by Liza Palmer
Kate and I go over the invite list, dishing on what we think each woman will look like. Based on the women’s innocent e-mails and our growing intolerance for Olivia, we have made the lot out to resemble a coven, right out of the Salem Witch Trials, 1692. I’ve received eight e-mails from Gwen letting me know she has gotten us on the VIP list to the Ghostbar at The Palms and confirms the weekend itinerary at the end of each e-mail.
I have planned high tea and dinner that night. Later, we’ll go to Gwen’s must-be-on-the-VIP-list bar. But I’m the maid of honor. This weekend is my show. It says so in black and white in all of the etiquette books Olivia has purchased over the past year . . . whether Gwen likes it or not.
Kate and I stop at Bun Boy for an early lunch of good all-American fare. Everyone who drives from Los Angeles to Las Vegas stops at Bun Boy. It’s either that or a candy bar at some odorous rest stop. I order an amazing turkey sandwich and wash it down with some fruit from the car. Kate picks at her burger and still only finishes half. Damn that girl and her ability to turn away from the siren song of fried foods. We fill up the tank, and I make a trip to the restroom. Upon my return, I see that Kate can no longer control herself: She’s sitting in the driver’s seat. I concede and buckle myself in for the rest of the drive. We continue chattering about whatever is going on in our lives as the flat scenery passes outside the windows.
We are avoiding talking about Olivia. I am excited to find out what she got me for my birthday. But I haven’t unveiled my plan to resurrect our friendship this weekend to Kate. I know what Kate’s response will be. Shit, I know what anyone’s response would be at this point. I feel like I’m on Sesame Street and Big Bird has all of my life’s achievements out in front of him while he tries to coax the audience to choose “which one of these things is not like the other.” Olivia’s friendship has been a cornerstone of my life. Moving on without it seems like a titanic task I don’t think I have the strength for. But another part of me continues to rear her ugly head. I want to rub my title maid of honor in all these women’s faces this weekend. I see Gwen’s envy. But it’s a fact of life now. I’m Number One. I have the bouquet. I hold the rings. I have the history.
It’s just past noon as we pass over the Nevada state line marked with seedy casinos and murky hotels. We’re in the home stretch. I call Olivia from my cell and leave a message saying we should be at the Bellagio soon. I give her my cell phone number again. I feel good about myself as I sit in the passenger seat of my own vehicle. I am in control. This is my show.
I can see the lights of Las Vegas even in the superheated daylight of early afternoon. We see castles, golden buildings, pyramids, the New York skyline, and the Eiffel Tower. The streets are packed, even in the 116-degree heat. Tourists in sun hats, beer bellies, and gas station visors bob from one casino to the next. Kate lowers her sunglasses and looks high at the skyline of Vegas—taking it all in.
The Bellagio is right on the Strip, and Kate navigates us to the check-in line as we pull into valet parking. I open the trunk. The bellman retrieves Kate’s bag and then mine. Kate hands the valet my keys and we enter our hotel. Kate checks us in, and we go up to the room. I don’t care how old you are, staying in a hotel still feels like a treat. I am having so much fun. Kate is feeling the same way—I can see it on her face. We are looking at the mirror on the ceiling of the elevator and making funny faces, commenting on how thin we look from that angle.
We get out on our floor and walk down the hall in search of our room number. I’m feeling tired from the road and the early wake-up call. The happiness from the elevator-ceiling mirror only lasts so long. Kate opens the door to our hotel room and we immediately plop down on the beds and turn on the television. I check my cell phone. No one has called. I put in another call to Olivia telling her we’ve arrived at the hotel and that I’ll wait for her call so we can meet for martinis before the high tea at three.
As Kate showers, I ball up on my bed and watch television. I am getting that sinking feeling with Olivia. Of course, she’s doing this. This is why I’m questioning my trust in her after a lifetime of being best friends. I can see Big Bird now flapping his seven-foot wingspan at the photo of Olivia. “This one,” he chirps. “This one,” the squeaking audience mimics. I know I have made the right decision being here. I remind myself, I’m not alone this time. I have Kate. Fuck the whole martini idea. Kate and I can go to lunch and still meet everyone for high tea at the Petrossian Bar.
Kate gets out of the shower and I look forward to my turn so I can wash some of these feelings away. I give Kate an update as I strip and she looks lazily at the television. Everyone knows about Olivia but me. No one is surprised by her negligence. Kate says something like “fuck her” and turns the station to some sitcom.
The shower feels good, and I am beginning to get back some of that feeling of joy I had in the elevator. I can’t expect Olivia to be there for me. It doesn’t make me too intense or needy. It means that she and I have grown apart, and it’s time to face that fact. I rinse my hair and soap my body. I am starting to feel some changes in my body, mostly from the inside out. I feel more secure when I’m walking up stairs. I’m not so off balance. I have this sneaking feeling that my belly button may be visible. I feel as proud as Bella about her outie. I return to the main room of the hotel room in a towel and wet hair.
“You got a call,” Kate says.
“Olivia?” I say.
“No, Hannah.”
“She’s part of the coven. Is Olivia with her?” I say, toweling my hair off.
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
I have now left four messages for Olivia, each one more frustrated. I have to keep my eyes on the prize. I am sitting on the edge of my bed watching the hotel’s promotional channel touting what a beautiful hotel the Bellagio is for lovers.
“And nothing from Gwen?” Kate throws the remote control to me as she walks to the bathroom and plugs in her curling iron. The acoustics of the bathroom make these words reverberate.
“No.” The couple on the television are walking arm in arm around the fountains.
“What do you think about that?” Kate says, emerging once more from the bathroom with a chunk of white-blond hair in the warming curling iron.
Yes, I know they’re together. I have some lady named Callie waiting for Olivia to arrive downstairs at Petrossian so she can present her with a tiara that says WORLD’S BEST BRIDE. I know this has nothing to do with me, but all I can think about is this will be like every other party I’ve thrown where no one comes.
“What’s to think about?” I say. The couple on the television are now feeding each other gelato.
“We can just leave right now and forget this whole thing,” Kate says as her curls settle.
“Hannah’s head would explode for sure.” Why can’t I just walk away?
“Okay, maybe we don’t have to leave, but we don’t have to show up, either.” Kate approaches me, and I can feel myself beginning to cry.
“I just don’t know what I did.” I have visions of having to tell some new, faceless friend all about Owen Lynch, Mason Phelps, and The John Sheridan. You never realize how much history you share with a friend until you have to tell story after story to someone new just so you can get on the same page.
“You didn’t do anything. You know you didn’t do anything. This is Olivia’s problem, not yours. Let’s just go down there and make the best of it. If Olivia doesn’t show, then you get out of going to the wedding. That’s fair.” Kate pats my leg and makes her way back to the bathroom.
I wipe my tears away and click the television off just as the loving couple sit down to twin slot machines.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
World’s Best Bride
Once, in high school, Olivia and I were invited to a party. The popular kids were getting together up in the hills at one of their huge houses, and they asked us to come. I imagined, even then, being stripped of my clothes, tarred, and then feathered. Olivia convinced me we w
ere finally being accepted and that this was a great opportunity for us. Obliged to my best friend, I drove us up into those hills and right into certain death. As we let ourselves in through the large Craftsman door, we found all of them sitting in Owen Lynch’s hot tub drinking beer and barking inappropriate propositions at each other. Was this what high school dating was like? “Yer purty, Mary Benicci,” I imagined him saying as the teenaged ogler eyed her newly formed breasts. But Olivia walked in confidently, cracked open a beer, and sat at the side of the hot tub. She flipped her blond hair as she talked to her half-naked audience. I walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a diet soda, and flipped on the television. Olivia left that evening feeling like she had finally made it. The next day Mary Benicci spread a rumor that Olivia had almost drowned poor Shannon Shimasaki when Olivia tried to squeeze her way into the hot tub.
The Petrossian Bar, set in the corner of the Bellagio lobby, is mostly known for its caviar and vodka tasting. But they also offer a high tea, which is what brought us here today. I approach the hostess and identify her as Callie by her name tag.
“Hi there, I’m Maggie Thompson.” I already feel like a five-year-old arriving at a birthday party without a present.
“Oh,” the hostess squeals. “Where’s the lucky bride?”
“She is still en route,” I say.
“But we’d like to sit if that’s okay,” Kate interrupts.
“You’re Maggie Thompson?” I sense a tiny wisp of a peasant bounding toward me.
“Yes,” I say, raising my arms over my face in defense.
“I’m Hannah? Hannah Ratner? From the phone?” Her eyes bulge with desperation.
Ah, the first to arrive, Goodie Ratner: It’s a title I’m sure she’s held since she was Hall Monitor in elementary school. Her wispy brown hair has the effect of male pattern baldness or a bad dye job. Hannah is alarmingly thin. Her designer clothes hang on her like a third-world child who can be fed for just five cents a day. She follows the hostess to our table and begins asking what the specials are as she is a vegan and wants to make sure she won’t be ingesting anything “inappropriate” this fine afternoon.
The table is beautiful. Dainty teacups are set out for seven, and the WORLD’S BEST BRIDE tiara sits at the head of the table. A glaring reminder of Olivia’s absence. Champagne is chilling at the end of the table, and Callie is waiting to put our napkins in our laps. I make a note to come back here with someone I am actually happy for.
I see two women coming our way through the tables, passing Callie as she exits. Panchali is on the right. She is stunning. Her black wavy hair is parted in the middle just enough to show off beautiful almond eyes. She is wearing a wine-colored blouse with gray Capri pants and moves gracefully through the restaurant. I can see her calf muscles from here. She made eye contact with us when she entered the restaurant, but has yet to smile or wave hello. Shawna Moss, on the other hand, is frantically waving and smiling from ear to ear. She is dark-skinned with straight hair that is newly done and perfect. She, too, is painfully thin and accentuates this by dressing in clothes that hug her adolescent figure. I stand to greet the women. If it is humanly possible, these three women make Olivia look overweight. Callie has returned. She is being hailed by Kate.
“You must be Maggie.” Shawna is approaching rapidly.
“Yes, nice to meet you. This is my sister, Kate,” I say, pulling Kate up by her arm.
“It’s so great to finally meet you. Olivia talks about you all the time,” Shawna says.
“Good to meet you, Shawna,” I say, backing away slowly.
Kate and Shawna shake hands. Shawna has this tendency to purse her lips before she talks. It’s somewhat unsettling.
“You are just like her,” Shawna whispers.
“I’m sorry?” I ask as Kate settles herself back in her seat, spinning the champagne around to read the label.
“You are just like Olivia. Your mannerisms, your voice. I mean, it’s uncanny,” she says.
“Maybe I am Olivia,” I say.
Shawna stops and stares at me. I can hear Kate let out a huge sigh behind me.
“And you’re funny. Just like Olivia,” Shawna says, laughing out her nose.
“Do you have anything to drink?” Kate asks, as Callie finally approaches our table.
Shawna sits next to Kate at the end of the table. Panchali squeezes around the back and sits next to Hannah. Hannah has calmed down nicely, and Panchali approaches her carefully so as not to rile her up again.
Shawna quickly engages Kate about her life. Kate gives her usual spiel about the girlies and Vincent. Pictures are presented, and Shawna is a rather active listener. Kate’s stories are dotted with oohs, aahs, and gales of inappropriate laughter. Peregrine would definitely approve. Then Kate must pay the ultimate price. She must now obligingly ask Shawna about herself. We learn that Shawna is single. No surprise there. Shawna begins her canned rundown of the “single life.” I imagine her late at night practicing her pauses and facial expressions as she breathlessly makes her way through her monologue. She has worked at the same PR firm since she got out of school, again no surprise. And she loves the Thursday-night television lineup. I ask her how she knows Olivia. She thinks this is funny.
“The PR firm. I introduced her to Adam.”
“Did you?” Kate asks. She’s getting a tad tipsy.
“Not like Olivia would ever have trouble getting a boyfriend. She’s always been so popular.” Kate and I exchange a look. I was not properly debriefed about Olivia’s new “history,” so I decide to just keep quiet.
“So how did you introduce the two lovebirds?” Kate lifts her glass.
“I booked Adam for this conference and then told Olivia to go pick him up. I guess you could say the rest is history, you know. But I knew. I knew,” Shawna confides.
“Knew?” Kate asks, popping a petit four in her mouth. I almost can’t hold back my laughter.
“They belonged together,” Shawna whispers.
“So you’re to blame,” Kate insinuates.
“I guess you could say that.” Shawna beams.
I can tell this is Shawna’s favorite part. She gets to tell secrets to perfect strangers and let the entire table know they are not privy to this knowledge. I look across the table as Panchali takes apart a finger sandwich while she and Hannah discuss what they believe the meat to be. Shawna is peering over to them and then back at us. She leans in. “Adam was the one,” she whispers. You’re telling me. The only one if memory serves. Shawna is leaning in so close to me I can smell the lox from her finger sandwiches.
“I guess she had a pretty serious boyfriend back in high school, but that didn’t work out. College, you know? Of course, you know. This is all old hat for you. You could probably tell me a ton of things I don’t know,” Shawna snorts. Kate spits out her wine. Shawna knows not what she says.
Finally, Panchali reaches across the table and introduces herself. I am afraid of her in some weird celebrity kind of way.
“Panchali Nagra,” she says, extending her hand.
“Wonderful to meet you,” I stutter, still a little thrown by Olivia’s mystery boyfriend in high school. Panchali pulls her hand back over the table. “I’m Maggie. It’s great to meet you. Olivia talks about you all the time,” I say.
“Yes,” Panchali says as she sniffs. She flips her napkin over and resets it on her lap. I believe I have been dismissed.
Panchali orders her choice of tea. Hannah suggests Darjeeling, as it’s from Panchali’s “homeland.” Panchali orders Earl Grey, and Hannah hands her menu over to Callie with a look of disgust.
I focus back on Kate. She is now discussing the Thursday-night television lineup as opposed to the Tuesday-night lineup. Kate holds true to her large ensemble sitcoms, but Shawna brings some fresh insights to the table. Kate is pointing at her with a full wineglass, saying something about believability and how that many skinny people would never hang out with each other. Shawna disagrees for obvious reasons. I
try to get Kate to behave, as it looks like she is trying to take a swing at Shawna, but I’m not sure. I see Hannah looking at her watch from across the table. I am beginning to understand this to be one of Goodie Ratner’s compulsions. One of many.
I look at my watch, too. I can’t help myself. It’s three thirty. The party for Olivia started at three o’clock. No Olivia, and no Gwen. I can’t help but look around the table and project every single insecurity I’ve ever felt onto these three strangers. These three beautiful, painfully thin strangers. I can see Big Bird again. “One of these things is not like the other,” he says. I stand out like a sore thumb. A big, fat, oversize, sore thumb. Sure, I’ve lost some weight, but compared with these women I am still one word. Fat. For chrissakes, compared with these women Olivia could lose a few. What must they think of me? A maid of honor throws a bridal shower and the bride doesn’t even show? This will be fodder for Shawna for sure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Caught Up
At three forty-five, Hannah announces she has just spotted Olivia and Gwen in the lobby of the hotel. The crowd goes wild. It takes the pair a good twenty minutes to check in while the shower is suspended in this odd motionless quiet. Even Hannah is quiet, save a few checks of her watch. Olivia and Gwen work their way across the room. I feel like I’m in a movie theater watching the entrance of a pair of 1940s movie starlets. Olivia has a lot of makeup on. A lot of makeup. I’ve never seen her with this much on before. Kate notices, too.
“Are those false eyelashes?” Kate asks as Olivia and Gwen approach.
“They must be,” I say.
Gwen is wearing a chiffon tank top with crisp white pants and pointy heels. She keeps her sunglasses on as she walks toward us. I have to stop myself from ripping them off her smug-ass face. I feel like a dipshit sitting next to the empty seat reserved by the WORLD’S BEST BRIDE tiara. Olivia comes over and gives me a hug. She is going in for a hug with Kate when Kate retreats from the mascara-laden eyelashes. Olivia backs away.
