Chapter 33 - Chelsea
“What color do you want?”
I don’t care. I don’t want to get my nails done. I don’t want to be here. Ken frowns. I put my, now very familiar, fake smile on my face.
“How about red?” I ask quickly. “To match the bouquet.”
“Fire truck or blood?”
She holds out the bottle and I pretend to look at them.
“Blood.”
She nods and shakes the bottle before uncapping it and grabbing my hand.
This is it, this is my wedding day. With my free hand I tap on my phone to look one more time at the memo Ken sent me. It’s a list of things I have to remember to mention. They have to be worked into the conversation naturally. Which, of course, is as unnatural as it gets.
“Do you like it?” she asks after she paints the first nail.
I hold my hand up and pretend to think about it.
“It’s perfect, I love it,” I declare emphatically.
“You get some embellishments with the package.”
The package being the beauty part of the wedding bundle. It was called ‘Eloping Elegantly.’
“I thought maybe a little rhinestone heart on your ring finger.”
That sounds fine—really, I DON’T CARE—but while the first coat is drying, I ask to see the options anyway, per Ken’s list. Who on earth would want duck decals on their nails on their wedding day?
I tell the camera I’ll go with the heart. Gary is following Scott today and I kind of miss him. Gary has a way of letting me know it’s going well. The camera man today, whose name I can’t remember, looks bored out of his mind.
At least I got Ken, not Vivien. I think about Scott being stuck with her and smile for real.
We’ve managed to avoid each other all week. Scott had construction type things to deal with. While he was off dealing with the toilet emergency, I spent the day with the staging company. That was fun.
They were fabulous and, AND, the woman in charge, Sandra, said I was much better to work with than Scott. She loved my designs and even though she didn’t have everything I needed, exactly as I envisioned it, she had great ideas for substitutions. We actually hugged when we finished up.
“I love Scott, he’s the nicest guy ever,” she said. I ignored the sharp pain in my chest. “But thank god you’ve finally introduced him to color. I could never convince him.”
“All done,” the nail tech says.
I hold up my hand and pretend to admire it. I took the ring off the night we got back from the Hamptons, in some sort of melodramatic symbolic gesture. But then I put it back on, because I was afraid I was going to forget and show up to the set without it.
“I can’t believe today’s the day,” I say.
When I got Ken’s—well, probably Vivien’s—orders, I decided to treat it like a visual presentation. I wrote down everything I would say and practiced. VPs were always timed and they would stop you from going over seven minutes. This is considerably longer.
“What made you decide to get married here at the Marriott M M?” the wedding planner asks me.
M M is Mini Matrimony, apparently. And apparently Ken, er, Vivien’s list, came directly from the hotel. Which is good because I have the perfect and perfectly rehearsed answer.
“Scott and I feel the wedding is about us. This is our time to commit to each other. But we still wanted it to be special. And we wanted nice pictures. Marriott M M was the perfect option. A beautiful wedding with far less expense and aggravation.”
I stare at a spot on the wall directly above the camera. Hopefully the lovesick fool expression I practiced plays well on TV. God, I hate myself.
Hair and makeup are next. They film the whole thing, which is annoying. They’ll use maybe five minutes of it, max, probably less. I don’t know why they can’t just film for five minutes and then leave me alone. I hate this, I hate everything.
I didn’t even confide in Sam about this, even though she’s been calling me every day to check how it’s going. I focus on the finish line when we talk.
Next week we film the big reveal. One of Marta’s clients wants to purchase all three units. The contracts are already drawn up. But they are willing to play along. People really want to be on TV. If they only knew.
The wedding planner helps me into my dress. I decided to leave the princess skirt off. I didn’t even bring it, because I didn’t want to risk Vivien insisting I wear it. I don’t feel like a princess but my explanation for the camera is that I liked the sleeker look for a small—sorry mini—wedding. Then it’s time.
We got, were given, the top-of-the-line package. Thus there will be a harpist playing as I walk down the aisle alone.
I stand outside the door waiting for my cue. Inside the conference room turned chapel are a small number of pews. Marriott M M can accommodate a very small number of guests if desired. I’m immensely relieved the network didn’t insist my parents had to be there.
“Are you ready?”
No. Never. I take a deep breath and nod. She opens the door. Scott is standing at the end of the ten-foot aisle. I focus on his forehead, so I don’t have to meet his eyes.
One step, two, three. Then I’m there.
“Shall I begin?” the justice of the peace asks.
Ministers and rabbis also available. They had a list.
Might as well,I think.
“Please,” Scott says.
I’m pretty sure what he left unspoken is ‘Get this over with and fast.’
I can’t blame him, I feel the same way. The smile I’ve plastered on my face is starting to hurt. My heart cracks again, not because I know it is really almost over, but because, standing here, like this, in my dream wedding dress with my dream guy I know the truth is, it never really began.