“David! I’m outside your apartment!” Lala yelled.
“I know,” David said.
“You know?” Lala said. “How . . . Who told you . . . Where are you?”
“I’m in Paris. I’m at your apartment with Geraldine.”
“It’s crazy, huh?” Lala heard Geraldine yell in the background. “If I had known, he could have brought Monty with him.”
“David,” Lala said, “what the continental fuck are you doing in Paris?”
David explained over dinner at his favorite restaurant in New York City, an upscale vegan establishment on 79th between Lexington and Third that former president Bill Clinton often frequented, that he had suspected that something had to be done, that something was “up” with Lala, and that his concerns had been confirmed when he witnessed Geraldine acting so weird and annoyed when they had Skyped with Lala while David was taking a short break from his teaching duties and was back home in Manhattan Beach for a quick visit.
“She acted as though she hated you. She would never do that unless something freakish and weird were going on. I knew drastic measures were required. I gave the one lecture I was committed to and I got a colleague to take over my seminar for a week. And I got on a plane.”
“I’m still really irritated with my aunt for ruining my grand and dramatic and supremely romantic surprise by being such a snippy pill to me on that phone call, but I totally get where she was coming from,” Lala said. She speared the last piece of seitan scaloppini on her plate and brought it to her sated-but-not-slowing-down taste buds.
“I’m debating ordering another serving of this,” Lala added. “It is just way too delicious.”
“Yup. But maybe think about saving room for one or two or five of their incredible desserts?”
Lala and David had met at John F. Kennedy Airport the day before. Lala’s flight from San Francisco arrived five hours before David’s flight from Paris landed. Lala spent the time she was waiting for David sitting in a Starbucks in the International Arrivals Building getting refill after refill of iced tea, operating at a more or less consistent level of low-grade nervousness, and reading Jane Eyre, the book she had picked up at a newsstand when she landed, not because she was specifically looking for it, but because the book had caught her eye while she was scanning the floor to ceiling shelves of paperbacks and hardcover bestsellers.
“This is one of the many big gaps in my reading list and I’m ashamed to admit that,” Lala explained to the very nice young barista who kept filling her plastic trenta cup. “Spoiler alert, I’m definitely identifying with Rochester more than with Jane. He’s widowed. Kind of. If you haven’t read it yet, I’ve said too much already. You know what? I think I might have another scone. P.S. I’ve also never read anything by James Joyce, which is just a schande.”
Lala made her way over to the doors leading from the customs section to the baggage carousels about an hour before David’s plane was listed on the Arrivals board as being anticipated to land. She stopped at every bathroom she saw on the walk over, having basically consumed her body weight and then some in iced tea. Then she stood at the edge of the crowd of people who were waiting for traveling loved ones to appear, holding a sign she had created at the airport in San Francisco when she was waiting for her flight to New York to take off. She had the idea in a sudden wave of inspiration on the way to the airport, and she asked the cab driver to stop at a stationary store. She ran in and bought a large piece of posterboard and a handful of markers in different colors. She did her best to be artistic and creative as she wrote out the sign, and then she kept it with her carry-on luggage when she got on the plane, stowing it flat under the seat in front of her. The grandmotherly woman sitting next to her caught a glimpse of the sign and smiled at Lala.
“I’m not very visual,” Lala admitted with no small degree of embarrassment.
“It’s lovely,” the woman said. “I hope he’ll say yes.”
And then the woman fell asleep almost immediately after takeoff and snored loudly across the United States, which Lala chose to interpret as an optimistic sign for the vital romantic mission she was undertaking.
Lala saw David walking down the hallway leading to the exit doors. Her heart started racing. She held up the sign. She saw David see her in the crowd, she saw him read her sign, and she saw him smile.
DAVID: WILL YOU BE MY FIANCÉ, FULL STOP? (I’M NOT VERY ARTISTIC . . .)
They had caught a cab from the airport to the Library Hotel on Madison and 41st Street. Lala wasn’t familiar with that boutique hotel, though she imagined she must have walked by it dozens of times during her many treasured hikes around midtown.
“It looks gorgeous on the website,” Lala explained to David in the backseat of the cab as they drove out of Queens and the much-loved skyline of Manhattan appeared in front of them. “I booked us one of their Love Rooms.”
Damn it, Lala thought. I didn’t mean to bring up the issue of us being in love and me finally being ready to take the next, very, very, very terrifying step in my life, assuming he still wants to get married, in the cab. With the driver here. And stuff. Sheesh. Way too much to talk about and not the right time to start talking about it. Damn it.
“Because of . . . you know . . . the name of the room having love in it . . .” Lala sputtered. “Look, the Empire State Building!”
They checked in and got up to the room and it was indeed lovely. The bed was strategically strewn with rose petals. They had sex on the thick carpet, and then they had sex in the bed, pulling off of the blankets of which had sent rose petals flying around the room. They ordered room service and ate delicious pasta and drank delicious red wine in bed. They watched political commentary shows and yelled at the television and had sex again before they fell asleep.
The next day, they stayed in bed and ordered breakfast and lunch from room service. Lala thought she might be getting a urinary tract infection, so she ordered several glasses of cranberry juice and called her gynecologist, who phoned in a prescription for antibiotics, which Lala had delivered to the hotel because she didn’t want to get out of bed with David.
They finally showered and got dressed and walked the mile and a half to the vegan restaurant without having yet had an actual conversation about their relationship, unless moaning and panting with porn film enthusiasm in their hotel room counted as having a discussion.
Three vegan desserts arrived at their table. Lala grabbed her spoon and stabbed the crusty top of a raspberry crème brûlée and fretted and then forced herself to speak.
“I haven’t actually apologized to you, and you haven’t had the opportunity to reject or accept my—”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” David said. He ate half a chocolate chip cookie and then fed the other half to Lala. “I can’t imagine what a leap of faith it takes to get married after you’ve been widowed. I admire you. I can’t wait to be your husband.”
And then Lala burst into loud tears, fueled by great relief and even greater adoration. And she saw that the other diners and the wait staff were staring at her with the questioning concern of not knowing if those were happy or sad tears, and that’s when David announced that they had just gotten engaged “for real.” The dining room erupted in applause. Lala didn’t remember much of the details of their walk back to the hotel, other than having a vague and joyous sense that every building and person and subway station they passed on Lexington Avenue was exceptionally special and delightful that night.
They flew back to Los Angeles on the red-eye the next day, after having an early breakfast in the room and then walking to the main branch of the New York City Public Library on 42nd and Fifth so Lala could kiss the lions, Patience and Fortitude, who guarded the entrance, and tell them that she missed them desperately and she promised to visit again as soon as possible with her new husband. Catching a late plane also gave them enough time to walk to Lala’s favorit
e antique jewelry shop in Greenwich Village, where they picked out a small, elegant Art Deco engagement ring.
Geraldine and Monty and the dogs were waiting for them in the courtyard when they got back home. Lala went nuts.
“My babies! My babies my babies my babies my BABIES!”
Petunia and Chester and Eunice acted like puppies. They whined and wriggled and kissed their mama. Lala wrapped herself around them and kissed one, and then passed that one to David so he could kiss that one. The dogs went around in a circle like that until Geraldine notice the ring on Lala’s finger.
“OMIGOD! We have to go out and celebrate!”
“Absolutely!” Lala crowed. “As long as we go somewhere that has outdoor seating so we can bring the babies, because I never want to be separated from my babies for so long EVER again!”
When they got home, Lala and David hugged Geraldine and Monty at the door to their apartment, and then skipped up the steps with the dogs cheerfully trotting behind them.
“They know their mama and papa are happy,” Lala whispered to David as she giggled and tried to figure out how her keys worked.
Once they got inside, they got into their robes and sat on the couch. The dogs were snuggled there with them, and Lala felt safer than she could remember feeling since Terrence died. David took her hand and kissed it.
“What do you think? Is October too soon to plan a wedding?”
“October? Mmm . . .”
“Or Christmas is such a festive time to celebrate a marriage.”
“I have a date in mind,” Lala said and winked at him. David didn’t get it right away. And then he remembered how many times he had heard the telling and retelling of the several iterations of that blighted day.
“Seriously?” he asked. “You don’t think that might be tempting fate?”
“Let’s do it! I’m not scared! I will walk up to that date with my eyes wide open and say, ‘I fucking DOUBLE dare you!’”
Petunia gave a big beagle yelp in the middle of an urgent dream, and Chester the greyhound turned over and covered his borzoi/Shar Pei sister Eunice with his front leg. Eunice grunted contentedly when the added weight landed on her. Lala grabbed David’s face and kissed him.
“Plus,” Lala said, “there’s a TV show I need to be on . . .”
“I feel the same sense of breathless awe and wonder I imagine Henry Hudson must have experienced when he sailed up the majestic river that would one day bear his name, and saw the Palisades on one side and the pristine island of Manhattan on the other. Except indoors ’n’ stuff.”
Lala’s head was turning around in every direction. She had just entered the epicenter of all things bridal, the Kleinfeld Manhattan showroom on West 20th Street. Also known as the setting for Say Yes to the Dress, Lala’s episode of which would be taping that day.
Lala and Auntie Geraldine and Monty’s daughter Helene had flown to New York the day before. Brenda, Lala’s best friend from high school in Santa Monica, had picked them up at the airport. Brenda lived in a palatial apartment on the Upper West Side and her husband, Frank, was in Europe on business, so the four women had a slumber party at Brenda’s home.
The four of them consumed two bottles of champagne and a large tray of vegetarian lasagna that Brenda had ordered online from her favorite Italian restaurant, one that the website defined as being intended for “8-12 guests.”
“Okay, maybe, but those would be very, very, very, ridiculously small portions,” Lala had declared while she was devouring her fifth serving at two o’clock in the morning.
Sleep had not been a priority for any of them.
Before Lala had a chance to steer her entourage to the reception desk of the store, a young woman wearing a headset ran over to them.
“Lala Pettibone?” she said, and then added, not waiting for an answer, “I recognize you from your book cover! I loved your book!”
“Thank you so much!” Lala said.
Will receiving praise for my work ever lose its heady luster? Lala thought. No. Definitely not. Never ever.
“I’m Olivia,” the young woman said. “Wow, we had a late night last night, huh, ladies? Let’s get you all to make-up right away.”
Olivia took their coffee and tea orders, and lead them to the make-up room. She quickly returned to find them all sitting in their chairs and staring into the mirror, just after Lala had announced to her make-up artist that it sure looked like those dark circles under her eyes would require some industrial strength spackle.
“Okay,” Olivia said. “Just a few things, and then we’ll go right into filming. I hear the bride has seen our show!”
“The bride,” Geraldine said, “is obsessed with your show.”
“That’s great! So, Lala, you’re familiar with the elements that make an episode especially compelling.”
Here we go, Lala thought.
“Conflict,” Lala said.
“Yes!” Olivia cheered.
“Lala doesn’t like conflict,” Brenda said.
“I can rise to the occasion,” Lala said with absolutely no conviction whatsoever.
Why did I promise that? Lala thought. I’m a terrible actress. Everyone will know I’m creating inauthentic drama for drama’s sake. Oy vey.
“It’s okay,” Olivia assured Lala. She patted Lala’s shoulder. “We don’t need a big fight. We just need a few different opinions.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem with this group,” Helene snorted.
“Also,” Olivia said, “you’re a widow, so that already adds a great element to your appointment, because who doesn’t love a widow getting married again?”
What? Lala thought. My late husband, maybe? Wait, that’s not actually true. Terrence very much wanted me to build a new life. Olivia’s right. I have loved seeing widows on this show, and I have cheered for them getting married again. I think Terrence loves that I’m getting married again. I think he and David would love each other. Omigod, I cannot start crying yet.
When the women had their make-up finished, Olivia led them to the main showroom. Geraldine and Brenda and Helene sat on a long, white sofa, and Olivia placed Lala in an ornate white chair next to them. There were several camera operators who were being wonderfully unobtrusive, but Lala still started to feel a little nervous when she saw them.
“Okay,” Olivia said. “We’re going to start, and we’re going to just keep going, unless I yell ‘Cut,’ of course. Even if I shout out directions, just keep going because we can easily edit in post. Let’s have fun!”
I think I may need to barf, Lala thought.
The camera operators began filming, and Lala tried to make the frozen smile on her face look at least a little natural. Her consultant, Julie, a statuesque blond woman who was probably around Lala’s age, and was someone Lala had seen on the show many times, came over to start the segment.
“Hi, who’s my bride?” Julie said with a big and lovely smile.
“I am,” Lala croaked.
“Take that again, please, Lala,” Olivia said with no hint of irritation. “It’s okay, we’re doing great.”
“I am,” Lala repeated, this time around in a slightly less amphibious voice. “I’m Lala.” Olivia gave her a cheerful thumbs-up.
“Welcome!” Julie said. “Who do you have with you today?”
“My adopted aunt, Geraldine, and my best friend from high school, Brenda, and also my friend Helene, who is my aunt’s stepdaughter.”
Julie shook everyone’s hand. Lala definitely had the sense that the other women were as beguiled by Julie’s warmth and her welcoming nature as she was.
“So what kind of wedding dress did everyone have in mind for Lala?”
“I like cotton,” Lala said with enthusiasm. Out of the corner of her eyes, she registered her aunt looking at her with disdain.
“You’re not goin
g to a picnic,” Geraldine said.
“Cotton,” Brenda said, shaking her head.
“What? You’re going to the gym?” Helene asked.
Off-camera, Olivia gave them all a very enthusiastic thumb’s up.
Before arriving for the appointment, the four women had agreed not to reveal what style they each thought Lala should be wearing in advance of the actual taping of the episode, with the hope that Lala would then have the best chance of presenting a genuine reaction of surprise or delight or irritation or disgust, reasoning that if she had to recreate the moment, they would probably be asked to leave the building because of the dreadfully bad acting that would involve.
Lala suddenly felt very ganged up on and very hurt. She debated challenging the patronizing assessments of her entourage, but realized that doing so would immediately up the conflict quotient to a level that might torpedo her ability to finish taping the show. So she opted for pivoting.
“I also like pockets,” Lala said, nervously.
Merde, Lala thought, that is absolutely not what I should have said next. Merde!
“Pockets?” Geraldine and Brenda and Helene sneered.
“Umm,” Lala jumped in. “Umm . . . I definitely want sleeves—”
“Well, you can certainly try on at least one strapless dress,” Geraldine ordered.
“Aaaaand, I am incredibly short-waisted, so I don’t think a ballgown—”
“There’s no reason to not at least try on a ballgown,” Brenda said. “If you don’t at least try it on, you’ll never know if it looks good on you.”
“I’m not wearing white. I want an ivory or a very pale blush. No pure white.”
“Well, just try on one white dress,” Helene said.
“And I definitely want an off-the-shoulder look,” Lala announced, a little more loudly and with a little more vehemence that she intended because she was rapidly getting enormously sick of being told what to do. “You know, something Oprah or Dame Helen Mirren would wear.”
“Ohh, yes,” the three other women cooed, nodding their heads in loving solidarity.
Standing Room Only Page 27