by Gigi Garrett
“I think it’s time to go home,” I say.
She sticks out her bottom lip. “Only if I can take my crown with me.”
“Okay, okay,” I relent.
“Look, a penis straw!” she exclaims, pointing to the ground. Luckily, I grab her hand before she tries to pick that up too. It’s as if she’s turned into Birdie and can’t distinguish between trash and treasure.
Outside the bar, we say goodbye to Mia and head back to my apartment. It almost seems like old times, except it’s way late and Elsa May’s wearing a crown and has a baby back in Connecticut.
* * *
Date: October 15, 2017 7:02 AM
To: [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: BACHELORETTE
So lovely seeing you girls last night. Or five hours ago to be precise.
I’m inspired. Okay—to be precise, I’m somewhere between semi-drunk and hungover on the train. But I’m also inspired and possessed by the Bachelorette Muse.
Next weekend, I’m coming back into the city. And we’re having a faux bachelorette party. And it’s going to be epic.
It’s simple really: if bachelorettes have all the fun, we’re going to be the bachelorettes.
I’ll work on the details during naptime. Nobody Pinterests and Etsys like a stay-at-home mom. Trust me on that.
See you Friday. ☺
P.S. This is not a joke. I need this. Hey—I think we all need this.
Chapter 2
“I just showed my last apartment,” I say into my cell as I’m climbing down the stairs to the 1 train’s platform. “Okay, I’m going to lose service, but I’ll be over at Mia’s as soon as I can. Promise.”
It’s Friday night, and Elsa May and Mia are waiting at Mia’s Flatiron apartment for me to go out. Thankfully, Elsa May hasn’t mentioned that whole ridiculous bachelorette idea again. (Pretty sure that was a drunk email anyway.) Last weekend, it took me half the day to recover from her visit. Of course, it was worth it to see her, but still, I’m hoping she has more mellow plans for tonight. Otherwise, I worry this new - mommy - by - day, super - party - girl - by - night is going to be my kryptonite.
While I wait on the platform for the uptown train, I check out all the guys in suits. It’s 6 p.m. on Friday, and we’re right near Wall Street. This platform is packed with good-looking, clean-cut guys in sharply tailored dark-colored suits, which is completely my type. To be perfectly honest, I orchestrated this moment: I always try to ride from downtown to uptown on the subway around this time. I do it partly because I hate wasting money on cabs when the subway is nearly always faster, even if it’s often hot, crowded, and sticky. But I mostly do it because I’m placing myself smack-dab in the middle of a mob of my kind of guys. Meeting someone on the subway might seem very old-fashioned and out of a black-and-white romantic film where people spontaneously burst into tap dancing, but it’s a statistical thing for me. These gainfully employed, dapper men are just what I’m looking for—and I’m putting myself in a spot where they can find me.
So really, if anything, it’s smart.
It’s exactly where I met my last boyfriend, Rock, who I originally thought was The One. He was in commercial real estate and worked crazy hours too. We both liked watching Jeopardy, reading the Sunday newspaper (the actual paper printed with ink), and visiting open houses just for fun. Everyone was always saying, “You two fit,” which we did. So when he dumped me after over a year together, it more than just hurt. He even had the nerve to say, “Of course, I think we work well together, Lottie, but this isn’t a business merger. It needs to make more than just sense.” As if that’s logical at all. If something makes total sense, how can it be wrong?
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a young guy in a cheap tan suit (read: new intern) says to me, “Is this going uptown?”
I smile at him and nod, but I don’t try to continue the conversation. While he’s cute enough, he doesn’t fit my criteria. And being called “ma’am” isn’t exactly how I want to start my weekend.
I’ve never been one for wasting time with the wrong type of guy. At twenty-nine, I’m especially not going to do that now.
It’s funny how even in our jaded, high-divorce-rate society, everyone believes that love is this cosmic thing, and you have no idea what type of person you’re going to end up with. That’s how people get into trouble. I believe you have to be as calculated when it comes to relationships as you are with everything else in life. You have to know what you want before you find it. And never compromise.
As I ride the subway uptown, I admire all the handsome men and hope that I meet The One soon. I also try not to imagine what would happen if I ran into Rock again.
* * *
Mia answers her door after I buzz three times. “Surprise!” she cries out, holding up an inflatable penis. Then she taps the disgusting thing on my head before I can bat it away.
I look at her blankly, and she snaps a photo with her gold, jewel-bedazzled iPhone. And then another.
“Okay, cool it, paparazzi,” I say.
“Mia, that’s firmly against Rule Four,” Elsa May scolds from another room. She uses a tone usually reserved for Birdie. It is still funny to hear Elsa May sound like a mom, even though, of course, I know she technically is one.
“What are you guys talking about?” I ask. I call out to the other room. “You weren’t actually serious about the bachelorette thing, Elsa May? Please say no.”
Mia laughs. “Serious doesn’t begin to explain it.” She hands me a laminated piece of pink paper. It reads “The Faux Bachelorette Rules.” “Rules,” she says with a sneer. “Lottie, can you read these for me? You’ve always been better with that kind of stuff.”
“Elsa May, what is going on?” I call out again.
“Read it out loud,” Mia demands, and I’m wondering if she’s already tipsy. She gets off work at 5 p.m. from Trinity Jewels, which is nearly unheard of in Manhattan, where it’s not uncommon to work way past dinnertime.
“Okay,” I say with a sigh. It seems that Elsa May did not forget about her hoaxy idea. “ ‘Rule One, every girl will have a chance to be the faux bachelorette for the night.’ ”
I clear my throat and call into other room, “Elsa May, I’m opting out.”
“Keep reading,” Mia demands as she fixes her cat-eye eyeliner in the entryway mirror.
“ ‘Rule Two, the faux bachelorette must pick out her dream ring and make up an ideal fiancé, love story, and fantasy wedding—and stick to them like peanut butter and jelly throughout the night,’ ” I read.
Elsa May joins us in the entryway hall and I shake my head at her. “You need to go back to work,” I say. “Your brain is atrophying. This sounds like it’s out of a bad Lifetime movie.”
“Continue,” Elsa May says, giving me a quick hug. “And for your information, Lifetime movies are mostly about true crime, and dead or washed-up celebrities. Trust me—they are not all that awful.”
I sigh and decide to play along for a little while, since it’s obvious Elsa May needs to get out of the suburbs. “ ‘Rule Three, the faux bachelorette may not—under any circumstances—hook up with anyone. (Keeping it classy, girls. The sanctity of fake marriage and all that). And Rule Four, absolutely no social media.’ ”
Elsa May snatches the paper from me. “And ‘Rule Five,’ ” she proudly reads, “ ‘Have fun. You’re only a bachelorette once, right?’ ” And then she winks.
“Is this an early April Fool’s joke?” I ask. “We’re not literally parading around the city and pretending to be bachelorettes, are we? We’re almost thirty.”
And then Elsa May gets a sneaky look in her eyes, and the next thing I know, Mia is on a bended knee facing me and holding out a small black jewelry box.
“Lottie Langerman,” she says in a fake low-octave guy voice. “Will you marry me?” She opens the box, revealing the most stunning diamond ring I’ve ever seen. It’s an enormous princess cut, prob
ably nearly three carats, with a simple yellow gold band. It’s exactly what I want when I get married. It’s the same style ring I found photographs of in bridal magazines and not-so-subtly left lying open for Rock to see. Not that it worked out as I had planned.
While I stand there stunned, Elsa May slides the beauty on my left ring finger. It fits perfectly. I hold my hand up and it shimmers and sparkles, even in Mia’s dimly lit entryway.
This is not how I imagined this moment. But the ring is stunning—like I knew it would be.
“Bring her into the living room,” Mia says, sounding like a sugar-overdosed kid at a sleepover. Elsa May and Mia practically drag me into the next room.
On the coffee table, there’s a neon yellow T-shirt perfectly laid out. It reads, in giant block letters, “Lottie’s Last Fling before the Ring.”
“Put it on,” Mia says. She grabs a matching shirt from a stack and throws it over her tank top and skinny jeans.
“Very cute, guys,” I say, half laughing and half admiring my dream ring. “This is all hysterical, but I’m not playing along anymore.”
If I can convince my latest client that a basement apartment is charming, I can definitely persuade my friends out of this ridiculous idea. I start to plot my argument carefully, because after all those law classes, Elsa May can also be extremely persuasive.
“It’s a cute idea,” I say, checking out the ring in the corner of my eye. “But I highly doubt we’ll all have more fun than a normal night. Maybe we can go see a play. There’s always those last-minute tickets we can grab.”
Elsa May shakes her head. “Tonight,” she says. “You’re the show, Lottie. Take your spot at center stage.”
She snaps a neon pink fanny pack around my waist and fastens a bachelorette crown on my head before I can stop her.
“It’s all happening.” She pouts when I raise my eyebrows at her. “C’mon, Lottie,” she pleads. “When’s the last time we’ve had a great night out? You’re always working, I’m always mothering, and Mia’s always interneting—or is it social media-ing?”
“This isn’t a court of law, Elsa May,” I say. “You don’t have a jury of twelve to convince. Only me.” I motion to myself. “And I think this is absurd.”
Elsa May ignores me and points at all the neon. “Pinterest is all about the themed bachelorettes. We’re doing late eighties/early nineties. Think Saved by the Bell meets Beverly Hills 90210, the early years. I have the whole night mapped out.” She beams the way she did when she made law review. “I worked really hard on this.” I realize that Elsa May is winning, because how can I dare to say no to that?
This is why I like my job. I get to be the one to convince other people and make money while doing it.
I hold up the customized T-shirt. “But why does it have to be me? Why not one of you ladies? I don’t even like bachelorette parties. As a rule.”
“Because you’re the hardest one to persuade,” Mia says. “If you do it, we’ll all do it. Maybe it’ll even be more fun than you think.” She points at me. “You’re in a rut.” She points at herself. “I’m in a rut. Let’s forget our last two unmentionable guys and go get ourselves some attention.”
“I’m over Rock,” I lie. “And I like my life. Plus, you know drunken attention at bars isn’t my kind of thing.” I shake my head. No one argues.
“Also, I’m not in a rut,” I say clearly.
Neither Mia nor Elsa May replies to that.
“And this ring?” I ask, holding it up under Mia’s white Ikea chandelier.
“That’s been your dream ring since you saw it in Tiffany’s window at eighteen,” Elsa May says. “And you can wear it all night long . . . but only if you go along with this.”
“Did you arrange this?” I ask, turning to face Mia.
Mia nods. “It’s a perfect fit, size seven.” She leans in. “I know my married boss is sleeping with not one but two of the floor salesgirls, so he decided it would behoove him to lend it to me for the night. Just don’t freaking lose it.”
I shake my head and whisper. “I feel like I need some security guards to follow me like they do with celebrities.” I hold up my hand again.
The tiniest part of me wonders what it would be like to have people see me as engaged—taken—off the market. Finding my other person is the part of my life that’s missing, even if I’ll never admit that out loud to Mia and Elsa May. But it’s not worth this gimmick just to see what it feels like to be betrothed. I don’t need attention that badly.
“This is totally silly,” I say just as Mia’s roommate Jane comes into the apartment.
Jane moved in after Mia’s ex-boyfriend moved out. Mia found her the way she finds most things: online, Craigslist to be specific. Jane is a few years older and she works as an associate professor at New York University in Women’s Studies. She’s a good roommate in the technical sense. She doesn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, spends most of her time reading in her room, and pays the rent on time. However, Jane’s even more of a buzzkill than I am. Her favorite cocktail conversation-starter is to ask which wave of feminism you identify with. She’s third wave with hints of first wave, in case you were wondering.
“What’s silly?” Jane asks as she sets down a stack of papers. She eyes our neon T-shirts. “Other than, of course, gendered toy aisles and T-shirts that say ‘Daddy’s Princess.’ ”
“What’s silly—other than those things—is that Mia and Elsa May want to have a faux bachelorette party,” I explain, knowing that reasonable, feminist Jane will also agree that this is ridiculous, and possibly sexist. “Elsa May thinks that bachelorettes have more fun.” I flop my left wrist out in front of her dramatically. “And somehow, I’ve been cast as tonight’s lucky bride-to-be.”
Jane ponders this all for a few seconds before finally saying, “Did you know I’ve never been to a bachelorette party? I guess that’s what happens when you work in gender studies.” She nervously laughs and shuffles her papers. “A fake bachelorette sounds fascinating. Of course, that is, only if you think of it as a social experiment.”
“Yes, a social experiment,” Elsa May parrots. “Brilliant.”
Jane smiles broadly. Mia gets a knowing look in her eyes and shakes her head at Elsa May just as Jane asks, “Can I join in?”
Elsa May throws her hands up in victory. “Of course!” She pours out four glasses of champagne. Mia glares at Elsa May in disapproval; she likes to keep her relationship with Jane on a strictly roommate level.
Elsa May shrugs and tosses Jane a shirt. “I had to get ten printed. That’s the minimum. The more the merrier, right?” Jane takes off her black blazer and eagerly slips the T-shirt on over her camisole.
Elsa May holds up two ancient-looking hair crimpers and explains, “We’re going to pregame and go totally eighties on everyone’s hair.” Then she hands me another piece of pink paper, labeled “Lottie’s Dream Man and Dream Wedding.” “You’re going to fill this out. After all, Rule Two says you need a story and you need to stick to it. People are going to ask you about the lucky guy and the big day, and we all need to be consistent with the stories.” She gives me a pen. “Get to work and make up a guy and a life as fabulous as that ring.”
I lift my hand and stare at my dream rock again. It’s heavier than I would’ve guessed, but I’ll admit it looks perfect, even against my neon yellow T-shirt.
“First of all, we’re too old to use words like ‘pregame.’ Second of all, I’m doing this for you, Elsa May,” I say. “And you’re going to owe me big.”
I drain half of my glass of champagne and sit down with the questionnaire.
My new plan: go along with this for tonight. The girls will realize how ludicrous—and not actually fun—this is, and we’ll go back to normal, boring Friday nights.
I shake my head and start filling out the worksheet. Mia crimps my hair.
Lottie’s Dream Man:
Let’s call him Daniel Paddington since this is a preposterous idea and he can have an equally
silly last name. Hell, his nickname can even be Bear.
He’s British, from just outside of London. Grew up in one of those picture-perfect stone homes.
Very Downton Abbey.
He’s older.
He’s an incredible dresser and wears only custom suits from Bond Street. (On the weekends, he wears cashmere sweaters and nice dress pants. He doesn’t even own jeans and if he did, he would still call them ‘trousers.’)
While he embodies the best of all British stereotypes (the charming accent, an utter gentleman, conversationalist), he’s found New York to be his true home.
He works hard and makes good (okay, let’s say great) money, but also enjoys the arts and sports although he doesn’t disappear every fall the second that (American) football starts. In fact, he thinks fantasy football is simply fantastical and not worthy of his actual time.
He makes me laugh and he’s my best friend (other than you girls.)
How We Met:
We both got off the 1 train at Christopher Street. When we exited on street level, it was raining. Pouring. He turned the same way as I did and offered to share his umbrella. Then he lied and said he was going the same direction as me and walked five blocks out of his way before it stopped raining. He got my number before he left and we were engaged six months later.
Dream Wedding:
Colors: Currant and Gold
Motif: Vineyard
Since my family is small and his is across the pond, we decided on an intimate, Tuscan-vineyard wedding. I’m going to wear Vera Wang and he’s going to wear a dark gray suit. The bridesmaids will wear currant and there will be a harpist playing throughout the ceremony. We will dance to “At Last.” Everyone will ask if we took lessons, but we hadn’t. We just work well together.
The dinner will go on forever, course after course. The cake will be lemon. We’ll exit to friends popping bottles of champagne. We will honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast.
