Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Nessa
Sitting in Kari's office, Nessa smoothed her skirt, then shifted in her seat and smoothed the skirt again. She checked her manicure. She looked out the window. She brushed a spot off her sandal.
Taking yesterday off had been the opposite of restful, and not even a double yoga class had helped. Saturday's disaster ran on a continuous loop in her head, that horrible moment when the cabana's frame wrenched free from the sand, lifted over the white sofas, and tipped–in agonizingly slow motion–into the lapping water. Dinner last night had been a vanilla yogurt; anything more solid would have been impossible for her to swallow.
When she arrived at the office this morning, ten minutes early and with only black coffee in her stomach, Nilly informed her that Kari wanted to meet with her at 9:30.
"What… what about?" Nessa asked, stricken. They'd gone over everything at the emergency meeting on Sunday. What else was there to say, unless… unless Kari and Katie had changed their minds?
Unless they'd decided to fire her after all. The black coffee began to revolt.
The sympathetic look Nilly gave her said that she'd heard about what happened.
"I don't know, honey, she didn't say. Scheduling, maybe?" But Nessa was not reassured.
When Kari finally swept into her office, though, she didn't seem unusually grim or formal. With Teddy on one hip, two bags and a purse over her other shoulder, if she was burdened, it was for obvious reasons.
"Nessie!" Teddy crowed, pleased with himself, but when his mother set him on his feet, he chugged out of the office.
"Nilly has munchkins," Kari sighed. It was a long-running and losing battle. Not even Ashanti's toddler-adapted delicacies could compete with a chocolate donut hole.
"I want to tell you again how terrible I–" Nessa blurted out, but Kari was absorbed in scraping something off the front of her blouse with a fingernail.
"Hurricane Teddy," she said with a rueful smile. "Do you have anything on your schedule for today? Because there's a photo shoot for the Olivetti-Moreno wedding, and I want you to come with me. There'll be a stylist and an art director, of course, but your eye could be really valuable. If you have any ideas or concerns, I want you to tell me."
"Of–of course!" Relief made Nessa's eyes glassy with tears, so she looked down at her lap.
"Soooo…" Kari said with a small smile, "We'll leave in about forty-five minutes, okay? I have a few things to take care of here. The shoot starts at 11:00."
"Thank you," Nessa whispered.
"Nessa, try to relax, okay? We're adjusting assignments, fine-tuning responsibilities, but you're still a valued member of our team. You're not fired. Like I said on Sunday, what happened wasn't good, and we don't know all the fallout yet, but today's a new day."
"Thanks," Nessa said in what she hoped was a normal tone of voice.
In her cubicle, she sank into her chair and tried to remember the details of the wedding that today's photo shoot was a component of. The couple were both movie actors–stars, actually–and the groom, Rob Olivetti, was famously from Boston, with the heavy accent to prove it. The bride, Cara Moreno, was a singer, a dancer, an actress, perhaps not at the respected, Oscar-contender level of the groom, but still a household name. The wedding party read like an IMDb cast list. Marlo was the project manager, but this one was high profile enough to require Kari's involvement.
No one at Wedding Protectors could stay starstruck for long–too many mega-famous people needed their weddings protected. And it wasn't always the bride or groom.
Sometimes it was the guests.
At first, it was an odd feeling: In a celebrity-obsessed culture, you're bombarded with photos and videos of stars, closeups of every inch from every angle, articles and interviews sharing every aspect of this person's life. When you're confronted with them in person, you have to fight the illusion that you know them well, that they're an old friend.
Usually, a few minutes in the same room will dispel that illusion. First of all, they have absolutely no clue who you are, and often they do not care. It's not necessarily that they're cold–although sometimes they are–it's just that they are constantly surrounded with ever-changing teams of strangers, expediting their days and nights.
Anyway, she thought , today is likely to fall into that category.
That is not to say that Nessa was bored or blasé about these sightings. Who could be? Confidentiality was obviously part of her job, but to someone as immersed in style as Nessa, these meetings were a goldmine of inspiration. Zendaya's perfume, how Elle wore her bracelets, Taylor's hair clips–these details informed her visual sense and honed her taste. It wasn't about $10,000 handbags; that was, to borrow her mother's expression, like looking at a painting in a museum. No, it was about seeing things in a new way, one that she could apply to her own life and the lives of her followers.
So, Rob Olivetti and Cara Moreno. Getting up from her desk, Nessa went to find Marlo, which wasn't difficult. Their cubicles were diagonally across the big open space from each other, and when Nessa peered around the corner, Marlo was studying a spreadsheet on her computer.
"Marlo?"
"Hey, Ness." Maybe fifteen years older, Marlo had straight, espresso-brown hair that was chin length and precision cut. Her silhouette was as soft as her haircut was sharp, and she favored simple lines, strong color, and graphic patterns in her clothing. The overall effect was one of confidence, a quiet authority that made clients trust her implicitly.
"Hey. You're doing the Olivetti wedding, right?"
Marlo nodded and gestured to her screen. "Just going over the preliminary guest list."
"I know who they are, obviously, but is there anything else you could fill me in on? I guess I'm going to the photo shoot with Kari."
"Sure, what would you like to know? The wedding's in two months, at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. Capacity two thousand people, and by the looks of this list, they intend to fill it. They're not exactly going for a private, personal ceremony. When he proposed, he took a photographer from People Magazine with them. To Necker Island. For a week."
"I saw the article."
"Everyone did, which was the whole point. She didn't exactly look surprised when he got down on one knee in the sand, did she?"
"And the bridal shower…"
"Yep. In Meghan and Harry's back yard."
“Are they in love, do you think? They wouldn't go this far just for PR, would they?"
Marlo was silent for a moment. "Oh, honey, who knows? It's a complicated question. Maybe they're really in love, or maybe they're just caught up in the show of it. I've done a few of these Hollywood weddings–they're actors, after all, they're used to playing roles. How can you tell? And we get so invested in famous couples. If Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson got divorced, we'd be crushed–we'd feel like there was no chance for anyone. I try to take them at their word and hope for the best."
"Good advice. Thanks," Nessa said, and turned to leave.
"Sure," Marlo answered automatically, but then she added, "I watch how they interact. Are they checking in with each other, talking things over? Do they touch, make eye contact? Everyone wants a beautiful, memorable, unique wedding, but if they're too focused on the press coverage and the hits and not enough on the meaning… it's not scientific research, but I think that's a red flag."
When they arrived at the photographer's studio, Marlo's comments were still fresh in Nessa's mind.
The first thing she saw as they entered the enormous open room was a line of clothing racks, packed to overflowing with white garments of every description. Fluffy, smooth, sparkly, poufy, skimpy, ruffly, long, short, and in between–no bridal fantasy was missing. Beyond the racks were tables of accessories, and beyond those were props: benches, umbrellas, buckets of flowers, a case of Champagne, pastries and sandwiches and–oh, no, that was the catering table. What sounded to Nessa like French pop music was playing softly. People talking on cellphones were everywhere. No one was smiling.
Kari dropped her bag by a chair. "There's édouard. I'll be right back."
That left Nessa standing by herself with nothing to do, in a room full of impossibly cool strangers who all appeared to be resolving issues of vital importance. Assuming a neutral expression that (she hoped) clearly communicated that she had been to a hundred photo shoots with major movie stars, yet stopped just short of boredom, she slouched over to the rack of white clothing and began examining the contents.
Thus she was sliding hangers along the rod, occasionally pausing for closer examination, when a male voice said, "So predictable. I'm seeing Barbie pink."
Astonished, she quickly smoothed her face. "Isn't Barbie pink a little predictable at this point?" she shot back.
The stylist burst out laughing. "Okay then, what would you suggest?"
"I'd do something simple," she answered seriously. "I'd make the photos about emotion, not about the dress. Everyone will expect to see some crazy couture gown that costs a million dollars. I'd have her wear a plain white linen sheath. Simple hair, not much makeup. Show what's important about getting married, which is how you feel inside."
"Who are you? You're not from the magazine, you're not representing a certain designer, and you're not the stylist who brought all this stuff in. So what are you doing here?"
"Aren't you the stylist?"
When he burst out laughing for the second time, she turned in surprise and got her first good look at him.
Those eyebrows… no, it couldn't be. Nessa was learning that the flip side of seeing someone famous and mistaking them for an old friend is seeing someone famous and thinking, no, it couldn't be, this is just a good-looking guy who kind of resembles…
Chris Allister. Whose new movie, Burn It Down , Nessa had just seen with Liv.
"I'm the best man, actually. I'm Chris."
Purely from social habit, she said, "Nessa Martini."
The famous eyebrows moved closer together in a puzzled expression. "Wait, so, you are here as a stylist? I know who you are–you post on Insta about sailing, right? I just bought a J Boat, I'm keeping it in Montauk. You should come down sometime and sail with us."
"Oh, um, that's really–"
"Hey, Rob! This is Nessa Martini! She's a big sailor and a stylist and she has some great ideas–"
"No! No, I'm not a stylist, I'm from Wedding Protectors, I'm just here with my–"
"Nessa?" Kari's surprised voice cut through the unreality that was fogging Nessa's brain. "What's going on? They're ready to start. Cara will be right out."
"Is this your boss?" Chris asked. "Hi, I'm Chris, I'm the best man. I was just talking to Nessa, and she's got some much better ideas for the shoot than all that stuff over there. I'm going to find the art director…" and he was gone.
"Nessa," Kari said in an elaborately patient tone, "what was that all about?" Nessa felt the thin ice she knew herself to be skating on begin to crack a little.
"Nothing! I was just looking at the clothes and he started talking to me and he asked what I thought and I didn't know who he was so–"
"Seriously? You didn't know who Chris Allister was?"
"I mean, I didn't know that was him. I mean, I didn't know he–"
"And what exactly are your 'much better ideas'?"
"I just said," Nessa explained miserably, "that I would keep everything really simple. Make it about their feelings and not about–" she waved toward the racks of feathers and Swarovski crystals, "–all that."
"See the guy over there in the black jeans and the white t-shirt? Anna Wintour takes him to every shoot she goes to. And the woman in the crop top is the art director. They have flown in from New York. It is their responsibility to style the photos. There are contracts and promotional agreements and a lot of money in play here. We are here to be sure we are familiar with all the details and keep an eye out for potential problems. When I said your eye could be helpful, I meant helpful to me ."
"I know. I'm sorry, Kari."
"Okay. Let's sit down and stay out of the way."
Pulling her phone out her bag, Kari began checking messages, and Nessa followed her lead. There were two texts from Nilly, one from Marlo, and one from Matt; there was also a missed call from him.
Nilly's texts were both client billing questions and could wait till she was back in the office. When she saw Marlo's name, she expected the message to be about the photo shoot, a concern or suggestion, but it was more personal than that.
What I said before–I hope I didn't sound too cynical. If I've learned anything, it's that you just never know what goes on in someone else's relationship. We work with people in the media, and we think we know who they are, but they can be completely different underneath.
I guess that's true for everyone , Nessa typed back.
For a moment, she stared at her messages. The normal rush of excitement at seeing Matt's name (well, his alias; he still existed in her contacts as Marcus Bell) was offset by a wave of guilt. It was true she'd been under enormous stress, but also true that she was avoiding him. Their relationship was new; would it bear the strain of professional humiliation? It seemed like a big risk to take. But hiding something so traumatic wasn't a healthy option, either, assuming it was even possible. She'd felt paralyzed.
Instinctively, she angled her phone slightly away from Kari when she tapped his text.
Hey, I tried to call. Hope everything's okay. Want to go out Friday night, maybe get dinner? Kind of a busy week for me, I'm doing a small wedding Thursday afternoon. Really small, like, four people. But still important. ??
Then another bubble below it:
Also, if you're not busy on Sunday at 4:00, I could use your help with something. It's work-related, I'll fill you in on the details later. I'll call you tonight.
A burst of movement, chatter, laughter entered the studio from a doorway at one end. Cara, who was used to making dramatic entrances, wasn't missing the chance to make one now. At least ten people surrounded her, several of them supporting parts of her dress. Billowing around her was a veil made from so much tulle, it completely obscured the assistant holding it up. A scene from an old movie flashed across Nessa's memory, Cleopatra triumphantly entering a city square on a litter borne by adoring servants, crowds cheering.
On her left, Rob held her elbow as if balancing her under the weight of the dress; in his other hand, he carried her very high-heeled sandals. On her right, Chris was talking to her intently, gesturing with his hands; he looked around and, spotting Nessa, waved her over.
Nessa froze. He waved more urgently.
Kari, watching, sighed audibly. "Go ahead."
"Cara, this is Nessa," Chris said. "Nessa, tell Cara your ideas, how the focus should be on them, not on the clothes. I mean, are we here to promote the designers' careers, or yours and Rob's? Right?"
Cara was looking at her with mild interest now, although she was so heavily made up, it was hard to interpret her exact feelings. The procession came to a halt in the center of the huge space, in front of the camera and the banks of lights. An assistant was tying Rob's bow tie, and Nessa realized he wasn't as tall as he'd seemed on a thirty-foot-high movie screen.
"Well, I was thinking that if you just wore, like, a simple white dress, maybe linen, maybe just little pearl earrings and your hair down? Maybe Rob just wears his tuxedo shirt, no tie? Then the photos would be all about how you feel about each other and about getting married, the emotion. Otherwise, people will just be looking at the dress. That's all–just a thought."
Cara looked at Rob, gauging his reaction, and Marlo's words echoed in Nessa's head: "I watch how they interact. Are they checking in with each other, talking things over? Do they touch, make eye contact?"
Good , she thought. That's a good sign.
They weren't the only ones checking in, however. édouard, the photographer, and the team from New York had sensed something was up.
"Cara? Is anything wrong?" the actual stylist asked in a tone of faux concern. No one ever seriously questioned his authority.
Rob nodded at Cara, almost imperceptibly, and she stood up a little straighter.
"Yes," she answered firmly. "I've had a better idea. Get me out of this dress. We need to talk."
Chris winked at Nessa, and the photographer's assistants killed the lights.
"What's going on?" Kari asked.
"I think Cara wants to take it in a different direction. I think there's going to be a delay."
"Nessa, are we in any way responsible for this delay? Because everyone here is paid on a day rate. If the shoot runs over because we…"
"No, ma'am," Chris interjected, overhearing. "Cara just had a much better idea, and Rob and I totally agreed with her. It'll only take a little while to re-arrange."
"Okay," Kari said doubtfully, returning to her laptop.
"So," Chris said to Nessa, "do you think you might want to come down to Montauk this weekend? Rob and Cara are coming, and some other people, but I think you're probably the best sailor of the lot. Or the only sailor." He chuckled.
Truly speechless, she just looked at him.
"It would really help me out to have someone to crew," he went on, and she had the sense that he wasn't used to having to persuade people. "They'll probably all stay at a hotel or somebody's house, but there's plenty of room for you and me to sleep aboard. If it's nice, we can sleep on deck. I love the sound of the stays clanging when the boat rocks."
"Me, too," she answered wistfully, imagining sleeping on a starlit deck with Matt.
"Hey, Rob! Tell Nessa she should come to Montauk this weekend! It's gonna be awesome, right?" He turned his gaze, and his charm, back to her. "You can post some photos of it. That'd be great for me, and it'd be way better for you than some crappy gym."
What?
With nothing better to do while they waited for the shoot to restart, Rob was browsing the accessory tables. He lifted a white Chanel backpack, then dropped it in favor of a rope of South Sea pearls the size of gumballs.
"I guess none of this stuff is getting used after all," he commented, swinging the pearls like a lariat. Nessa caught her breath in horror, then realized it wouldn't be her problem if he broke them. A couple of hundred thousand dollars was probably nothing to him.
Looking up, his eyes settled on her, and she saw them light up with an idea.
"You," he mused, "would look very good in these."
"Oh, no," she said, taking an involuntary step backward, "no, no. Not for me, thanks." But he was already walking toward her, holding the necklace in both hands now.
"Oh, yes, yes," he crooned. "Perfect for you. Come on, Cara's not using them. They're just sitting there, wasted." He looped them over her head once, then twice, then a third time, arranging them on her neck.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kari's head snap up.
"Please, no," she tried again. "This isn't–" The word she was about to say was appropriate , but before she could finish her sentence, she heard the whirring sound of Chris's camera, over and over.
"These are fantastic!" he crowed.
The very last thing Nessa needed were jokes about pearl necklaces.
"Nessa!" Kari's voice cut through their laughter and, like naughty little boys, they straightened up immediately. Rob lifted the pearls from her shoulders and dropped them back on the table.
"Chris's boat is really cool," he said, changing the subject. "You should definitely come." Then he drifted off in the direction of the dressing room.
Flustered, Nessa headed back to her seat next to Kari, Chris trailing behind. He squatted down beside her, phone in his hands, tapping and sliding and scrolling.
"Look at this," he said excitedly. "What a great shot! I've learned a lot from being around photographers all the time."
She looked. He was right.
"If you come sailing, I'll show you some of the stuff I've learned. Your site is good, but you could do even better." Kari leaned over to see what he was talking about and, noticing, he went on, "It would be good for your company, too–you do something with weddings, right? Clients will see what you post, potential clients, I mean. What looks better, a weekend on a beautiful boat with us, or some low-end gym with a TikTok bodybuilder dude talking about how your body is a temple or some b.s. like that?"
Outrage flooded her; her fingertips tingled with it. "I don't know what you mean," she said coldly.
"You know, that post that's gone viral. Some juiced-up minister running on an old treadmill with you on his back, right? Weird stunt. Next week you can put up photos of the four of us drinking mescal at sunset in the Hamptons. Who would you rather be?" He gave her a ten-thousand-watt smile.
" Be? I'm me. That's who I'd rather be, and that juiced-up minister is my boyfriend and he's who I'd rather be with ."
The smile faded slowly, and he glanced at Kari. "Yeah, sure. No problem. Think I'll get some coffee."
When he'd moved out of earshot, Kari said, "Nessa, what is going on?" Her voice was soft but there was a deadly serious undertone.
"He has no right to talk about Matt in that disrespectful way! Anybody can be a movie star–Matt does something really important ."
"Chris Allister is a client , Nessa. Or he's client-adjacent, anyway. I shouldn't have to remind you of that, especially after what happened on Saturday."
"He's been asking me out on his stupid boat for the weekend. Does he think I'd do some cheap one-night stand just because he's a famous actor with a big boat he probably doesn't even know how to sail?"
Kari burst out laughing. "I'm guessing that's exactly what he thinks."
"Well, he's wrong. I wouldn't." The words one-night stand vibrated uncomfortably in her head but she ignored them. Or maybe that was the vibration of her phone. She ignored that, too.
"I'm sorry, Kari. I was just trying to do my job, and then he put those pearls on me, and–"
"No, it's fine. I saw what happened with the necklace. And you were right to defend your boyfriend." She paused. "Is Matt your boyfriend now?"
"I don't know," Nessa answered truthfully.
Her phone buzzed again. Without looking at it, she turned it off.
Too bad she couldn’t turn life off and crawl under the covers.