The People We Hate at the Wedding

by Grant Ginder

  “The women in this city wear the nicest coats,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed and removing her shoes.

  Should she mention the picture? It’s just sitting there, unnoticed, a short arm’s length away. Should she somehow point it out to her mother? Explain that she’s had it framed for her, and that she intends to give it to her as a gift for traveling all this way? She draws in a breath to say something, but at the last moment she stops herself: something about drawing Donna’s attention to the picture seems tacky, self-serving, like when Paul used to tell Eloise the price of the Christmas presents he’d bought her before she even had the chance to open them. No, she’ll stay silent. She’ll let Donna discover it on her own.

  “Have you heard from your father yet?” her mother asks, suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has he RSVPed? Is he coming?”

  Eloise says, “I … I did,” and reaches down to straighten out the corners of the bed. “I got it last week. He’ll be there.”

  “A month late RSVPing,” Donna says, bitterly. “Quelle surprise.”

  What is wrong with me? Eloise thinks, stopping just short of apologizing to her mother. Why do I feel so guilty? Surely her mother knew that Henrique would end up being at the wedding; he is, after all, her father. Still, Eloise feels like she’s somehow failed her mother, like she’s exposed her to an inevitable and obvious truth.

  “The bathroom’s en suite,” she announces, loudly, to keep herself from fidgeting. “You’ll find soap, shampoo, conditioner, a hair dryer—really, anything you might need, I think—in the bathroom. And if there’s something that’s not in there, just ask Anka, and she’ll get it for you.” She’s babbling. She sounds like a concierge.

  “Oh, I’m fine, sweetheart.” Her mother lays back onto the bed, her legs still dangling over its edge. Eloise sits next to her and rubs her knee.

  “You must be exhausted. Did you get any sleep?”

  “Oh, you know me and red-eyes.”

  “Why don’t you take a nap? We haven’t got anything until meeting Alice and Paul this evening.”

  “And Mark,” Donna says, sitting up.

  “Mark?”

  “Paul’s boyfriend.”

  “Of course,” Eloise feigns. “I don’t know how I forgot about Mark.” She stumbles through what she wants to say next, without appearing as though the only thing she cares about is her own wedding. “You two are speaking again, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve never been not-speaking to Mark.”

  Eloise says, “No. I meant Paul.”

  “Oh.” Donna sighs. “Well, he called me about a month ago to tell me that he was coming, so I suppose that’s a start?”

  “It is!” Eloise feigns a smile: she’s imagining her brother. She’s imagining a scene. “Did you talk about … about Bill?”

  “No,” Donna says. “And we won’t. He doesn’t need to know about all that.”

  “I just think it’s so unfair to you, Maman. You were doing him a favor. You were protecting him, for God’s sake, and this is the thanks you get.”

  Donna smiles. She looks exhausted, Eloise thinks, and old. She reaches over and pushes a strand of hair out of Eloise’s eyes. “Are jeans okay for tonight?”

  “Black pants, maybe, if you’ve got them?”

  Donna pulls her hand away. Her cheeks flush. “I, uh, I didn’t know that I needed…”

  Eloise gives her mother’s knee a squeeze. Discreetly, she checks the clock on the room’s east wall: no time for Harrods. “Jeans are fine.”

  “You’re sure it’s fine if I rest a bit?”

  “Maman. J’insiste. I’ll be out in the living room. If you need anything, just call for Anka.”

  “Or you?” Donna says.

  Eloise nods. “Or me.” She kisses her mother’s forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mummy.”

  She swings by the kitchen and asks Anka to make her a cortado. In the living room she sits on the sofa and, on the coffee table in front of her, finds the copy of today’s Daily Mail. Leaning forward, she flips to the hatchet job on “shallow charities” (we’ve met teaspoons with more depth!). She scans the two-page spread, past the scathing write-ups on the Kids Wish Network and the Victims of Alienating, Inconsiderate, and Narcissistic Parents Foundation (VAIN), until she locates a bloodred box topped with bold white letters that read MISSION: GREED. Reading through the article, she’s momentarily put at ease. It’s a lot of what she was expecting: a list of how many minor royals had been in attendance (seven) at the last gala; a few sentences balking at the cost of a table (fifty thousand pounds); some shallow puzzling over the necessity of the Eiffel Tower–shaped chocolate fountain, despite the evening’s very obvious fin-de-siècle theme. A bit farther down, though, something does strike her: a disproportionate amount of page space dedicated to the cost of the centerpieces that graced the tables (a thousand pounds each). “Curious,” the reporter, some hack called Rupert Gregory, writes, “that an organization dedicated to helping children sniff should squander eighty thousand pounds on gardenias and lisianthuses.”

  Her first thought is: the centerpieces really were lovely. Her second one is: fuck him. She wiggles her BlackBerry out of her jeans and opens a new message to Bee:

  Just saw the DM story, she types. Need you to draft response. Don’t deny cost of flowers, but counter w/ number of surgeries funded in sub-Saharan Africa last year. Highlight places that people associate with starving, malnourishment, genocide, etc. Also—call Rachel O’Donnell, does gossip at The Sun. Tell her we’ve got a tip about possible Rupert Gregory drug problem. Anonymous source who’s close to him. Ping me when you’ve done both.

  Thirty seconds later, her BlackBerry buzzes with a new e-mail from Bee. Is that true about Rupert Gregory?

  Eloise rolls her eyes and types, That’s not the point.

  * * *

  “But, Daniella, I called thirty minutes ago, and you said the table would be ready.”

  Eloise can barely hear herself speak: the Friday night regulars at Dean Street Townhouse have already settled in, their voices competing and blending together into a constant roar. She only ever comes here for lunch or cocktails—she’d forgotten how loud it could get during dinner. Maybe she should have made reservations somewhere else.

  Daniella flips her hair and pouts.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Lafarge. I honestly thought the table would be ready by then. It’s just that another large group is seated at the banquette you’ve requested, and they’re just now enjoying their desserts.”

  Eloise feels her shoulders slump, and she corrects her posture. “Daniella, I’m in here literally three times a week for lunch.”

  “I know, and I really wish there was something else I could do.”

  A drunk Londoner in a suit passes between Eloise and the maître d’s station, and she rears back so the beer sloshing over the rim of his pint glass won’t splash down the front of her blouse.

  “There’s not another table or anything?” Eloise asks.

  Daniella looks at her iPad. “Let me see,” she says, clicking her jaw. “You’re six, right?”

  “That’s right. I’d changed it at the last minute from seven. Ollie couldn’t get out of work.”

  “Just give me a moment.”

  “Wonderful.” Eloise is curt. “Let me know.”

  She backs away from Daniella’s post and finds a bit of breathing room at the far end of the bar. Her family huddles together in a silent clump near the restaurant’s front door, and she offers them a wave before looking down and puffing her cheeks. Why is she acting like this? What in God’s name is her problem? She’s never spoken to Daniella in such a tone before; among her friends, she prides herself on staying calm when restaurants fumble a reservation or a waiter screws up an order. But now—Christ, look at her: she’s sweating like a maniac.

  Nerves about her family, about how tonight will play out: that’s the only explanation she can muster. But then, this is norm
al, she tells herself; the last time they were all together was three years ago, at her stepfather’s funeral. Who wouldn’t be anxious, particularly given the stakes? The main thing to remember is that she’s entering the evening with high hopes for peace, and—come hell or high water—she’s determined to hold on to them. Still, she can’t shake how awkward and totally unlike what she expected the past forty-five minutes have been. For starters, Alice, who showed up first, greeted her like she was a complete and total stranger. Earlier, she had hoped to mention the potential new job opportunity before the rest of the family arrived, but that prospect faded quickly. Eloise doesn’t know if it’s jet lag, or the shock of not having seen each other in so long, or if her sister’s drunk (she smelled, very faintly, of bourbon), or what, but the fact remains that the hug Alice gave her was one of the iciest that Eloise has ever received. And when she asked about the suite—the suite that Eloise had so generously paid for—all she’d been able to say was, “The what?”

  “The suite,” Eloise repeated herself. “At Claridge’s. Where you’re staying?”

  Alice smiled, but almost as if her mouth wasn’t attached to her face.

  “Oh, it’s super nice.”

  Super nice?

  Eloise forged on: “Well, I’ll have to come see it when I join you for tea.”

  Alice smiled again and nodded, as if she hardly remembered that she’d invited Eloise over in the first place.

  Then there’s Paul and her mother. She doesn’t know what she anticipated happening on that front, though if she’s being perfectly honest with herself, it was something more than what she witnessed. Some tears, maybe. A brief but heartfelt apology. At the very least, a goddamned hug. But what had her brother done? How had Paul signaled an end to the two-year cold war that had ravaged his relationship with their mother and drawn lines in the sand between his siblings? With a handshake.

  He arrived, waited for her to come to him—for her to duck and dodge and wedge and wiggle through hordes of ale-soaked Londoners—and then he stuck out his hand. She’d taken it, of course, because that’s who her mother was—a woman with class—but Jesus Christ: a handshake! Her single regret is that Ollie wasn’t there to see it.

  And Mark? Regardless of how ghastly her brother’s behavior is at the moment, she still can’t make heads or tails of what Paul sees in him. In fact, so far one of the few pleasurable moments that Eloise has experienced this evening was when Mark, implying that she wasn’t capable of speeding along their reservation, scooted her aside and approached the maître d’s stand himself. Daniella all but ignored him, and when she finally did speak to him, she simply thanked him for his patience—the hospitality industry equivalent of please fuck off.

  “How’d that work out?” Eloise asked him when he came slinking back to the group.

  “They must just be getting their legs underneath them. Seems like there are some kinks they’ve got to work out.” He added, “We’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s one of the most popular restaurants in London.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Interesting.”

  He’s loathsome. That’s all there is to it, she thinks. She knows she shouldn’t make such rash judgments, but with Mark, it’s impossible; he’s atrocious. After their tedious exchange about waiting for their table, he’d launched into an awful diatribe about the dining scene in London and how it paled in comparison to places like Copenhagen and Oslo. The whole speech smacked of the quality she despises the most: unearned snobbery. And he isn’t even that good looking, Eloise thinks, allowing herself a moment of shallowness. Out of the two of them, Paul’s definitely cuter. If anything, she supposes Mark carries himself with a bit more confidence, but for what reason she can’t possibly guess. She’s met doorknobs that she’s found more interesting.

  But then, she’s also seen some exquisite doorknobs.

  “How about a drink, sweetheart?”

  Eloise blinks and smiles. She’s been so distracted by her nerves that she hardly noticed her mother squeeze her way in next to her. Behind her, Paul, Alice, and Mark jostle for space.

  “Just while we wait?” Donna says.

  “I think that’s a great idea. Here, let me—”

  “No, no.” Donna slaps Eloise’s hand away from her purse. “You’ve been gracious enough. This one’s on me.”

  “All right, all right.” Eloise plays along. “Here, at least let me introduce you to the barman.”

  She waves over Charles, her favorite bartender at Dean Street, and leans over the bar to kiss his cheek.

  “Charles, I want you to meet my mother.”

  He extends a hand and Donna takes it, lightly.

  “Very nice to meet you,” she says. “I think we’d like to order some drinks.”

  Charles nods. “What can I get you?”

  “Bourbon!” Alice shouts, and Eloise nearly jumps. “Neat.”

  “Any particular kind?”

  “Whatever you’ve got.”

  Charles lifts his chin to get a better look at her.

  “Well, we’ve got quite a—”

  “Then Maker’s.” Alice sounds exasperated; Eloise plays with the ends of her hair. “A double.”

  Donna smiles apologetically to Charles. “Okay, so one bourbon. Paul? Sweetheart? What would you like?”

  “Vodka martini, dirty. Mark’ll have the same.”

  Their mother nods, and turns back to the bar. “Right, then. My son and his—his friend will both have dirty vodka martinis. And for me, I’d like a French 75, and my daughter will have—”

  Eloise leans forward. “Just a glass of the Picpoul de Pinet,” she says. “Thanks.”

  Charles repeats the order and vanishes to prepare their drinks.

  Paul, Eloise notices, is snickering.

  “What?” Donna asks.

  “Nothing. It’s just—” Her brother runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just, sometimes you’re really unbelievable, Mom.”

  Donna looks to Alice for some sort of explanation, but she’s gazing elsewhere, to an unfixed spot on the ceiling.

  “I don’t understand,” Donna says. “What’d I do?”

  “Mark’s now my friend? I’ve lived with him for over three years now, Mom. What, are you afraid to tell people that he’s my boyfriend? That he’s my lover?”

  “Partner,” Mark corrects. “Your partner.”

  Eloise could kill him. She could kill both of them.

  For a moment, Donna looks flustered, hurt, and Eloise worries that she might start crying in the middle of her favorite bar. But Donna regains her composure. She clears her throat and says, “Okay. Excuse me.”

  Charles is in the middle of filling a flute of champagne for Donna’s French 75 when she waves him over. At first he looks befuddled—he sets the flute down and frowns—but when he reaches the bar, and Donna, he smiles.

  “Something else, ma’am?”

  “Actually, yes. There is. Do you see that man over there?”

  She points at Paul, and he freezes. Eloise wonders if it’s too late to hide, or to throw herself in between Charles and her mother. To take the bullet and save herself the embarrassment of having to explain her brother later on.

  “Well,” Donna continues. “He’s my son. He’s the one who ordered the dirty martini, which I’m sure will be just delicious. In any event, if you remember correctly—and I’m sure you do; you seem like a real pro—I ordered a second dirty martini for a young man who I stupidly called ‘his friend.’ I want you to know, Charles, that this was a terrible mistake. Because the truth, which my son has just made sure to remind me of, is that the young man is actually his boyfriend.”

  Charles glances at Eloise; Eloise closes her eyes.

  “They’ve been living together for years,” she hears Donna say. “Isn’t that wonderful? Charles? I asked, isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It’s wonderful, ma’am.”

  “We’re thrilled for Paul. Love is love, Charles. And we fully and unc
onditionally support his lifestyle—which, by the way, we wholeheartedly believe is how he was born, as opposed to some loosey-goosey choice.”

  “Are you finished?” Paul growls.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Was that the sort of explanation you were looking for?”

  “I’ll have your drinks in a moment, ma’am.”

  Someone taps Eloise’s shoulder, and her eyes shoot open.

  “What?” she hisses.

  “We’ve got a table for you, Miss Lafarge.” It’s Daniella. Eloise, ashamed, feels her shoulders shrink. “If you all just want to follow me, I can have your drinks brought over to you.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  She gestures for Donna to follow the hostess. Alice goes next, and then Mark. As Paul turns to go, though, Eloise grabs hold of his wrist.

  “Ow,” he says.

  “Was that entirely necessary?”

  A couple moves past them, balancing six highball glasses between four hands. They look familiar—they’re looking at her—and Eloise tries to place them. She can’t, though, so instead she smiles.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Paul says.

  “You could cut her a little slack once in a while, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Me? I’m the one who needs to be cutting some slack?”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Paul.”

  “You don’t know, Eloise.” His nostrils flare. “You have no idea the sort of relentless oppression that—”

  She tightens her grip on his wrist and digs her nails into his skin. She can feel the faint pulse of his blood.