by Josie Brown
“Frankly, I thought the first one suited you the best.” She holds up the dress I hated most: so low cut that a nip slip would have been inevitable. Then again, considering it’s also got a micro-miniskirt, I wouldn’t have been able to bend down anyway.
“Really? I’ll be saying my wedding vows—not dancing in a go-go dancers cage in some Vegas strip club!”
“Another reason to choose the gown designed by Brother Francis.”
I waddle over to her until we’re nose to nose. “I knew it! You bought it in some monastery gift shop!” Trappist monks use sign language in order to honor their vow of silence. I do the same, to honor my vow of sanity: a one-finger salute.
She pretends she doesn’t see it. “Granted, the dress is a bit boho. But even someone your age can be a fashion trendsetter.” Before I can point out that I’m younger than she, despite the numerous operations to cover up this fact, she cuts me off with her palm to my face. “We’re down to one last dress, and that’s it. Make your choice of the lesser of all evils.” She motions at the only gown hanging from one of the elegant wrought iron hooks.
“That’s my point: they’re all evil!” I motion toward the dresses tossed on the bed.
She crosses her hands below her non-existent bosom. She’s not budging.
Frustrated, I hold up the last dress—
Yuck. It’s a knock-off of Princess Diana’s Eighties-era wedding gown: puffed sleeves, doily collar, and overlong train.
I hold it up, laughing. “This isn’t a wedding dress! It’s a Halloween costume!”
Chantal yanks it out of my hand. “This will always be viewed as an iconic classic! Dressing up as a princess on her wedding day is something every little girl dreams of. And, besides”—she sniffs—“every fashion maven on earth agrees with one thing: Babette Chiffray has wonderful taste. You’ll just have to suck it up.”
“Oh, yeah? Pray tell, just what will Babette be wearing to my wedding?”
Chantal stalks off toward the stadium-sized closet at the other end of the dressing room. “It’s a Michael Kors. Stunning, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say,” I mutter. Slim straps hold up the simple column that scoops low in the front, and is cut even lower in its vented back. Above the Empire waist, the dress is covered in silver sequins.
The body of the dress is white.
“But…why would she wear white at my wedding?” I stammer.
Confused, she mutters, “Why should the color of her dress matter?”
“Because only the bride is supposed to wear white! It’s my wedding, not hers, or has she forgotten that?”
Chantal shrugs. “Considering that she’s the first lady, frankly, dearie, all that should matter to you is that she’s deemed the event worthy enough to attend in the first place.” She jerks the dress away from me—
But I’m not letting go.
Hearing it rip, we freeze.
“Why, you jealous lunatic! It was one of a kind! Michael designed it especially for Babette!”
“Really?” I look at the designer’s signature tag on the inside lining. “Then why is it in my size?”
“Oh! ...Well…,” she stutters, “because designers always send something a few sizes larger. It makes it easier in the off chance that alterations are needed.”
“She’ll be swimming in it. Admit it, she took it for herself, but it was meant for me.”
I yank it out of her hand.
She snatches it back.
I grab it again—
But she holds tight—
Another loud rip freezes us both in our tracks.
“Oh, my God,” Chantal murmurs. “Do you know how much this dress costs?”
“Well, you can certainly have it now.” Babette’s voice rings through the room.
We turn to the doorway to see her standing there with Jack, who is trying hard not to laugh—not at my predicament, but from the monstrosity that swaddles me from head to toe.
I toss the dress on the floor. “I’ll pass on the honor.” With my head held high in the turtleneck mummy wrapper, I turn on my heel, and take four steps—
Only to fall flat on my face. Somehow, I’ve tripped on the train of my dress.
It rips too.
Just great. Now I own two wedding dresses, neither of which are wearable.
My pride gives me the strength to hold in my tears. So, who’s wailing?
Babette.
We can barely make out what she’s saying through her gulps and sobs. “I…I didn’t think you’d care if I kept one of the dresses for myself.”
Jack is stroking her bowed head and murmuring, “There, there, Babette. Donna didn’t mean it.”
Wait…What?
I sure as hell did mean it.
How could he!
Jack’s head turns so that he can scowl at me—
And give me a wink unobserved by the others.
I am not mollified, but let it be noted that I am a team player.
At least until I get him alone and can read him the riot act.
And cry on his shoulder for throwing me to that she-wolf.
“I’m…sorry. But of course you can wear whatever you want.” My apology is delivered with a shrug.
Her sniffling stops the second the words are out of my mouth. She gazes up at me, her eyes gleaming—not from tears, but from this latest victory. “So, you don’t mind if I wear a similar shade?”
“By that, do you mean white? No. Knock yourself out.” Before I do it for you.
I smirk as I hold up the torn gown. “Since this is ruined, I guess you’ll have to go for something else.”
If Babette had truly shed tears, they were now nowhere in sight—only the sly smile of a woman who knows how to get what she wants. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she admonishes me. “Michael will gladly send another one over, in the right size—that is, my size.”
“But, won’t he mind that the first one is now ripped?”
“Not at all. What designer wouldn’t want his creation worn by the president’s wife? Besides, I’ll just explain that the dress ripped when we zipped you up. Heaven knows, it would have happened anyway.”
Without a second glance, she heads for the door with her handmaiden, Chantal, beside her—a good thing, I guess, because neither sees me throw a hook punch at Babette—
Which is stopped by Jack’s open palm.
It’s great to see him share my pain.
He waits until they are out of the room before hissing a chorus of curses as he shakes his aching hand.
When he’s through, I growl, “Considering all the up-close-and-personal time you’ve had with Babette, I presume your mission was accomplished.”
Jack grimaces. “Well…almost.”
“No? Do tell.”
“It wasn’t as if I could slip her cell phone out of her golf bag and scan it right there in front of her.”
“From what I could see, you’ve had ample time for hand holding.”
“We did, but she wasn’t wearing her ring.”
“I’m shocked, considering the splash it made in the society pages when international playboy and tech entrepreneur, Lee Chiffray, presented it to the wealthy widow Breck after a whirlwind courtship.” I roll my eyes. “So, I take it you didn’t get touchy-feely either?”
“Not anywhere that may stick permanently.” He glances away. “But I’ll have another opportunity. She’s bound and determined to lower her handicap.”
“Along with her thong, no doubt.”
He winces at the thought as he grabs my hand. “I’ve had enough of Lion’s Lair for one day. Let’s get out of here.”
Gladly.
So that I can avoid the inevitable phone call from Chantal asking which of the designer gowns I’ve chosen, I grab the dress least likely to make me upchuck during the ceremony: the monk’s robe.
They say accessories make any outfit. Maybe finding the right belt will make all the difference.
If not, I can use it to hang Chantal
from the nearest lamppost.
Chapter 10
Engagement Party!
Now that your betrothal is official, it’s time to tell the world—by throwing an engagement party!
Of course, not everyone will be pleased with the news that you’re both off the mating market—all the more reason to keep a tight rein on your guest list. The following should certainly make the cut:
1: Meet the parents (and the rest of the family). There is no better time to impress them than in an elegant setting where bubbly flows like Niagara Falls. That way, should you discover that his reason for keeping them at bay until now has more to do with their rap sheets, and less to do with their scintillating personalities, you can still run like hell.
2: Invite his closest friends? But of course! Here’s your chance to meet his posse. Should one mutter a few lascivious comments in your direction, no problem! Feel free to respond with a few choice words of your own. As for a wandering hand or two (or three), all it takes is a quick slice of his tongue with the knife used for carving the roast beef to shut him up. Any bloodletting can be dismissed as, “Rare. But yes, if you’re not careful, you can bleed to death.”
3: Should he insist on inviting his old girlfriends, acquiesce to the request. You’re not doing it because it makes you secure in the relationship, or because you don’t have a jealous bone in your body. You’re doing it because getting the competition out of the way is easier when they’re all in the same room: preferably one with no escape route.
“As of this very moment, everyone on the engagement party list has RSVP’d,” Chantal gushes. “Obviously, we saved the A-List for the wedding—you know, George and Amal, Beyoncé, Kate and Cate, Anne Hathaway, Madonna, Lady Gaga, Leo DiCaprio, and Melissa McCarthy. But lucky you, the B-List ain’t so shabby, either. Granted, it includes a few of the Housewives of Beverly Hills, but, never fear, we also got all the Kardashians! Isn’t this wonderful news?”
“Yep, truly super-duper! I have to pinch myself to believe it!” Really, I’d like to pinch her pinhead between my thumb and forefinger, just as I’d do to any annoying blood sucking tick.
But I can’t. At least, not until the mission is over. At that point the wedding planner from hell had better run for her life.
“Now, add my family to the list, and everything stays peachy-keen.” The frost in my tone should have her reaching for a thermal push-up bra and thong.
“Oh…hmmm,” she stutters. Her lousy attempt at damage control is to proclaim, “Well, you know how it is. We had to cut the guest list somewhere.”
“You can’t cut it there! Aunt Phyllis is family, as are Mary, Jeff, and Evan— not to mention that they’re in the wedding party.”
Only Trisha will join us, since she’s been invited to sleep over with Janie.
Chantal stumbles through an explanation—something about a full house as is, what with the number of RSVPs received from all the glitterati on the guest list, including, “the whole cast of Game of Thrones and The Hobbit movies too! Not to mention all of the Secret Service detail wandering around—”
“Get real,” I growl. “The ball room in Lion’s Lair holds four hundred! Surely there’s space for four more!”
“Sorry, but no,” Chantal growls. “Babette is already concerned that this is turning into an OC housewife hoedown. Trust me, those rarely make the Vanity Fair party page.” She sighs heavily, as if carrying the weight of the world on her bony shoulders.
“If that’s what has you worried, feel free to cut any and all of Hilldale.”
“Believe me, I wish I could, but Babette won’t allow it. Or, as she puts it, ‘We don’t want the natives to get restless.’”
Or the voters, for that matter.
This wedding stuff is wearing me down.
Before I can give her my ultimatum—my family in attendance, or her head hanging from one of the spikes that top the ten-foot wall around Lion’s Lair—she squeals through the phone, “Gotta go! We just scored a four-star general! Babette will be beside herself. The Armed Services have never forgiven her for telling Anna Wintour of Vogue that the U.S. Military’s uniforms need a total overhaul by Ralph Lauren, so now it’s time to make nice-nice!”
Click.
I turn to Jack. “Can we elope?”
“Sure. Let’s leave now.” He’s serious.
We can’t. It would mean giving up the opportunity we’ve been waiting for to take down the Quorum.
“No.” I shake my head halfheartedly. “But you get major brownie points for saying yes.”
He kisses the nape of my neck. “I’ll collect them tonight, after the party.”
Because I don’t want him to stop, I bite my tongue to keep from saying, not if I’m in jail for stealing POTUS’s cell phone.
If I do get caught, when will I get the opportunity feel Jack’s lips on me again?
How often do they allow conjugal visits in federal prison? I hope I don’t have a chance to find out.
“Donna! ...Donna!” Tiffy Swift waves frantically at me from across the room, “Congratulations, girlfriend!”
As if I’m some long-lost gal pal? Give me a break.
She’s waving, not to pass along her good wishes, but because Jack and I stand next to Babette and Lee.
Tiffy is obviously more star struck than Hayley Coxhead or Penelope because she literally drags them over. To reach us, they have to duck and dodge through the crowd of Chantal’s B-listers, as well as the legion of cater waiters, and an army of Secret Service agents, including Abu and Dominic.
Then there’s the rest of our Acme team.
Ryan came in earlier than Emma and Arnie. He greeted the Chiffrays with formal handshakes, and was somewhat surprised when Lee pulled him in close for a bear hug. It would have been great if he could have picked POTUS’s upper inside jacket pocket for his cell phone right then and there, but my guess is that he was too stunned to think about it, let alone try it, so that little bit of spycraft is still up to me.
Emma and Arnie spaced their entrances so that they were dead center in the receiving line, which included Lee, Babette, Jack, and me. Arnie walked through first. He was oblivious that his formal bow to the Chiffrays drew a smirk from Babette, as did the manner in which he pumped Jack’s hand, like a long-lost brother.
He practically lifted me off the ground with his hug, whispering, “Good luck, Don! ...By the way, if you get caught, head for the panic room. It’s through the shower in Lee’s office. The tunnel drops you outside the gate next to Hilldale Park.”
Now he tells me. I guess he’s just as concerned about my odds of pulling this off as I am.
Emma’s smile wavered as we shook hands, when she handed off the iPhone so similar to Lee’s that he’ll never know the difference. I slip it into a pocket buried deep in the voluminous folds of my pleated tulle tea-length skirt.
Seeing the concern in her eyes, I whispered, “Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine.”
I wish I meant what I said.
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” Emma muttered. “This place has more security than Fort Knox!” She shuddered slightly.
Surely she’s dreading the fate of her infant son, Nicky, should our mission fail and she and Arnie are implicated in it. “A heads-up: the cams are on a loop, and the security sensors have been turned off.”
In other words, the mission is a go.
The Acme operatives are equipped with contacts and ear buds that allow for constant visual and audio, respectively, on each of us. Dominic is shadowing Jack, and Abu is shadowing me.
Should I get ahold of Lee’s cell, I’ll use a code phrase, “It’s warmer in here than it is outside…”
This signals Emma and Arnie to move past me to retrieve Lee’s iPhone. They’ll head to the powder room, where one of them will do the scan, while the other stands guard. They’ll return it to me with another brush pass, so that I can put back the phone.
Easy-peasy, right?
We both know better.
<
br /> The receiving line seemed endless, but making small talk with a woman who only has eyes for my fiancé would have been even harder to endure. And now, to have Hilldale’s meanest mommies fawning over her?
I can’t wait for this night to be over.
Babette must feel the same way, despite a smug grin that seems set in stone. But I notice the light go out of her eyes when she realizes the Bitches of Hilldale have descended on her. Thus far, only celebrities and other honored guests—politicians and well-heeled party supporters—have been allowed photo ops with the first couple. Babette is a true believer in American politics’ pay-to-play structure.
She raises a brow in Narcissa’s direction. I take it this is some sort of shorthand between them. I’m right when Zeb sidelines Tiffy, Penelope, and Hayley just long enough for Jack to sweep Babette onto the dance floor as John Legend croons All of Me.
From Lee’s smile, he’s just as amused as I am. “If we follow their lead, we can avoid your new best friends.” He holds out his arm.
I take it. “You had me at ‘avoid.’”
He’s wearing his wedding band. Before the party started, he slipped his iPhone in the left inside breast pocket of his tuxedo—not an ideal location for swiping it. I’d much prefer snatching it off a desk or a table when no one is watching.
It’ll be just as tricky putting it back.
In either event, I don’t think he’ll balk if I put my hands on him.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
“From what I gather, our significant others are spending a lot of time together—and enjoying it.” Lee’s declaration isn’t angry or sad, just stated as a fact.
As he glides me around the dance floor, his right hand is on the small of my back. My dress is certainly not Babette-approved, which is why I’m sure I’ve enjoyed so many admiring glances. It has long lace sleeves and a high neck, but it plunges low enough for me to feel his warm hand on the center of my back.
His left hand holds my right one gently. One of the tiny microdots is on the tip of its index finger. If I fail to swipe his phone, I’ll place my finger against the flat band of his wedding ring.
