Chapter 4
I wake up from a heavy sleep, and can’t quite tell if it’s because I was exhausted from the trip or because, despite my room being hot, cramped, and unimpressive, my mattress is definitely worth a million dollars.
Well, if you consider that my bed back home is the same one I’ve had since I left college and bought with my first salary as a journalist… compared to that, literally any mattress is worth a million dollars.
I could stay here forever, but unfortunately I have a huge list of wedding activities to organize.
As I leave my tiny room and get embraced by the sunlight shining through the thin curtains of the second-floor windows, I’m certain everything in this house is worth a million dollars.
I walk down the white marble stairs and face the living room, also glowing with sunlight, the blue décor shining almost as much as the crystal-clear ocean outside.
The huge kitchen island that was covered in alcohol last night is now loaded with fruit, bread, and several types of pie.
There’s milk in a glass pitcher, cereal in some fancy airtight container, and I have no idea who organized all this, because I arrived at two in the morning and everyone was half-drunk.
So it’s not just surprising that the breakfast table looks like this, but also that they’re all actually awake.
I grab a strong cup of coffee, courtesy of Gus, Mila’s dad, and build a stack of pancakes, splitting my plate in half: a sweet side with strawberries and chocolate syrup, and a salty side with bacon and eggs.
Only after that I begin getting ready to start my duties as a bridesmaid.
You might imagine that a wedding in Mexico is just an excuse I gave my boss so I could spend the week partying, getting a tan, and drinking nonstop, but the truth is that bridesmaid life is nowhere near as glamorous as it sounds.
I still have to finish the party favors, choose the wines, organize the bachelorette party, plan the rehearsal dinner, confirm photographers, makeup artists, coordinators…
and a whole list of things I don’t even want to think about, because the caterer already texted saying they need an updated list of the guests and seating arrangements by Monday morning so they can start planning the logistics of food and drinks.
Step one is logging into the wedding website to pull a report of everyone who confirmed attendance, including diet and allergies, so I don’t seat the vegans next to the steak plates and keep the celiacs far away from gluten and all that.
Here in the house, we’re twenty people. The bride and groom, close family, and the wedding party. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, my friends. Because the actual wedding? Two hundred and fifty guests.
Childhood friends, college friends, Robbie and Mila’s coworkers, and, of course, a whole bunch of rich Upper East Side people who do business with the Carnegies.
Meaning: I cannot screw this up.
Imagine having to remember that Sara Gusman can’t sit anywhere near Kat Parks after the incident they had at the MET Gala a few years ago, in which they had to call the cops.
Or that Fred McCall, the oil tycoon, is actually a senile old man who thinks he’s the Prime Minister of England, and therefore cannot sit near anyone who might argue with that.
No, it’s not easy, I’m telling you. It shouldn’t even be my job, since I don’t know any of these people, but Mila dumped the task on me after her millionth fight with Robbie about it, saying that if she had to argue one more time about where his mother’s kleptomaniac neighbor was going to sit, she’d file for divorce before even signing the marriage papers.
Far from any Carnegie acquaintances, it’s the only correct answer. No one in their right mind would let her get even close to Sara Gusman’s giant pearls!
It’s an exhausting mission, probably going to take the entire day, so the only thing I can do is sadly look at the bride’s family lounging by the pool while I drag myself upstairs to start working.
And, because my room is tight as a tuna can, I come back downstairs with my map and pens and spread everything out on the coffee table so I can think.
Which was, obviously, the worst of all possible ideas.
I have a little name tag for each guest. Two hundred and fifty laminated cards that I printed and cut myself, because I tried organizing everything on the computer and simply couldn’t think straight.
I printed a huge floor plan of the reception hall just so I could move my little tags around as I pleased, having a full overview of the space.
It works better, sure, but the problem is, if I can see it clearly, so can everyone else in the house.
And now every single person feels the urge to butt in and give their own opinion.
Obviously, they’re all different from each other.
Lianne, Mila’s mom, walks by in her floral bikini and elegant cover-up on her way to the beach, stops, looks at what I’m doing, and is officially the first one to start the trend, “Oh, dear, can you try seating my brother Henry as far from the main table as possible, please? He always makes strange faces in the photos.”
I make a mental note.
Before I can tell her I’ll see what I can do, Abby, Robbie’s aunt, takes the opportunity to ask me to put her next to some hot young guy at the singles table.
To her, I wouldn’t even know what to answer if I had time, which I don’t, because after a whole minute studying my map silently, while getting butter all over himself from eating a croissant, Robbie suddenly blurts, “Why is Tony sitting next to my sister?”
He waves his arm impatiently and turns to Mila, who’s in the kitchen putting some fruit into a bowl.
“I told you he can’t sit next to her!”
Mila huffs and rolls her eyes.
I brush his stupid pastry crumbs off my papers, already knowing this is only the beginning of one of those fights she’s been trying to avoid.
Especially because Mila is also stubborn, and, even after ten years, still hasn’t learned the art of playing dumb.
In my last relationships, I learned that the best way to avoid fights is exactly that: pretend you didn’t notice, unless it’s something huge and actually worth discussing.
The places where Tony and Cordelia Bassett sit during a four-hour wedding reception? Obviously not one of those. But I’m not the one who’s gonna tell her that. I’ve learned. I’m playing dumb.
“Grow up, Robbie!” Mila snaps, just as impatient. “Everyone knows they’re together.”
Tony has been in love with Cordelia, Robbie’s younger sister, since freshman year of college, but any conversation on the topic was immediately threatened into silence by Robbie.
So poor Tony never did much about it. Also, Cordelia always dated those rich frat boys who flew her around in private jets, and Tony was never that guy.
But time has made her wiser, I guess, because she’s somehow ended up in Tony’s bed, and now they’re trying to make it official without Robbie throwing a tantrum.
Needless to say, it’s taking longer than expected.
“I don’t care. I don’t want him near my sister!” Robbie fires back.
And once again, half his croissant flies onto my notes in scattered crumbs.
“Tony is an angel, Robbie,” Mila says, tired, like she’s said it a million times.
And he is. Despite the terrible music taste and awkward dance moves, he’s a good guy – hardworking, cheerful and always in a good mood.
“If you like him so much, sit him next to one of your ugly friends, then,” Robbie mutters.
Yep. This is it. This is where the big fight actually starts.
All I do is mentally check out and pretend it’s none of my business.
Luckily, Robbie’s attention is now fully on Mila, and he seems far less interested in who sits where. So I continue organizing the room layout, moving cards around until I’m satisfied.
To avoid a meltdown, I put Tony sitting across from Cordelia, and I do the same with Brad, Robbie’s older brother, and his wife Victoria. This way, if they want to sit next to each other, they can just switch seats.
Brad is a millionaire executive and a professional tennis player; he has much bigger concerns than who his sister sleeps with, so this seems safe.
The fight ends with Mila crushing an orange with her bare hands and Robbie storming off toward the pool area, complaining he never gets to choose anything, and looking slightly disappointed because the whole space is divided by floor-to-ceiling glass panels, so there isn’t even a door he can slam.
At this point, I can only be thankful for the minutes of silence. Everyone seems too scared to come bother me again and mess up the seating chart.
Everyone except Mr. Inconvenient.
Mr. Lawyer-with-no-scruples: Jasper Assman.
“Put Mila’s yoga friend next to me,” Jasper says out of nowhere. And I didn’t even notice him approaching.
Like the sleazy vampire he is.
I pretend I don’t hear it, because I was already pissed at him even before he showed up.
Why the hell am I here, frying all my brain cells over the guests, while he’s in the middle of the room holding an empty Champagne glass, wearing sunglasses and swim trunks, with his chest completely bare already getting a little sunburned?
Why the hell does he get to parade around half-naked without a single care in the world while I’m exhausted and feeling like trash?
“Your job as the best man is to at least calm the groom down and not mess with my job,” is all I manage to say.
“I am calming the groom,” he says with a shrug. Then nods toward the porch, sunlight blazing. “He’s out there smoking a Cuban cigar in a beach chair overlooking the ocean. It couldn’t get calmer than that.”
I glance at Robbie in the chair, sunglasses on, unbuttoned shirt, massive cigar in his mouth, a glass of Champagne – well, not Champagne, but yellow liquid – in his hand. I immediately think of the orange Mila crushed in the kitchen.
Mimosas? Robbie and Jasper are drinking Mimosas?
Well, maybe he is calming the groom. Except for the cigars. I’m sure Robbie’s only doing that to spite Mila.
I immediately switch to the play-dumb mode and roll my eyes.
Not my problem.
Robbie smoking cigars is not my problem.
Robbie and Jasper drinking Mimosas, though extremely unfair, is not my problem.
I look down at my little cards and ask, “What’s her name?”
He frowns like he doesn’t even understand the question. Then responds with no shame at all, “The brunette with the big boobs.”
Of course I know which yoga friend he means. I’m not asking because I don’t.
My issue is how the hell does he not know her name? We’ve seen her a million times. She’s a bridesmaid. Jasper should at least know anything about her besides the fact that she’s brunette and busty.
As usual, I can’t tell if he’s saying it just to annoy me or if he seriously doesn’t know. But I won’t give in so easily.
So I simply say, “If you give me a name, I’ll put her wherever you want.”
“Where I want her to be requires her consent first, Julia. I’m a gentleman,” Jasper replies.
So serious and polite that for a moment I don’t even register what he’s implying.
And because I’m too shocked to react, he lets that smug little smile slip just so I catch what he meant, “You do know where I’m going with this, right? ”
I know exactly where he’s going.
But I refuse to imagine Suzi, or anyone, for that matter, dealing with the disappointment that must be sitting on top of some heartless clown like Jasper.
So I just mutter, with zero patience, “Get out of my face, Assman.”
Obviously, he doesn’t care and just strolls into the kitchen with his Champagne glass and his perfect half-naked body… And the first thing he does? He pulls another bottle of Champagne from the fridge.
No, life is absolutely not fair.
But I should’ve known not to complain.
Because, the moment you complain, Connor Chamberlain shows up right in front of you wearing a white speedo and absolutely nothing else.
Fuck me.
“Julie…” he sings my name like those five letters are actually as long as the alphabet. “Good morning, princess.”
Connor barely glances at the floor plan before I ask, simply to cut this short, “Let me guess, you want to pick your seat too?”
“Can it be next to you?” he says, giving me that smug little grin and stroking his beer belly proudly like he’s in a Men’s Health photoshoot.
My eyes immediately go to the seating chart again.
Crap.
“No, Connor, it cannot be next to me because apparently I forgot to assign my own seat.”
“Well, there’s always room on my lap.”
Do I need Connor’s consent to kick him in the balls?
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, not caring at all whether he’s flirting or not.
I have bigger problems.
Since I’m ignoring him, he slowly drifts away as if waiting for me to say more, but I’m too focused for that. I find a seat for myself. Then I place Connor almost glued to Aunt Abby at the next table.
I’m sure they’ll get along great. They’re equally disgusting.
Now it’s time to deal with the other two hundred and forty-seven guests.
Mila’s high school friends’ table: check!
Robbie’s high school friends’ table: check!
The Upper East Side widows’ table including Sara Gusman: check!
The Upper East Side widows’ table not including Sara Gusman: check!
I’m in the middle of placing the Oil billionaires when I hear footsteps approaching, and I only hear them because they’re much closer than last time, and force myself to ignore it completely.
But then there’s the smell. That unmistakable expensive, masculine, fresh smell.
I can even hear him breathing behind me.
“If you skip a chair, you can push Connor to the far end of the table and leave Suzi next to me.”
I don’t know what surprises me more: whether he’s really helping me get Connor away from me, or the fact that he actually called Suzi by her name.
I turn my head slightly, glancing at him. And here he is: bare chest again, arms flexed because he’s holding two mimosas.
“You know her name?” I ask, stunned.
Jasper purses his lips and narrows his eyes, giving me a “shhh!” that means two things: first, that he knows how to play dumb too; second, that he enjoys torturing me too much to let me acknowledge anything remotely positive about him.
Not that knowing the name of a woman he’s known for years is some noble act, but coming from Jasper, it’s kind of a shock.
Which still doesn’t explain why he’s extending one of the Mimosas my way, holding it so close to my face I can’t move unless I take it from him.
Jasper Hassmann is offering me a Mimosa, my brain tries to process.
Jasper Hassmann is offering me a Mimosa?
Okay, now I’ve seen everything.
“Is there poison in here?” I ask, pointing at the glass. He rolls his eyes. “Why are you giving it to me then?”
“You’re here getting hit on by Connor while everyone’s out there by the pool. I figured you deserved at least a bit of alcohol.” And because I’m still stunned, he adds, impatiently, “Why would I poison you, Julie? If I wanted to watch you suffer, I’d just leave everything as it is.”
Which, unfortunately, makes total sense.