Diane, of course he would. Could I call you to tell you more?
She writes back quickly.
I don’t think so. I don’t know who you are.
Diane, don’t make this difficult for me. I’m doing you the favor of a lifetime.
I’m a friend of Eddie’s. Look, I know this is ridiculous, but I’m trying to help him meet people. He’s a great guy—just a little shy. I’m sorry for bothering you, and if you want me to stop sending messages, I will. I just have a hunch that you two would enjoy each other’s company.
I leave my phone number. A couple of minutes later, she calls. Her voice is higher-pitched than I had expected, with a strong Staten Island accent. After I thank her for calling me, I struggle with how to phrase my next line as delicately as possible.
“I know I told you that Eddie is a friend of mine, but actually . . . well, I work for a dating service. I’m a matchmaker. Eddie is my, um, well, he’s my client.”
She goes silent—not that she was particularly talkative to begin with.
“Diane? Are you there?”
Finally, she speaks. “Yes.”
“I’d love to learn a little more about you. If it turns out that you and Eddie are compatible, then I’d be happy to send you on a date.”
“I don’t want to buy anything.”
“It would be at no charge to you.”
“So all I have to do is answer your questions?”
I try to project a sense of confidence. “Exactly.”
Another long pause. “All right.”
It takes forever to draw out information because she only speaks in one or two syllables at a time. She lives on Staten Island and works in the financial department of the local school district. She doesn’t go out often. She doesn’t like loud restaurants or concerts. She doesn’t drink, she doesn’t drive, and she doesn’t like cats. She has allergies to shellfish, most nuts, and some fruits. When I ask what she does like, she takes another long pause before answering.
“Sometimes, I watch baseball on TV.” Even her voice sounds mopey.
“Do you root for the Mets?”
“I like them. Yeah.”
That’s Eddie’s team. It’s a done deal. I don’t even bother asking her what kind of guy she’s attracted to, because that opens a conversation I don’t want to get into. No one’s dream man is short, fat, and bald. But then again, Diane is miniature—only four foot eleven, which makes Eddie a strapping stud by comparison. Or something like that. They’d be into each other, right? She has nice—well, she has fine teeth.
“You know, Diane, I have a really good feeling about this. I think you and Eddie will hit it off. I’m going to check in with my boss before I schedule the date, but expect to hear from me soon.”
“Okay.”
I hang up and feel like a rock star. I’m getting Eddie a date! I dash off a match proposal to Penelope and she approves it a few minutes later. “I’m impressed by how quickly you handled this. Good luck to them,” she had written. I spend the next hour futilely researching a spot that’s somehow convenient to both Eddie in the Bronx and Diane on Staten Island. The trek between their two boroughs involves transferring from a subway to a ferry to a bus. I check their availabilities over text (wide open, both of them) and decide to send them for a walk along the waterfront at Brooklyn Bridge Park soon. Penelope had taught me during training that people are always more attractive when in motion.
Good luck to them, indeed.
— Chapter 14 —
Four days after my relationship imploded, and my faith in love, fidelity, and honesty shattered, I’m racing across the lobby of the Bowery Hotel with a paper grocery bag brimming with a cocktail dress, heels, and enough industrial-strength undergarments to outfit the entire cast of Real Housewives. Mary-Kate called me earlier this week and asked if I would still come, despite the breakup. I wanted to say no until she called me “basically a sister.”
The hotel lobby boasts red Oriental rugs, intentionally worn in spots as if to show decades of wear, and dimly lit with small wrought-iron sconces holding golden-orange orbs of light. A familiar-looking girl with angular cheekbones and black leather leggings jabbers under her breath in French by a leafy green potted plant; I think I’ve seen her on a billboard somewhere. I jam the elevator button several times in a row. I was supposed to be in the bridesmaids’ suite on the eleventh floor ten minutes ago.
Finally, the doors open, and I gasp. A sandy-haired guy hunches over his BlackBerry, typing at lightning speed. My stomach lurches. I haven’t seen or spoken to Jonathan since our breakup. Now that I’ve had time to reflect (and cry, and drink countless bottles of wine with Caroline), I’m starting to wonder if I made the right decision. I broke things off in the middle of Dean & DeLuca due to a dizzying cocktail of rage, adrenaline, and confidence. I had been brash and impulsive. Of course I’m hurt by his cheating, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. The elevator dings again, a clear, high bell, and the figure looks up from his BlackBerry. The features are all wrong—the nose is too sharp, the eyes dirt brown. It’s not Jonathan. The man slides past me and holds his arm across the threshold while I step inside.
“Thank you,” I stammer.
My heart slows from a staccato sixty miles an hour to a mere forty-five as I relax against the cool metal interior of the elevator. I’m not prepared to face Jonathan. But whether I like it or not, I’ll have to see him today. And not just him—Mary-Kate, their parents, and every last aunt, uncle, and nosy cousin who wants to know when Jonathan will put a ring on it.
Today was supposed to be my grand entrance as a contender for a coveted spot in the Colton family. Instead, well, I press my palm into my torso and resist the urge to vomit. The elevator doors open and I race down the hall to the bridesmaids’ suite. I rap on the door and Jessie, the pug-faced one who got so wasted at Mary-Kate’s bachelorette weekend in Austin that she peed herself, lets me in.
Inside, a cacophony of loud female voices, an old Beyoncé song, and the steady hum of a hair dryer sounds. The suite is enormous. Mary-Kate, her mother, Nancy, five bridesmaids, Toby’s mother, and an army of hairstylists, makeup artists, nail technicians, photographers, and wedding planners are sprawled out amid a sea of nude strapless bras, cans of hairspray, and extra camera lenses.
“Watch out for the cords,” Jessie warns, leading me through the maze. “We have, like, seven curling irons plugged in.”
I step carefully over an iron and lean down to kiss Mary-Kate on the cheek. She sits in the hotel’s chintzy armchair with three ladies in waiting: one crouching on the floor to paint her toes shell pink, another painting her fingernails a matching shade, and a third weaving an intricate braid into her updo.
“There’s my single girl!” Her expression shifts into a sad puppy’s. “My brother’s such an ass. I’m so sorry.”
The rest of the bridesmaids go quiet until only Beyoncé’s voice cascades up and down octaves. They’re listening for dirt, so I put on a brave face.
“Yeah, I know. It . . . sucked.” My throat constricts and I can feel tears welling up, so I cast around for another topic. “But I wouldn’t dream of missing your big day. You look stunning. Toby’s a lucky guy.”
Her little rosebud mouth spreads into a self-satisfied smile. “Thanks. Now, where’s your robe? My gift to you. All the girls have them.”
Mary-Kate is wearing a white silk kimono with a deep V-neck and wide bell sleeves, the same one I’d been admiring at La Petite Coquette, save for the color. She snatches her hand back from the manicurist and twists around in her seat to show me her back. “Mrs. Warren,” her married name, is spelled out in delicate silver beads. I look around and realize the rest of the bridesmaids are wearing matching kimonos in sapphire blue with—thank god—no kitschy beading in sight.
“Mom, get one for Sasha,” Mary-Kate calls. She turns back to me. “It’s my little treat to you for being my bridesmaid. I saw you looking at them in the lingerie shop.”
Nancy
springs out of her armchair like a gazelle, unfolding the long, lean limbs she’s honed on tennis courts. Jonathan gets his straight nose and piercing blue eyes from her, and my heart does a back flip when she makes eye contact. I want to shrivel up and disappear.
“Come, Sasha. They’re in the other room.”
I follow her into an adjoining sitting room, which is empty except for the photographer’s assistant.
“Can we have a moment, please?” Nancy shoots the assistant a pointed look, and she scurries away.
Nancy sets down her mimosa on the windowsill, rummages in a bag from La Petite Coquette, and selects a robe, then looks me up and down. Her eyes linger on my chest.
“We weren’t sure what size to get you,” she says carefully. “I hope the medium fits.”
Like her daughter, Nancy is fine-boned, small-chested, and slim-hipped. I am precisely none of these things. They have lanky, slender bodies made for golf and sailing and brightly patterned Lilly Pulitzer sheaths. Mary-Kate convinced me to try on one of her Lillys once, and blanched before noting that pastel paisley isn’t flattering on everyone.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the robe from Nancy. “That should be fine.”
Nancy stares, her eyes unflinching and unkind. Her voice drops to a harsh whisper.
“I want to ensure that whatever disagreement you’re having with Jonathan has no bearing on the wedding. Today will be seamless.” She raises one eyebrow sharply at me. “Understood?”
My throat feels tight. I’ve never been totally comfortable around Nancy—her cool, reserved elegance has always intimidated me—but this is something else.
“Y-you know what happened, don’t you?”
“I’m aware.”
“He cheated on me,” I clarify.
Nancy leans one bony hip against the cherrywood desk and takes a sip of a sunny mimosa from a champagne flute. She examines me with her ice-blue eyes for a second too long, a second that grates on my nerves.
“I thought you loved my son.”
“I do. Er, I did.” I exhale heavily. “I thought he loved me. I didn’t think he’d hurt me like this.”
“But you were in this for good, weren’t you?”
“Of course. I want to be with him forever,” I say. “Wanted.”
The words burn on my cheeks. It feels like such an intimate thing to admit to her; I had never managed to say as much to Jonathan himself.
“Then don’t be foolish, Sasha,” she snaps. “Husbands will stray. But a smart wife—a wife who knows what’s best—will follow.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You must.” She tilts her head toward me.
“I don’t.”
“I normally wouldn’t confide in you like this, but for whatever reason—and I can’t even begin to imagine why—my son is quite taken with you. He’s crushed.”
I ignore the brazen backhanded compliment and cross my arms over my chest, waiting.
“Men will have their . . . let’s see, how can I put this? Dalliances,” she says. “Don’t make the mistake of letting them ruin your relationship. Men stray when they’re bored—so a smart woman will make things interesting again.”
“I see.”
Her thin lips curl into a small smile. “When I found Frank in other women’s beds, I joined him.”
Imagining Frank and Nancy’s affair or threesome—no, that word is too vulgar, they’d probably call it a ménage à trois, pronounced in a crystal Parisian accent—makes me feel queasy again. I suddenly realize how warm and stale the air is in here.
“And that . . . worked for you?”
“It did. Some women choose to turn a blind eye. Jacqueline Kennedy, for example. And look how that turned out.”
I narrow my eyes. “Her husband was assassinated.”
“Regardless,” she says, waving a hand. She straightens up and brushes an invisible piece of lint from the sleeve of her jacquard jacket. “I don’t want whatever tiff you’re having with my son to ruin the wedding.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” I say, raising my chin.
“Darling, it’s not my choice to have you here.” Her tone makes it clear she doesn’t consider me “darling” at all. “I’ve never thought you were right for Jonathan. But he says he loves you, and Mary-Kate insisted on including you. You’re here as our guest, but you’ll do as I say. Now go, change into your robe. Your makeup artist is waiting.”
She returns swiftly to the main part of the suite, and I hear her fawning over Mary-Kate’s hair. What the hell was that? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I can hear Jessie admonishing Faye (Toby’s sister, the bridesmaid tasked with putting together this afternoon’s playlist) for letting Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” slip into the mix. The song cuts out short and a new jam fills the room. I peel off my tank top and shorts and wrap myself in my new blue silk kimono. I cinch the belt tight, take a deep breath, and head into the other room to be painted up like a good Colton girl.
An hour later, I’ve been contoured, tweezed, and perfumed into a Madame Tussauds wax replica of a rich Ivy League girl. I’m standing on the roof of the Bowery Hotel with the rest of the bridesmaids to take photos before the ceremony. We’re a dizzying seventeen stories up, and an extravagant array of gleaming glass towers, rows of brick town houses, rushing avenues, and quaint side streets of the East Village and Lower East Side sprawls out beneath us. Bliss’s headquarters is down there somewhere.
I’m barely encased in a navy chiffon dress on loan from Caroline’s closet. I can’t inhale too deeply because I’m afraid it might split at the seams. Mary-Kate had deemed matching bridesmaid’s dresses tacky, so we were instead instructed to wear dresses in shades of blue. (Of course, they had to pass muster with Victoria, Mary-Kate’s work wife.) Victoria had outright rejected my sale rack pick, but Caroline had just the right dress: high neckline, cinched waist, hem hitting right above the knee. It’s both the most expensive thing I’ve ever worn and the most conservative dress Caroline owns. She wore it on election night when her father ran for Congress two years ago. (He lost.)
“Don’t you dare stretch out the top,” she had said when she lent it to me. “Dad says the next election cycle may be better, so I might need to wear it again.”
So I hold my breath and freeze my eyes wide for the camera. I smile so hard my cheeks ache. The photographer snaps a dozen portraits of the five bridesmaids lined up around the beaming bride, dressed in a simple, strapless Vera Wang ball gown. Her grandmother’s string of sapphires, as blue as the Mayflower blood running through her veins, glitters around her neck.
“Gorgeous, gorgeous,” he says, clicking the shutter repeatedly. “Remember, think skinny arm thoughts. Think light, natural hands on hips.”
He peeks around the edge of the camera, frowns, then nudges one of his assistants and points at me. “Fix that.”
The assistant rushes over to arrange my right hand on my hip. She presses her thumb into the back of my hand and gently splays out my fingers one by one. I’ve been relegated to the farthest position on the right, as far away from Mary-Kate as possible. Nancy’s orders.
“Let’s loosen up your grip,” she says softly, like she’s coaxing a scared kitten. “There you go.”
The flashbulb pops three more times, white and harsh, then the photographer releases us. I stare up at the cloudless blue sky for a moment and blink to restore my vision. When I look back down again, I notice Jonathan emerging from the elevator onto the rooftop. He’s devastating in a tuxedo, so heartbreakingly beautiful that he shouldn’t even be allowed to wear one. The black and white suit is in high contrast with his golden complexion, and sits smoothly across his broad shoulders. His eyes—the ones that match his mother’s—cast toward mine and freeze.
The chiffon tugs across my chest as I gulp for air. I feel like I’m falling down the hotel’s seventeen stories with nothing to grab on to. I’ve thought about what this moment would be like for four days straight now, and it’s not any
easier than I thought it would be. Jonathan pauses by the elevator bank, then strides over to me. I steel myself for whatever he’s about to say, but the photographer swoops in front of him and pulls him toward Toby for a photo. Right before the flash pops off, his eyes shift toward mine.
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to face him. What kind of moron dumps her boyfriend mere days before she’s a bridesmaid in his sister’s wedding? My presence in the bridal party isn’t fooling anyone. I’m not here as one of Mary-Kate’s best friends; I’m here because I’m Jonathan’s girlfriend.
Was Jonathan’s girlfriend.
My first week as a single girl had started off strong—I found Eddie a match, and even sort-of, kind-of, possibly secured a date for myself. But then I spent the next few days in the fetal position in my bedroom with the blinds drawn, alternating between sobbing and reading through every tweet @CassidyGreer had ever written, dating all the way back to 2009. I had no appetite for food, but I did manage to keep down several vodka tonics and a whole lot of wine. The apartment reeks of cat shit because I don’t have the energy to scoop Orlando’s litter box. The thin skin around my eyes is so raw and puffy that earlier today the makeup artist tried to console me before I even mentioned my breakup. And now, Jonathan is standing less than fifteen feet from me, so handsome in his tux, just an hour away from standing across the aisle from me as his sister promises to stay faithful to her one true love for as long as they both shall live.
It’s not so terrible for a bridesmaid to strand a bride at the altar, is it? She has four others to count on. If I kicked off my heels, I could run the twenty blocks home and be safely locked in my apartment in no time at all. But I’ve already been caught on camera by the photographer. Damn it. I regret passing up Caroline’s offer of Xanax this afternoon.
The rest of the groomsmen—Toby’s Rolodix cofounder, Charlie, a cousin, and two other friends—join Jonathan and Toby near the edge of the roof for more photos. Each one of them is a catch on his own, but together, they’re a terrifyingly ambitious, successful, and well-groomed bunch. Jessie and Victoria are whispering and giggling a few feet away, and I can only imagine which ones they’re picking out for themselves. I bet Jessie goes for Toby’s cofounder, Charlie; she seems shallow enough that his net worth would outweigh the fact that he reeks of frat-president vibes the way some guys reek of cologne. I wonder if Charlie has ever cheated on a girl. Probably. Has Toby? If he hasn’t yet, would he ever? Fifty-five minutes to go till he exchanges his vows with Mary-Kate.
Playing with Matches Page 13
