“But you were so much better after that….” Bruce said wistfully.
“Because I fell off the wagon and my personality’s been dulled by a perpetual sugar high ever since.”
Bruce shook his head. “I’m not kidding, Evie.”
“I know. And I really do promise not to get bitchy this time, but you have to understand—I need to lose some weight. As soon as I do, I’ll feel better about myself, and that’ll counteract any nastiness you may experience. But I will try to be good. I promise. Just have a little faith in me, okay?”
“It’s not you I don’t have faith in, it’s the evil Mrs. Hyde who worries me.”
I threw a pillow at his head and returned to my blow-drying. I knew Bruce was only trying to make sure that things stay under control, but his attitude was starting to grate on my nerves a bit. His stress was contagious, and I wanted no part of it.
It’s all to do with his mother, no doubt. Bertie has officially gone into overdrive, and it has been getting progressively uglier with each passing day. The first crisis was finding the perfect location for the wedding. Every hotel, every inn she considers good enough has, of course, been booked solid for decades. After the banquet manager at one upscale hotel in the city (which I hesitate to name because of a pending lawsuit), actually laughed out loud and then hung up on her after she politely inquired about the possibility of reserving a Saturday night this coming June, Bertie called me in near hysterics. “If you were more sensible,” she’d spat, “you’d agree to a longer engagement. Everyone knows that you need at least a year and a half to be able to be able to plan a proper wedding. You can just forget about any getting a decent caterer or photographer. Why? WHY? It’s ridiculous—it’s not like you’re pregnant.”
I remained silent just long enough to let the possibility creep into her consciousness. After a moment or two, I could feel her panic. Poor thing. Better put her out of her misery.
“No, of course I’m not pregnant, but—”
“Well!” she shrieked. “Guess what? You can do it yourselves. Or tell your mother she can do it. I just can’t take it for another second.”
“All right. I’ll tell her. I’m sure her church up in Bensonhurst is available. I mean, it’s not like anyone in the old neighborhood actually gets married anymore. Her priest will be delighted. You know, he mostly does funerals these days. With a few streamers and balloons, the party room downstairs will look almost as nice as the ballroom at the Waldorf. We might have to clean it up a bit, though, because I think they still hold that doggie obedience school there every Tuesday….”
“Evelyn, that’s not funny,” she interjected.
“I’m serious. We don’t want a three-year engagement. Bruce doesn’t care about the best of this or that. He’d be happy if we ran off to Vegas and got married there.”
She knew I was right. Bruce probably would go for that type of thing. Of course, I would never agree to anything that tacky. But she doesn’t know that.
“Why can’t you just do it a bit later, like next fall? It’ll give us more time,” she pleaded.
“I suppose, if we absolutely have to,” I sighed. “But I hope Bruce doesn’t get impatient. He almost flipped out when I told him we were looking at well over two hundred people. And they’re mostly from your side. My side is less than forty. I just don’t want him getting cold feet about a big wedding. Do you?”
She’d already had three arguments with Bruce about various wedding details, and she could tell his patience was wearing thin. Even worse, how could she tell her friends from the gardening club and the children’s hospital foundation that her only son had eloped to some Elvis-themed wedding chapel on the Strip? My God, what would Mona Davenport think? Her daughter’s wedding last July was at the Plaza….
“Fine, I’ll keep trying,” she said. “I just want you to appreciate how difficult it’s going to be.”
“I know you’ll find something,” I assured her.
At least things would be calming down at work. Friday was Pruscilla’s last day, and Thelma Thorpe, her temporary replacement, was rumored to have the spine of a jellyfish. How these people work their way up is anyone’s guess. Monday morning, the woman could barely make eye contact, let alone tell me what to do.
“Er, um, just go ahead with what Pruscilla has planned, and I’ll check in with you later,” she said quietly, avoiding my steely gaze. If you ask me, Thelma’s wild shock of yellowy hair certainly doesn’t present the right image for the company, especially considering she heads up the Haircare division. She managed a weak smile, and looked down at the floor. Her skin was red and angry, as if she’d just been scrubbed with a nail brush.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I have a copy of Pruscilla’s Action Plan. Just call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks. And…oh dear…um…you have something in your…your face,” she said quickly, backing away.
I pulled out my compact. Oh God—a booger! Plain as day. It had probably been there all morning. That hag Andrea from Fragrances stared me right in the eye and told me it looked like I’d lost weight. No wonder there was so much snickering at the coffee cart. Before I could plan my revenge, Mom called.
“Evie, I have the most wonderful idea. Let’s go to Sternfeld’s tonight and try on wedding dresses,” she said immediately.
Crap, crap, crap! I’m not ready for this yet.
“I don’t know, Mom. Isn’t it a bit soon?”
“Oh, don’t worry about your tummy,” she said excitedly. “There’s still plenty of time to lose a few pounds before the wedding.”
“No, I mean why now? I didn’t plan to start looking for another couple of months. The wedding’s not until August, and we’re only in October. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?” I hadn’t even had lunch yet and already my waistband was beginning to cut off all circulation to my legs.
“Absolutely not! I’ve been doing a little research on my own, and I’ll have you know that all the new bridal fashions for the summer are out right now, to give enough time for alterations.”
“Well, I guess.” I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Martha Stewart says that the mother-daughter wedding-dress-shopping experience is a memory every woman will look back on fondly over the years, remembering it as one of the most cherished moments of her pre-married life (Martha Stewart Weddings, Fall: “12 Timeless Bridal Traditions”).
“And Sternfeld’s is the biggest bridal store in Brooklyn—maybe even the world!” She sounded like a commercial, so excited she could barely contain herself. “I just know we’ll find something for you there. I called—they come in all sizes.”
I undid the top button of my pants and breathed out deeply. If she had been beside me right then, it would have been hard not to smack her. “Mom, could you lay off about that, please? It’s hard enough knowing I have to lose so much in so little time,” I hissed into the phone. “I sure as hell don’t need you telling me I need a plus-size wedding dress.” Laetitia Farkle peeped over the wall of my cubicle.
“Curiosity killed the cat, dear,” I smiled, my hand over the receiver, and shot her one of my nastiest glares.
“Satisfaction brought him back,” she whispered, and sunk back down behind the divider.
Idiot. What passes for wit around here would make Oscar Wilde turn over in his grave.
“Evie, I know you’ll lose the weight,” Mom continued. “And the lady at the store said they can do alterations as you lose. And even if you don’t—”
“Mom. Please!” I was trying hard to keep my voice down.
“Let