A Rather Charming Invitation

by C. A. Belmond

  I told him about my day with Oncle Philippe. “Look at what they gave us,” I said, and I showed him the beautiful antique perfume bottles and personalized scents. “Perfume for me, and aftershave for you. Did you know that perfume is made only for women? Men get cologne, or aftershave.”

  “That’s nice,” he replied.

  “Nice?” I said incredulously. “Is that all you can say for this incredibly rare gift they made especially for us? By hand, from local flowers and ancient methods? Do you know what this would cost if you had to pay for it? No other man in the world will have an aftershave like this, you dope.”

  “Oh. Can I open mine?” Jeremy asked.

  “Why not?” I said. Once he handled the bottle, I think he understood its value. He opened it reverently, as if fearing it might break. Then, he sniffed appreciatively.

  “Hey, you’re right. This is pretty good stuff,” he said. “Subtle, yet potent. I’m going to douse myself in it after I shower,” he exaggerated.

  “Listen,” I said, “I found out something about why they’re being so nice to us. Tante Leonora wants me to research the tapestry so she can sell it for a high price. I suppose it’s a harmless enough request, but maybe you were right about the family being a bit cash-strapped.”

  “Yes, well, there’s a little more on the agenda than that,” Jeremy told me. “This whole hunting party took place at the lodge of Charles’ father. Afterwards, David hinted that we might want to invest in Philippe’s perfume company. Never said the words outright, no pressure, but I got the drift. So your little perfume tour and picnic out in the flower fields could have been a subtle part of the overall pitch.”

  “Really?” I asked, intrigued. Going over the day’s events in this new light, I supposed it was possible that Oncle Philippe had been assigned to do his part to entice our interest; yet, there was something slightly subversive about him, or at least, ambivalent about the future course of his company.

  “I can also shed some light on why they’re so keen for Honorine to marry Charles,” Jeremy added. “Her family’s perfume company is merging with Charles’ family’s business of pharmaceuticals.”

  “Oh,” I said. I paused. “So, what kind of a guy is Charles?”

  “He’s a nice enough kid,” Jeremy said. “Intelligent, but rather cautious and reticent.”

  I recalled what Honorine had said about how Charles did whatever his parents told him to do. Something in her tone had convinced me that he just wasn’t the ideal match for the spirited Honorine.

  “By resisting Charles,” Jeremy warned, “Honorine is gumming up the works.”

  “Why . . . that’s positively medieval,” I spluttered indignantly.

  “Nevertheless,” Jeremy said, “David really wants this deal. He’s been trying to drag his company into the twenty- first century, modernizing the equipment, the chemistry, et cetera. That takes capital. With such a labor-intensive company and expensive materials, the debts can be big. Very big. So,” Jeremy concluded, “I lovingly suggest that you butt out of this Honorine debacle.”

  “But we promised her a job,” I objected.

  “If she asks, and only if she asks, we can say the offer stands,” Jeremy said firmly, “but don’t be surprised when Leonora mows down the idea. If so, then leave it be.”

  The next morning, I arose with some trepidation. As we packed our bags and prepared to depart, I just knew things would have to come to a head with Honorine; and, sure enough, right after breakfast, when Jeremy and I were at the foot of the staircase, thanking everybody, ready to skedaddle back to London, Honorine appeared, dressed to travel, and carrying two little suitcases. Just like that, as if it had all been agreed upon. All weekend she’d acted dutiful and obedient, but only, as it turned out, to lull her mother into a false sense of security. She’d waited until now to spring it on her maman that she intended to return to London as a personal assistant to me and Jeremy, because we needed her help.

  “It’s all set,” she informed them grandly. All “orange-ed”.

  Tante Leonora’s smile immediately vanished, but Oncle Philippe stepped into the breach and declared this an excellent idea. “Let her go with Penn-ee. Much better than backpacking around with her scruffy artistes and bohemian friends, sleeping God knows where,” he said, and, with typical French rationality, he declared that staying with Jeremy and me would surely be a more profonde influence.

  “After all,” he said, “Penn-ee is a successful career woman, and she will be a beautiful bride and a gracious mentor for Honorine. I would hope our daughter will make herself indispensible, not only in their office, but for the wedding plans, too.” I saw that he’d been listening to me much more closely than I realized, when I had been singing Honorine’s praises about how useful she was to us in London.

  To my surprise, this worked like a charm with Leonora, giving her pause, just as she was on the verge of throwing a fit of pique with her impossible daughter.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Leonora murmured thoughtfully. “Think of all the wedding tasks to be done! The flowers, the menu, the music . . . Honorine can surely help.”

  Despite the instant alarm I always feel whenever someone mentions my “wedding tasks”, I was deeply impressed with Philippe as a man who knew exactly how to get around his wife for her own good. Right before my eyes I’d seen Leonora do a complete volteface and visibly warm to the idea. It was the only time she lost some of her artful subtlety, for I could practically see her thoughts moving across her face in plain view, as she rapidly sized up the situation, weighing how she might come out ahead. I imagined her sly musings along the lines of: Well, Penny has clearly made a good match and succeeded in life, she is a sensible woman. If Penny will immerse Honorine in bridal plans, she might lead Honorine to discover that being a bride isn’t such a terrible thing; meanwhile, Honorine can influence Penny to have her wedding in France. Parfait!

  But all Leonora actually said was, “Ah! I can see it is a waste of time to argue. This decision has been made without me, but who am I? Just a weary mother, that’s all.”

  And while continuing to pretend to throw up her hands, having been outnumbered and overruled, she then, quite casually, told me that she would send Honorine a list of family members we might wish to invite to the wedding. I could mentally see my guest list expanding by leaps and bounds, and I couldn’t wait to get home and telephone my mother to inform her that she was utterly wrong about the French side of the family. They were definitely planning on attending the wedding—in France!

  Part Three

  Chapter Ten

  When Honorine, Jeremy and I arrived back in London, we found that an enormous amount of work had piled up in our absence. In particular, there was an environmental charity that I’d become involved with, called Women4Water, which supported studies to protect the world’s oceans, lakes, streams, and aquatic life. (Our motto was, Let’s make waves.) This year we were trying to raise money to provide good drinking water for children in poor countries.

  Jodi, the director, informed me that they simply must come up with something special, some new way to lure more donors, but, as she told me, “Times are tough for charities, and the competition is fierce. Rich people have seen and heard everything. Celebrities help, but one must captivate them with something new.”

  Meanwhile, I was now getting impatient phone calls and e-mail messages from my friends and relatives who all wanted to know where my bridal registry was, even though I’d plainly told them that I didn’t need fancy gifts, and would prefer instead that they make donations to this charity.

  “But darling,” Erik patiently explained to me on the telephone, “of course we’ll make donations to help you save the world, but meanwhile, people want to do things that are fun when their little sweet friend is getting hitched. You’re only going to get married once in this lifetime—I hope—and this is a big deal for you, you funny little thing. So put your wedding day at the top of your to-do list, sweetheart, or it is just not going to h
appen the way you want, and you’re going to lose control of it to your mother or somebody.”

  His affectionate words of advice rang true. Erik and I have worked together for years on more film sets than I care to count, and he knew me better than most. But I couldn’t even explain to him that the truth was, frankly, every time I sat down with my lists and my planner, I experienced a very strange mood, which I found profoundly baffling. It was as if my brain went into a dead zone, and I sat there at my desk utterly stymied, not knowing what to do first. I put this down to total overwhelm, like when you have to cram for an exam on a subject that you really don’t seem to have any affinity for. I couldn’t figure it out. Every girl I knew harbored a fantasy of how her wedding day would look, right down to the dress, the music, the flowers . . . and so had I.

  But, now that it was for real, there was just something about actually orchestrating my wedding that unnerved me in a most surprising, peculiar way. Worse, I found myself clamming up. I couldn’t even raise the subject with my mother or my friends. Something inside me felt secretive, as if a wedding ought to be a private affair and was simply nobody else’s business. Would anyone understand this? I doubted it. There was, perhaps, only one person that I felt I might actually confide this to.

  Jeremy. He came into my office one day to tell me about various conversations he’d had with potential clients, and he was regaling me with what he thought was a particularly funny anecdote about a guy who wanted us to handle his estate—to ensure that, upon the man’s death, he would be buried with his favorite Picassos and Monets. I must have been staring blankly at Jeremy with glazed eyes, nodding automatically, because he broke off in the middle of a sentence and said in amusement, “Pardon me, am I boring you into total catatonia, or what?”

  I blinked. “Sorry.”

  Jeremy flung himself into the chair at the opposite side of my desk. “What’s the matter, Penny?”

  I didn’t really want to admit to failure as a bride this early in the game, so I attempted a casual tone, but to my surprise my voice sounded woeful as I said, “Oh, it’s just the wedding plans. The dress is no problem; I finalized that awhile ago. But I really can’t seem to pull the rest of it together, and I’m running out of time.” When I reached the end of that sentence, I sounded as if I was on the verge of tears, which horrified me.

  Jeremy absorbed this in that intelligent way of his, then said, “Hell, why don’t you just hire somebody to deal with all the details? Aren’t there professionals who do this stuff?”

  “Wedding planners,” I said in a small voice. “Jodi recommended one, right here in London.”

  “So? Why not?”

  “It just seems impersonal, and I feel like I ought to be able to do this myself,” I said.

  “Can I help?” Jeremy asked.

  “We could pick out the music,” I said, shuffling through my notes. “And the caterer, although all the good ones must surely be booked up by now.” There it was again, that panicky edge in my tone. I was deeply embarrassed. What an idiot. Besides, there were things on my list that I didn’t want to consult Jeremy on. The groom’s gift, for one thing. I wanted to find him something truly special.

  My intercom buzzed. Honorine had an important call for Jeremy. When I gave him the name of the person, he said apologetically, “I have to take this call. Don’t worry, we’ll get the wedding sorted.”

  After he had gone, I looked out the window of my office, which had a view of a pretty little garden in the back, with a cherry tree and a bird hopping about, singing. Jeremy, the sweet guy, had let me have dibs on this room, with its lovely sunlight. His office—on the opposite side of the townhouse, overlooking the tree-lined square and street—was big, dark, clubby- looking, and private in the way of a man who prefers to work like an undisturbed bear in a cave. The day that we’d fixed up our dream offices, I’d vowed to become the productive best that I could be.

  Remembering this, I said aloud, “Pull yourself together, ducky. Take Jeremy’s advice, and let the professionals get you started.” Then I picked up the telephone and called the wedding planner. She told me to come right over.

  Chapter Eleven

  The wedding planner’s office was smack-dab in a posh section of town that was known as a shopping haven for the wealthy daughters of the world’s moneyed families. Old townhouses had been combined and converted into exclusive, discreet salons for exercise, hair, diet, couture, and surgery. Many of these places were by-appointment-only, their front doors locked to discourage drop-in browsers. The wedding planner, however, was supposedly not just another caterer to the idle classes; she was the businesswoman’s businesswoman who could “get things done right the first time”. Everyone I’d talked to in London said that this was the wedding guru who couldn’t be topped. She had “done” most of the “important” weddings in the world, specializing in exciting ceremonies for brides determined to make a splash; yet she could also engineer discretion and privacy for shyer celebrity clients. Her banner, Roberta’s Rapturous Weddings, hung in one of three enormous windows in her second-floor office.

  So, up I went, in a glass-and-chrome elevator run by a sphinx-like little gnome of a man in cap-and-uniform. The door opened onto a surprisingly large lobby, blindingly decorated in every conceivable shade of white, with white feathers pluming out of flower-pots; white chiffon curtains in the hall doorway; and a circular white reception desk presided over by a bevy of sharp young women in white suits, which gave them the antiseptic, no- nonsense look of nurses running a mental asylum for particularly difficult patients. I could not help thinking of that old joke about a blank white sheet of paper supposedly being a painting of a “polar-bear-in-a-snowstorm-eating-a-marshmallow”.

  The white-suited females all smiled when I came in, and they immediately began to bustle solicitously around me, with offers of spiked passion-fruit cocktails and all manner of cookies and pastel-colored candies. Despite the enormous size of the waiting room, nobody else was sitting there; this hour was to be exclusively mine. Apart from receptionists speaking in short staccato sentences into their multiple phones, the room was quiet, with low, dreamily romantic music that made me want to doze off. I was handed a clipboard with a five-page questionnaire.

  “Fill out everything,” one girl ordered with a smile. “Don’t leave any blanks.” She gave me one of their fat white pens that were like big cigars.

  The multiple-choice questions were the kind that you wished had one more choice for each question, because you can’t connect to any of the options they’re offering. I studied each with mounting panic, such as: If you had to decorate a one- room shack on a desert island, what color would you choose? (Red. Pale grey. Yellow.) What’s your idea of a great evening? (Alone on a mountain-top. A rock concert. An exclusive nightclub.) A great vacation? (Extreme hiking. Snapshot safari. Arctic rafting.) How would you like to express your gratitude to your guests? (Edible favors. Jewelry. Handmade scrapbooks.) Then there were photographs of three brides displaying their wedding “styles”, with a “unique” dress, shoes, jewelry, and table setting. Which is your wedding style? (Romantic. Nature-lover. Modern.) Trouble was, I could see very little difference in the accoutrements of each. Finally, there were what I considered some very nosey-parker questions about the health of the bride and groom, their diet and body structure.

  Just as I was beginning to consider sneaking out and consulting a fortune-teller instead, I was summoned, and the white gauze curtains were parted for me. I was led down a long white corridor whose walls were covered with gigantic framed photos of bridal couples. Every size, every age, every pairing imaginable. By the time I reached the end of the corridor, I was already sick of the idea of coupledom. There is nothing less inspiring to the course of true love than visions of self-conscious strangers enamored with the limelight, and putting on amateur expressions of being inspired by love. The thought of hoisting Jeremy and me into this rogue’s gallery made me actually feel faint.

  But I’d apparently su
cceeded in running the gauntlet, because now I was in a sunny office, the very room with the big windows and the banner that fronted onto the street. Here I would have my free initial consultation with the queen bee of this hive—Roberta of the Rapturous Weddings.

  She sat at a rectangular glass table with a computer, a pen and a telephone on it. There were two chairs in this minimalist room, both black; one for Roberta and one for me. When she rose to greet me, I discovered that she was the only woman in this entire establishment dressed in black. Her tight suit had a frighteningly tiny, nipped-in wasp waist. Her ash-blonde hair was spiky and short. She had startlingly pale skin, in sharp contrast to her fearless blue eye shadow, and lipstick of dark vampire red. But she had a disarmingly friendly smile, and a cheerful bluntness.

  “Hullo!” she said in a melodious, whispery voice that gave her a deliberately otherworldly aura. “You’re here not a moment too soon, you look so scared,” she informed me; then, speed- reading my questionnaire, murmured, “Mmm, mm-hmm. Mmm. You are definitely the No-Fuss No-Muss Bride.”

  Glancing up with a confident smile, she proclaimed, “You hate details and like to delegate. You want to simply show up and get it done. You’d love it if someone just handed you the dress, the cake, the church, the vows, the reception, and the limo. You want everything stark, simple, modern, clean, and easy. You don’t like a lot of fusty, musty traditional clutter. You’re not sentimental, you’d rather eat out than cook, and go to parties rather than read a book. Your taste is trendy, modern, edgy. Am I right?”

  She was so entirely off-base that I actually felt embarrassed for her. Yet with all her aggressive blissyness, I noticed that she never once looked me directly in the eye. As for myself, I struggled mightily to repress a weird giggle that was filling up my nostrils and threatening to become a snort.