by Maria Semple
“Put them at table sixteen,” Sally said, “with Maryam and the people from the gym.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out. I told you, table sixteen.”
A sweaty man carrying a video camera poked his head in. “I’m looking for Pam. I’m here to videotape.”
“C’est moi,” said Pam.
“You haven’t started yet?” Sally shrieked to the man.
“I kept going up and down Mulholland, trying to find the house. It isn’t very well marked.”
“Everyone else has managed to find it,” Sally said. “I want you out there shooting the arrivals!”
“The arrivals!” hooted the hairdresser.
Pam swallowed a guffaw and lunged for the door. “I’ll show you where to set up,” she told the videographer.
“Don’t go!” Sally seized Pam’s arm and whispered, “Don’t leave me alone with him.”
“Who?” Pam blurted, “Clay?”
“Everybody’s treating me like I’m a C-U Next Tuesday.”
“A what?”
“A C-U Next Tuesday,” Sally whispered. “Spell it out.”
“A cunt? Darling, just say it. A cunt.”
“Now I’m a cunt, am I?” The hairdresser scratched the air. “Mee-oww!”
Sally turned to Pam. “Have you found out what band is playing?”
Although David had given Sally carte blanche to throw the wedding she wanted, she put him in charge of the band. She’d taken every opportunity to hint at how much she loved Coldplay. Def Leppard had played at Violet and David’s wedding. Why not Coldplay at hers?
“I’ll go check,” said Pam.
The videographer hadn’t moved from the doorway. Sally asked, “What are you doing standing there?”
“You’re right. I should get some balloons.”
“What?”
“To put out. So people can find the wedding.”
“People are finding the wedding,” Sally said. “People have found the wedding. We need that fact videotaped. The ceremony is going to start in forty-five minutes and you’re not shooting videos!”
“What’s important,” Pam said, “is that you relax, Miss Beautiful Sally Parry-soon-to-be-White. Now, you kids play nice.” She left.
The hairdresser turned to Sally. “Honey, you need to let me finish your hair so I can grab a cupcake and go to the gym to work it off.”
“Those cupcakes are the wedding cake. You can’t eat them now!”
“Everyone else is.”
“What do you mean? Who’s eating them?”
“They have cupcakes?” Fern rose from the bed.
They were interrupted by an echoing screech. Sally ran to the bathroom window. A banged-up van had pulled into the adjoining carport.
“The band!” Sally eagerly watched as some middle-aged men tumbled out. None looked like Chris Martin, but he’d probably arrive separately, in his own limo. Sally turned and opened the door to the hallway.
David happened to be passing by. He wore a blue suit and a floral tie. It was the first time in forever she’d seen her brother in a suit, and she was struck by how handsome he was. “David!”
“Hey, don’t you look beautiful?”
“I can’t stand the suspense.” She pulled him into the room. “You have to tell me.”
“What?”
“Who’s the band?” Sally prepared to explode in excitement.
“I have no idea.” David looked confused. “I told Violet to take care of it. I don’t know any wedding bands.”
“Oh.” Sally’s mouth trembled. “Of course.”
“Let’s clear the area!” Pam was in the hallway herding out David, the video guy, and several caterers who had somehow packed themselves in. Sally found herself marooned with the original gang of idiots.
“Was that really David Parry?” asked Fern. “He’s just a baby.”
Sally returned to the bathroom window. The band was mostly in their thirties or forties. Long hair, tight jeans, all pretty skeevy to be playing at a wedding. The van door slid open to reveal a drum. On it was the famous lip logo of the Rolling Stones! Sally’s heart jumped. On another drum was printed THE ROLLING STONERS. THE WORLD’S GREATEST ROLLING STONES TRIBUTE BAND.
VIOLET zipped up her dress. She had told Sally she’d be a bridesmaid only if she could give Sally’s fabric to her own dress designer. The result was a chic A-line gown. Violet grabbed one boob and hiked it so it sat high in her bra, then the other boob. Everything is okay, she reminded herself, and slipped on her shoes. Hiring Teddy’s band to play the wedding was not a desperate attempt to win back her ungovernable lover. It was a tender beneficence for a dear friend who had sounded despondent when she called him on his birthday.
May Day, when Violet phoned Teddy in the conference room, she had asked, “How are you?” Teddy’s voice was scratchy and slow. “My bones ache and I want to sleep all the time. My boss sent me home last week because he said I was depressing the customers.” Violet smiled for the benefit of the interns setting out the Chinese food. She asked, “Is he paying you?” “Is he paying me?” Teddy laughed. She’d forgotten about the laugh. She asked, “What are you doing about money?” “Pascal paid the rent for May. I’m eating at AA meetings. Plus, there’s this store in Malibu that gives away oranges. Sometimes I drive up there, but with gas, it’s cheaper to eat at the Ninety-Nine-Cent Store even though the food there fucks up my liver.” If this was legerdemain on Teddy’s part — working in the rent, AA, gas money, and the condition of his liver in one breath — Violet would have to give him a ten. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asked. “Because you made it more than clear that unless I fucked you, you didn’t want to know me.” Violet felt as if she’d been punched in the throat. It all flooded back, the scorching humiliation. She had somehow blocked out how dour and recalcitrant he could be. Put the phone down, she said to herself. But now that Teddy had injured her so grievously, Violet couldn’t stop until she’d reclaimed some dignity. What came out of her mouth was “Oh.” She dug her fingers into the back of a conference chair. “My hep C is fucking on,” he said. “Have you seen a doctor?” One of the interns was looking at her. Violet met the kid’s gaze, and he quickly resumed stuffing chopsticks into an NPR mug. “I’m not going to LA Country,” Teddy said. “Which is the only place that will take me. It’s fucking gross.” “You’re such a prince.” “Make fun of me,” he said, “but people die there.” “Are you collecting unemployment?” “I was thinking about applying for SSI.” “What’s that?” “You’re so fucking rich,” he said. “I can’t talk to you.” She asked, “You mean, like welfare?” “Yes, I mean like welfare. Thanks a fucking lot for making me say it.” “What about golf? Can’t you get some money that way?” He scoffed, “I told you, that’s not part of the program. I have to live my life with rigorous honesty.” “I don’t mean hustle. Can’t you get a job as a caddy?” “What’s up with you?” he said. “You suddenly have a thing for niggers?” “What?” He shot back, “Then stop trying to turn me into one.” That’s when Violet had devised the plan to hire Teddy’s band to play at the wedding. The Rolling Stoners charged a thousand dollars. She’d give Teddy three thousand in cash. “You can disperse the moneys at your discretion,” she told him. “Now, those are two words that have never been spoken to me in one sentence: money and discretion.” “What do you say?” Violet asked with a laugh. He answered, “I can eat your pussy a couple of times for three grand.” Violet thought she would vomit. The interns had just opened a container of that crispy orange tofu Mr. Chow made especially for her and David. She knew she’d never be ordering it again. “I hope you’re joking,” she said with faux gaiety. “Of course I’m joking,” he said. “You’re just doing what friends do, watch each other’s backs.”
The din of the wedding guests grew louder. Violet ran her fingers through her wet hair and headed into the bedroom, then stopped.
A man in a tuxedo sat perfectly upright
on an Eames bench in the sitting area.
“Jeremy?” she asked.
He lifted his eyes, then gazed down. His hands were clutched tightly together. Fluorescent earplugs stuck out of both ears.
“I can’t do it,” he said to the floor. “It’s a big mistake. I know I’m lucky to marry anybody. Especially Sally. But she doesn’t care about me. It’s like I don’t exist.”
“Okay. . . .” Violet sat down beside him.
“She doesn’t love me. She tolerates me. There’s nothing worse.”
“It’s intolerable being tolerated.”
“What?” Jeremy flashed her a look.
“Stephen Sondheim. From A Little Night Music. ‘As I’ve often stated, it’s intolerable being tolerated.’”
Jeremy doubled over and hugged himself. “I only bought her the ring because Vance made me. I tried not to give it to her. But she’s too strong. She scares me. I don’t know why I have to get married. I don’t know why anyone has to get married.”
“Jeremy?” Violet wanted to take his hand, but he still hadn’t looked up. “What do you want to do?”
“I tried not giving her the ring, but she’s too strong. I can’t stop the wedding.”
“You can stop the wedding, though.” Violet knew the customary course of action would be to deliver a buck-up speech about pre-wedding jitters. But she could attest to Jeremy’s fears. Sally always stood a little too close when she talked to you. Her eyes sparkled a little too brightly. Her makeup was too dewy perfect. She would frequently touch Violet’s shoulder in sympathy when there was nothing to be sympathetic about. Violet was always at ease around aberrant personalities. As a girl, her father’s coterie had made it a necessity. But with Sally, Violet felt as if she were being manipulated, to what purpose was never clear. It terrified Violet.
“I can’t stop the wedding,” said Jeremy.
“Jeremy. You have no idea how hard-core I am. If you want me to go out there right now and announce that the wedding is canceled, I will do it.”
“Really?” He finally held her gaze. His eyes flickered hazel with hope.
“Absolutely.” Violet took his hand. “I just need to make sure it’s what you want to do.”
“What about Sally?”
“You will have to go talk to her.”
Jeremy quaked. “I can’t. She’ll start screaming. Or ignore me. She won’t let me cancel the wedding.”
“It’s not up to her,” said Violet. “It’s up to you. Sally has lots of friends who can help her through this.”
“I’m scared,” said Jeremy.
“I’m scared for you. This is a big move. But it’s imperative you do what’s right for you. Ultimately, it will be what’s right for Sally. She deserves better than to marry someone who feels this way about her.”
“That’s true,” said Jeremy.
“Do you want some time alone while you think about it?” Violet stood up.
“No!” Jeremy pulled her arm. “Stay here.”
Violet placed her other hand over his and sat down. She turned her head to give him some privacy.
Out on the lawn, fifty people sipped Bellinis and plucked appetizers off silver trays. Some admired the view, others the house, all giddy at finding themselves surrounded by such impeccable taste. But then, a piece of seared tuna flew off a woman’s cocktail napkin. A man grabbed an old lady who had suddenly tipped over. A plume of champagne shot through the air.
Then: a young woman, wild with anger, ripped through the crowd. And in the girl’s chaotic wake: Teddy. He seized the girl with the short black hair and porcelain skin.
Violet watched the ruckus, unable to hear any of it behind glass. Teddy — ludicrously attired in lopsided mirrored aviators, red-white-and-blue terry-cloth headband, and shiny shirt unbuttoned to his waist — lunged at the lithe girl. The crowd widened around them. She pushed Teddy. He yanked her. She fell sloppily to the ground. She leapt up. Teddy grabbed her face with one hand. He snared his arms around her waist and grimaced. The black from his missing tooth screamed, This is who you chose to fuck, a wino from the gutter! Violet squeezed Jeremy’s hand, lest she fly apart. Teddy dragged the girl away. One of her Ugg boots dropped to the ground.
And they were gone. With a collective shrug, the guests resumed their enjoyment of the party.
Dot, festooned with colorful pipe cleaners, skipped through the crowd, followed by LadyGo, who nibbled on a bouquet of satay. Violet had averted disaster earlier today by giving LadyGo a blouse to wear over her JOHN TRAVOLTA IS A HUGE FAG T-shirt.
Violet shook loose Jeremy’s hand. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to ask my nanny a question.” Violet opened the door and waved. “LadyGo! LadyGo! Come here!”
“Mommy!” Dot charged over and mightily hugged Violet’s legs.
“Hi, sweetie.” LadyGo walked over at funereal pace. Violet grabbed her arm. “Who was that girl who just ran through?”
LadyGo needed a few seconds to gulp down the chicken. “I don’t know, meesuz,” she said. “Somebody ask and lady go, I’m a friend of the band. Lady who plan the party? Lady go mad.”
Jesus Christ, Violet thought, could it be Coco?
“I want you to go find that girl and ask her what her name is.” Violet dug her nails into LadyGo’s jiggly upper arm. LadyGo looked down. Violet released her grip. “You must find out that girl’s name. Do you understand?”
“Yes, meesuz.” LadyGo brushed the phantom wrinkles from her sleeve and made a big show of regaining her composure. She trudged out the door.
“Faster!” Violet said. “Run!”
“Who dat, Mommy?” Dot pointed at Jeremy.
He was stuck in some kind of sickening loop. “She screams and I keep talking until I say the right thing, then she’s fine, then she screams and I keep talking and then it stops when I say the right thing, she screams —”
“That’s Jeremy!” Violet half-squealed. “He’s a friend of Aunt Sally’s!”
“And I keep talking until I say the right thing, then she’s fine, then —”
“Jeremy?” asked Violet.
He looked up, his eyes flashed a plea for Violet to help him stop. Then he looked down. “It’s nice for a while and we have fun and I say the wrong thing and then it starts over —”
“Jeremy!” Violet dropped to her knees and grabbed his cheeks. “Stop it!”
“And then she keeps talking and I talk and then she says something and then I say the right thing —”
“Stop it!” parroted a delighted Dot.
“Dot, it’s not funny. Mommy needs to talk to Jeremy. Go look at the books.” Violet nudged Dot in the direction of the coffee table, then turned back to Jeremy. “You are going to call off this wedding.”
“I want that,” he said.
“I want dat!” chuckled Dot, pushing the art books onto the floor. The Robert Williams book thumped down; so did the first edition of Uncommon Places by Stephen Shore.
“You need to find Sally and tell her,” Violet told Jeremy.
Dot found the book she wanted, the Andreas Gursky with that marvelous photograph of the Ninety-Nine-Cent Store. “Dot has those chairs.” She pointed to the chair that she did indeed have.
Violet dipped her head so she was in Jeremy’s line of vision. “You have to do it now. The wedding is in ten minutes.” She stood up, hoping he would follow her lead, but he didn’t.
“Candy.” Dot pointed to some licorice in the photograph. “Dat candy has no nuts.”
Violet pulled Jeremy up by a dead arm. “Do you know where Sally is?” she asked.
“No.”
“Off the garage, in the guesthouse. It’s where the wedding party is gathering.”
“Meesuz?” LadyGo rushed in, her eyes dancing with excitement.
Violet held up a finger to LadyGo while she dispensed with Jeremy. “Go talk to Sally. Don’t make it more complicated than it has to be. Just say the words, I want to call off the wedding.”
“I want to call
off the wedding,” he repeated.
“That’s right. That’s all.”
“You’ll be here?” asked Jeremy.
“I’ll be here. Everything is okay.”
“Meesuz,” said Violet’s agent provocateur, unable to contain her reconnaissance. “Lady go name is Coco Kennedy.” The Spanish accent made the name even more grotesque.
“Lollipops!” said Dot.
LadyGo noticed the wreckage of expensive books. “Miss Dot! Very bad girl.” LadyGo dropped to her knees and matched the books to their jackets.
Jeremy just stood there. “You’ll be here?” he asked Violet.
“I’ll be here,” Violet said flatly.
“Everything is okay?”
“Everything is okay.”
SALLY, an opaline vision of silk and lace, navigated the carport, careful not to brush against the dirty Bentley and Mercedes. Maryam dutifully followed, holding the bride’s five-foot train.
“Careful of the bikes,” Sally warned, then stopped suddenly before she stepped in a puddle of oil. Maryam smacked into her. “Watch out!” said Sally.
“What are you doing?”
“Uh, trying not to ruin my dress?”
“Tell me next time if you’re going to stop,” said Maryam. “I can’t see anything.”
“You know this wouldn’t be happening if I was getting married at the Bel-Air Hotel,” Sally said to Maryam’s tulle head. “Where is Violet, anyway? She should be the one helping me.”
“I don’t know,” Maryam said, with a tinge of sullenness.
“You’re not still steamed about me making Violet the maid of honor, are you?” Sally asked. “It’s her house. I had no choice.” The tulle mushroom cloud was silent. Sally lifted her dress with one hand and reached for the Mercedes mirror with the other, careful to keep arm’s length from the dusty car. She hurdled the oil spill. One foot landed. Just before the other one did, her body jerked back. “Aaah!” Sally’s leg swung in the air, but she miraculously regained her balance.
“Oh God!” cried Maryam.
Sally turned. Her follower was splayed on the concrete, Sally’s train triumphantly overhead. Sally grabbed the wad of lace.