airport.
“It’s okay, Emmett,” I told him. “You just slip your hand under her neck, like this—” I took the baby from Brianna. “And another hand under her bottom. And she’ll be just fine. Won’t you, little baby girl?”
“How do you know how to do that?” he asked.
“Friend of mine has a baby,” I told him. “Just takes doing it a few times and then you feel totally comfortable.”
“I don’t know,” Emmett said. “I thought I could do this, but—Can’t I hold a baby doll?”
“Baby dolls tend to look like baby dolls in photographs,” Devlin pointed out with a did this guy graduate from elementary school? expression.
I glared at Devlin. “Ready?” I asked Emmett.
He stared at the baby, her big blue trusting eyes staring back. “Uh, I guess so.”
“Guessing so isn’t good enough,” Brianna yelped. “You’re either ready or you’re not.”
Emmett looked to me for help. “I don’t know.”
“Five hundred bucks,” I singsonged in his ear.
“I’m ready,” he said. “Tell me when to start smiling. I just slip my hand under her neck…” He did so, carefully, practically biting his lower lip. “And then I slip this hand under her bottom.”
Voilà, he was holding the baby.
Baby Caitlin’s little rosy-red mouth twitched, and Emmett’s entire expression changed. His eyes widened, his features relaxed and he smiled.
“She smells good,” he said. “I expected her to smell like—”
“Shit?” I asked.
He laughed. “Yeah. But she smells like baby powder. Hi, baby,” he cooed.
“You can sway a little, back and forth,” Brianna said. “Babies really like that.”
Emmett swayed. The rosy-red mouth twitched.
“She’s so light,” Emmett whispered. “She weights next to nothing.”
“Eleven pounds, to be exact,” Brianna said.
Emmett touched a finger to Caitlin’s face. “Is it okay if I touch her face?” he asked Brianna.
“You get points for asking,” Brianna said. “But you really shouldn’t, not until she’s had her immunizations.”
“Babies are pretty delicate,” I said.
“I can’t touch you until you’ve had your shots,” Emmett whispered to Caitlin. “Otherwise, I would give you a little kiss on your nose.”
Okay, where did my brother go? And who was this mad impostor?
I couldn’t wait to call Charla.
“I can’t believe I’m really holding a baby,” Emmett cooed to Caitlin.
“Okay, people, that’s a wrap,” Devlin said, putting away his camera.
Startled, Emmett and I both glanced at Devlin. He was putting away his equipment.
“But Devlin, we didn’t even start yet,” I said.
“Are you kidding? I shot six rolls of film,” Devlin responded. “The talent’s got talent, after all. He’s a natural at modeling—and at fatherhood too.”
“I’m not a model,” Emmett growled.
I waited for him to add, Or a father.
But he didn’t.
I sneaked off to call Charla.
The next day, Devlin dropped off the proofs from Emmett’s shoot. “Tell your brother to sign with an agency,” he said, tossing the folder onto my desk. “When the June issue comes out, everyone’s going to want him.”
“Emmett’s sort of antimodeling,” I explained.
“Yeah, that’s why I have six rolls of him modeling,” Devlin snorted. “Trust me, I know the type. Mr. Antiestablishment until the Establishment calls and offers a boatload of money.”
“Sometimes it’s not a matter of principle—it’s a matter of necessity,” I said, surprised I was defending Emmett.
“Well, whatever you want to call it, it’s worth a lot of money. He’s got it.”
“Thanks. I’ll let him know.”
Devlin finally clicked down the hall, and I slid out the contact sheet. Three of the shots were blown up, eight and a half by eleven. One in black and white and two in color.
Was Emmett really this good-looking? I knew he was, but he really did look like a model in the photos, like
a professional, million-dollar-an-hour model. He was all angles and too-cool-for-words, but dimpled and sweet.
In my favorite of the three, he held little Caitlin so carefully, the pink swaddling blanket at such contrast with Emmett’s rock-concert T-shirt and black leather jacket. The baby slept peacefully while Rebel Who Now Had A Cause To Stop Rebelling held her against his chest.
After work, I took the subway downtown to Charla’s apartment to drop off the photos. Charla hadn’t called last night to marvel at what a changed man Emmett was from the photo shoot, which might mean he went from awestruck to dumbstruck and stayed there. The photos just might bring him back to awestruck.
Emmett wasn’t home, but Charla was. She was watching a prenatal yoga tape and contorting herself into strange positions on the living-room floor. While she let out an occasional “om,” I sat on the sofa and leafed through the magazine on the coffee table. It was Power Pregnancy, one of the magazines owned by Wow’s parent company.
I flipped through it. What’s Going On Inside Your Womb Today? How To Hire a Nanny. How To Feel Sexy When You’re Due Any Day! And a quiz, “Are You Really Ready For Parenthood?”, which Charla had taken.
She’d scored twelve out of a hundred. That couldn’t be good.
Score: 0–12: Parenthood is more than chromosomes. Here’s a list of some excellent books, Web sites and government and community resources to educate you about parenthood….
“Charla?”
No answer.
“Charla, don’t worry about this stupid quiz, okay?”
No answer. Her palms were on her knees and her eyes were closed.
“Charla, these quizzes are written by temps who have no idea what they’re talking about. They’re as meaningful as horoscopes. Trust me, I—”
“Huh?” she asked. “I didn’t take that qui—” She raced to the couch and grabbed the magazine. “Oh no!”
“Emmett?”
She nodded.
Question 3: Your baby has diaper rash. You:
A) Apply ointment to baby’s bottom
B) Apply ointment to the diaper—after all, it’s diaper rash.
C) Rash? Ewwww!
Emmett circled B and C.
Charla groaned. “No wonder he was so quiet this morning and then suddenly wanted to take a long walk. How much do you want to bet that Emmett will call and say he’s staying at a friend’s tonight?”
“A lifetime supply of Pampers?”
“And Desitin,” she added before dropping down on the sofa with a sigh.
“It’s just a stupid quiz,” I said.
But I had no doubt that it had scared Emmett right back into his shell.
“Look at these,” I told her, sliding out the photos. “He might not be ready for parenthood in terms of knowing which end of a diaper is up, but he’s ready in other ways.”
She looked at the photos and tears came to her eyes. “I’m not even sure he should see these. Now that he’s so freaked about his parenting know-how, the reality of himself with a newborn might really send him to some mountain.”
“Ah, but you can learn where diaper rash ointment goes, but you can’t learn to make that expression.”
She smiled and traced over the photo with her finger. “Maybe he was able to be so touched because it’s not his kid.”
I squeezed her hand. “Or maybe he’ll be even more awestruck when it is.”
chapter 15
According to Noah, a guy couldn’t fake the look on Emmett’s face in the photographs.
“It’s the exact opposite of the look on my face right now,” he whispered to me, moving a bite of we-weren’t-sure-what in his mouth. “And trust me, I’m trying to be polite. What am I eating?”
We were in the sampling room at Yum’s, a new catering house that specialized in meeting “the unique dietary needs of today’s world.” They’d paid big bucks to be included in the wedding feature.
“Prime rib?” I answered, but I wasn’t sure. The small pieces of food on our little plastic plates looked like prime rib. From the color, to the shape, to the texture, to the rim of fat along the side. But it didn’t quite taste like prime rib.
“Mmm,” Astrid said. She took one of the tiny cups on a silver platter to “cleanse her palate.” “Simply delicious. Very light, yet still substantial.”
“That’s a hallmark of Prime Fib,” the manager of Yum’s said.
“Prime Fib?” I asked. “Like prime rib but it’s a fib because it’s not, um, real meat?”
“Exactly!” said the woman.
“This is tofu?” Noah asked, no longer chewing—or swallowing. I saw him glancing around discreetly for a garbage can or a dog.
“It’s seitan,” the manager said. “Isn’t it simply delicious?”
Ask Mini-Astrid. From the pre-vomit look on her face, I would say no.
“Um, is there a choice of fish or chicken as well?” Noah asked.
Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.
“Scandalous!” said the manager. “Don’t even use those words on these premises!” She smiled. “We’re strictly vegetarian.”
“But we’re not,” I said, wagging a finger between Noah and me.
“Ah, but the Modern Bride is,” was Astrid’s contribution.
“Philippa’s a vegetarian, and she’s the Classic Bride,” I pointed out.
I could only imagine the delectable prime rib or filet mignon or chicken cordon bleu that would be heaped on her plate at her wedding.
“We’ll be offering a choice of Prime Fib,” the manager announced. “And Soydfish.”
“Soydfish?” Noah repeated.
“Looks and tastes almost like swordfish,” she explained. “But it’s soy, soy and more soy! Sides will be our famous asparagus in ginger sauce and curried sweet potatoes.”
I wanted to wail like Caitlin. Waaah!
“Why don’t you two move on to our sipping station?” the manager said, gesturing us toward a counter with some Dixie cups and bottles of seltzer. “Our Soydfish samples will be ready in moments.”
“Eloise, can’t you talk to your boss?” Noah whispered in my ear as he downed five cups of seltzer. He didn’t even like seltzer. “Just explain that no one you know is a vegetarian, and therefore no one at your wedding will be a vegetarian. Unless, of course, the guest list will be manufactured also.”
Gulp. It actually would be. Not all of it, but in my in-box yesterday I found a press release about the Today’s Bride feature. Noted invitees to the Modern Bride’s wedding were Lenny Kravitz, Pink, the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy team, Cameron Diaz and the Hilton sisters. One noted invitee to the Classic Bride’s wedding was the queen of England.
Note the word invitees and not guests. Astrid was hoping that no one would note it, of course. The celebs and dignitaries would be invited for name dropping in the feature, but Wow and its advertisers didn’t expect them to come.
“Eloise?” Noah whispered. “We do get to invite our friends and family to our wedding, right?”
I quickly stuffed my mouth with another piece of Prime Fib. “It sort of tastes just like chicken!” I told Noah with a hopeful expression.
He shook his head at me. “It sort of tastes just like shit.”
“I got an F on my wedding-planning diary for the caterer visit,” Philippa said as we rode the elevator down and away from another day at Wow. “Astrid had Mini-Astrid rewrite it for me. I totally hurled when I read the ‘new and improved version.’”
“Can I see the original?” I asked.
She pulled it out of her tote bag and uncrumpled it.
“Astrid crumpled it into a ball?” I asked. Not that I would put it past Acid, but I was still surprised.
“No, I did,” Philippa said. “You’ll see why.”
Dear Wedding Diary, All the guests at my wedding are going to be stricken with mad cow disease.
She went on to describe what went on at slaughterhouses, how the grain used to feed cows could feed starving ch
ildren instead and ended with the statement that animals were people too.
Actually, they’re not, Astrid scrawled in red in the margin. They’re animals.
“She’s an animal!” Philippa seethed. “No, I take that back. Animals are wonderful. Astrid is…the scummy stuff you have to scrape off your shower walls.”
I laughed. “No, she’s the dog poop you step into on the street and then can’t get out of the grooves of your sneakers!”
She howled. And for the next minutes we played “Astrid is…” one-ups and both felt much better.
“Hey, what did you get on your diary?” she asked.
“An F minus,” I said. “Mini-Astrid is rewriting it for me as we speak. Astrid didn’t appreciate my tofu jokes.”
“Good job!” she said and high-fived me.
“So how are things going with your parents and brother?” I asked.
“Same. They hate me,” she said.
Whoever she was, Phyllis Wilschitz or Philippa Wills, I liked her.
I knew one person who’d enjoy dinner at my wedding: Charla Gould. For someone who ate three hamburgers in four hours last Saturday, she was now wolfing down a soy salami sandwich as though it were…meat.
Charla, Natasha, Summer and I were at an indoor playground filled with squealing, running toddlers and crawling infants and their mothers and caregivers. A minute ago, Summer had declared it snack time and went running for her stroller and its hanging diaper bag, which was always filled with treats and her sippy cup of juice.
Summer pawed at the bag. “Cookie!”
“After a healthy snack, sweetie,” Natasha told her, tapping Summer on the nose. “What does Mommy have for Summer in here?” She reached in and pulled out a banana. “Yummy! Banana!”
Summer eyed the banana, then ran to Charla and stared at her sandwich. “Me,” she said, pointing.
Charla ripped off a little piece and offered it to Summer. The toddler stared at it, then took it, slowly put it in her mouth, made a face, pulled it out and dropped it in Natasha’s palm. “Bana. Bana!” she said, running back to her mother.
We laughed.
“I’ve been craving salami like mad,” Charla said. “But the nitrates aren’t good for the baby. I swear this stuff tastes just like the real thing! Taste this,” she offered, handing over her sandwich. “You can’t even tell it’s not real salami. Soy is amazing.”
Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? Page 15
