“I just hope they didn’t seat us at the same table.”
“Of course they did.”
“You can let us off here,” I say to the driver. It’s a mild, sunny April day, and I’d like to air out my armpits on the walk up to the grounds. I believe the ceremony is going to be outside. The drive to Beverly Hills from our place in the Northeastern hipster region of Los Angeles took a little longer than expected—it always takes longer than expected to get anywhere from anywhere in Los Angeles—I can’t believe I haven’t learned that yet. The ceremony should start in about fifteen minutes, so it’ll give us enough time to scan the crowd and choose seats as far away from you-know-who as possible.
Men are already doing double takes when they see Maya walking up the hill. She’s wearing a simple dusty rose A-line dress, but with her legs and those nude ankle-strap stacked heels, she looks stunning.
“Will you do me a favor and lighten up and have a little fun today? You’ve been working your ass off all year and it’s gotten you nowhere.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s not a judgment on your writing ability, Erin, it’s just that this business that you’re in sucks balls and you take it so seriously and you’re so hard on yourself, it’s like—what if you do end up being the most successful screenwriter of all time—is that all you want for your life?”
“Kind of.”
“That’s sad.”
“That’s not fair. You work your ass off too, but when you do it, it looks like more fun because you’re making beautiful clothes and modeling beautiful clothes and seating beautiful people to dinner, meanwhile I just sit at a computer and listen to podcasts.”
“Well, maybe we both need to lighten up and have a little fun today.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “I have a really good feeling about things. There’s something in the air…”
Chapter 2
*Erin*
I can already smell the heady scent of the burgundy and cream-colored peony arrangements that are all over the property and must have cost a fortune. There is a string quartet welcoming guests with jaunty movie theme music. There is a giant ice sculpture of intertwined hearts with wings. It’s all a tad more formal than I would have expected from my agent, but I have a feeling her mother did most of the wedding planning because Laurie was more interested in focusing on her work.
There are maybe two hundred guests here, and a lot of them have already taken their seats in the garden area for the ceremony. Some people are still milling about out front, chatting, most of them using their phones, and there are a few who are actually smoking.
“Okay don’t look now but he looks hot in that suit and he can’t take his eyes off of you.”
I run my fingers through my hair, despite myself. “Hot like a sweaty pig?”
“Nope.”
“He’s probably staring at you.”
“Nope.”
“He’s probably staring at my armpit stains.”
“I can’t even see your armpit stains from right here, you’re crazy.”
I slowly and casually turn my head to glance over at him.
He has now taken his eyes off of me, if they were ever on me to begin with. But shit, he does look hot in a suit, though. It looks like he just got a haircut. It looks like he’s been working out and eating healthy. It looks like he decided to wear his contacts today instead of his “look at me I’m a smarty-pants writer!” hipster eyeglasses. It looks like he just got back from a GQ magazine photo shoot of Hollywood’s Best-Dressed Screenwriters You’ve Never Heard of and Will Want to Punch in the Face When You Meet Them. He’s talking to someone that I recognize—a studio executive that I saw at Laurie’s birthday party last year. Why does he look so happy to be talking to Scott Braddock? Doesn’t he have standards?
“Who’s that guy he’s with?”
“He’s a VP at Universal, I think.”
“No the arty-looking one, with the wavy hair.”
“His best friend. Sam something.”
“He’s cute. How come you never mentioned him?”
“Because he’s Scott’s friend and he’s not your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Yeah you do.”
Maya dates older rich business-types who are hot in bed and boring in life. Sam Fletcher is a sexy nerd who’s a really talented indie music producer (I looked him up) who seems like a genuinely cool person and I have no idea what he’s doing being friends with He Who Shall Not Be Named.
Some buffed and polished male specimen in a Hugo Boss suit has already started chatting up Maya and I already feel invisible. I can tell that she’s trying to determine whether or not he’s a Hollywood Someone that she should introduce me to, but if I had to guess, I’d bet he went to school with the groom and is now a corporate lawyer in Chicago. Just a hunch.
I spy Laurie’s assistant Kennedy and wave at her. She raises her arm in the air and hops. Kennedy is two years younger than me and she is adorable. She is a literary agent in training but she’s so sweet I worry that it might not be the right career path for her. We prance over to each other like schoolgirls and air kiss, giggling. “You look so pretty!”
“You look so pretty! I love seeing you in a dress, and your hair looks amazing like that. Have you seen Laurie today? Is she nervous? She doesn’t get nervous does she?”
“No I haven’t and no she doesn’t. So many people have asked me if you’re coming today!”
“No way.” God bless Kennedy for acting like it’s her job to make me feel good, even on a Saturday.
“Well, two people. Adam from Platt’s office, who really wanted to buy your last script but couldn’t because they already have something similar in development —”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And Scott Braddock, who’s Jeff’s client—I didn’t know you guys knew each other.”
He’s probably dreading seeing me as much as I am him. “Oh, is he here today?”
“He’s so good-looking. If I didn’t have a boyfriend I would be all over him. Oh look!” She cranes her neck, looking beyond me. “There’s Adam now. You should go say ‘hi’ to him. I have to go take my seat. My BF’s stuck talking to Laurie’s grandmother. She keeps putting her hand on his thigh. It’s very awkward.”
I turn and spot my favorite producer, Adam Gold, who’s having one last cigarette before the ceremony while reading emails on his phone. I shuffle on over to him before anyone else does.
“Still haven’t quit, huh?”
He looks up and smiles, putting his phone in his pocket. “Erin Duffy! This is my last cigarette, I swear. How are you, stranger?”
We do the Hollywood hug. It’s a semi-embrace. He’s married with a little baby girl, and I always feel comfortable with him. “Hi. I’ve been in my writer’s cave, you know.”
“Yeah? When do I get to read your next script?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I still have to do a rewrite, it’s kind of a mess.” I haven’t finished any of the scripts I’ve started in the past six months because I’m suffering from celibacy-induced romantic comedy brain death.
“Well it sounds great.”
I suck at selling myself. I force a laugh and try to think up a quick two-sentence pitch for the script I’ve been working on, but before I can get another word out of my mouth, a shadow looms and darkens my view of Adam.
“Adam Gold!”
“Scott Braddock!”
Fucker.
Adam and Scott shake hands and pat each other on the shoulder. Adam puts out his cigarette with his shoe.
“Hey man, great to see you!”
“Dude. I looked out my office window the other day and saw you walking by. You should always stop by when you’re on the lot.”
“Oh man I wish I had, I figured you’d be busy.”
“You know the lovely and talented Erin Duffy?”
“Hey Duffy, good to see you.” His voice is deep and sexy. I always forget how sexy his voice is—one of my many de
fense mechanisms. It’s guttural, like I’d imagine how he’d sound when he’s about to come, or what he’d sound like if I’d just kneed him in the balls.
“Braddock.”
He pulls me in for a friendly hug. I endure it, stiffly. It may be my imagination, but he’s a tad stiff himself.
“Hey, I gotta find my wife and get a seat. See you guys later?”
You will not see us guys together later.
“Bye Adam! Great to see you!” I smile at him warmly, and then give Scott my iciest glare. He seems genuinely oblivious to the fact that he just professionally cock-blocked me. He looks me up and down.
“Nice dress.”
“Nice of you to say so.”
“I think I’ve seen you in that before. At that grad dinner in Boston.”
Yes. Dick. “Oh, were you at that?”
“What I mean is—you haven’t aged at all, have you?”
“I wouldn’t say that. My resentment towards you has aged like a fine wine.”
“And my tolerance for your resentment has matured like a stinky cheese.”
“Is that what smells?”
He laughs. “It’s either that or our rotting souls. No wait, we sold those when we sold our first scripts.”
“Speak for yourself.”
His friend Sam joins us. He nods at me, and immediately glances over at Maya.
“You remember my friend Sam?”
“Hey.” He tries to keep his eyes fixed on me for two seconds, before looking back towards Maya.
“Hi Sam—hey Sam, this is my roommate Maya. Maya!” I call out to her and wave, so she can escape Hugo Boss guy. She hurries over, like it’s an emergency.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Sam and Maya are staring at each other. They aren’t even smiling, they’re just looking at each other in some weirdly intimate way.
“Do I know you?” Maya’s voice is unrecognizable to me all of a sudden.
“I’m sure I’d remember if we’d met before, but you seem familiar to me too.”
“Interesting.”
They keep looking at each other. Scott and I exchange looks. He’s noticed this weirdness too.
“We should go grab seats, dude,” I say to Maya, tugging on her arm.
“Come sit with us, you guys!” she says to Sam, while squeezing my hand.
I gently dig my fingernails into the flesh of her palm.
“You’ll thank me later,” she says under her breath.
“You’ll be dead later because I’m going to murder you,” I whisper, through my forced smile.
Chapter 3
* Erin*
It was a lovely ceremony—Jewish Modern, with a really cool young rabbi. My eyes got all watery when I saw how Jeff was looking at Laurie. He’s always Mr. Agent, but standing there in front of his bride and his loved-ones, he was Mr. Laurie.
It’s impossible not to imagine what it would be like to be up there, marrying someone you’re committed to spending the rest of your life with, in front of the most important people in your life. When I imagine it, I still picture myself standing in front of John Cusack aka Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything. I’m a brain, trapped in the body of a game show hostess. I’m wearing an off-white silk charmeuse slip dress and a fresh flower halo and I’m barefoot. He’s wearing his beige trench coat over an ironic dusty blue tuxedo. Instead of reciting vows, he’s holding up his boom box and In Your Eyes is blaring from the speakers, because no words will ever mean more than that. Ever.
Lloyd Dobler has ruined my life. No living human male could ever be as sweet and devoted a boyfriend as he was, and I could never write a romantic comedy hero as lovely as him. It is my cross to bear.
I could feel Braddock aka The Anti-Dobler looking over at me when I was wiping my eyes. I didn’t meet his gaze, of course, but the nerve of him. Yeah, I’m human, I cry at weddings. Look away. Sheesh.
Maya was right about one thing. Of course they seated Scott and me at the same table. Also seated at our table are Laurie and Jeff’s B-list relatives. When they asked how I know the bride and groom, I told them that Laurie is my literary agent. They asked if they would have read any of the books I’ve written. I explained that I write screenplays for movies. They got very excited and asked which movies I wrote and when I told them that none of the scripts I’ve written have been produced yet, they looked confused and sad for me.
“A studio bought your script and they won’t make it into a movie? Does Laurie know about this? Can’t she do something?” “Yes. Laurie knows. It’s quite common, actually. A surprisingly small percentage of the scripts that are bought ever get made.”
This is how most conversations about my career have gone with my own relatives.
When they asked Braddock the same question, he told them that he wrote the last season of Friends and they asked to take a picture with him.
So. That pretty much says it all.
Now we’re dining here in the courtyard under heat lamps and fairy string lights, the speeches have been given, we’re onto dessert, we’ve all named every movie and TV show we can think of that was filmed here at Greystone Mansion without looking it up on our phones (There Will Be Blood, The Big Lebowski, Spiderman, The Prestige, The Bodyguard and my personal favorite—it served as Chilton Academy in Gilmore Girls), and I’ve managed to keep from throwing up in my mouth—despite having to watch Maya and Sam act like they’re the newlyweds, and having to sit next to Braddock, who acts like we aren’t arch enemies for some annoying reason.
“You’re half-Scottish?!” Maya puts her hand on Sam’s forearm and leans in my direction. “If you put on a kilt, Erin will probably propose to you. She’s obsessed with Outlander.”
“Oh yeah?” says Scott, jumping in and perking up. “The books or the show?”
I let Maya answer for me. “Both.”
He smirks. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing would that be?”
“Time travel romances.”
“Uh oh here we go,” says Maya, rolling her eyes.
My hand slaps down on the tabletop, startling everyone. “Sorry,” I say to the B-list relatives. I sit up straight, lower my voice, and hiss at Scott. “The Outlander series is so much more than that! The books and the show—the writing is high caliber and it’s entertaining and it’s about history and loyalty and honor and yes there is time travel but it doesn’t rely on the tropes of that genre—it’s an epic romance most of all with two incredibly strong characters and a wretched antagonist and so so so much passion!” My eyes are tearing up. It’s humiliating.
He pats the top of my hand. “That sounds great Duffy I’ll check it out.”
I snatch my hand away. “Don’t bother, you wouldn’t like it.”
He smiles and shakes his head.
Nothing that I say ever fazes him, no matter how obnoxious. It’s infuriating.
Maya leans over towards Scott. “Scott Braddock! Mr. Fletcher here tells me that you speak French and Italian.”
Oh fuck you Maya don’t do this to me.
“Si,” he says. “C’est vrai.”
She looks at me when she says: “Say something else in French.”
I had also conveniently forgotten that he speaks sexy foreign languages. His mother is French and Italian. He has that deep European kind of voice. Too bad he always says such stupid idiot annoying things with it. He holds up his wine glass and starts saying something in French, a poem probably, or a quote from Jean Paul Sartre. I take that moment to pull out my phone and listen to a voicemail from my Mom. She butt-dialed me. I can hear the car radio and my dad telling her where to park, but I pretend that I’m listening to something very important. Maya is frowning at me and I smile at her—nice try, I am not falling for this, my fake smile says.
“Now say something in Italian.” Her wicked smile says oh yes you are.
He starts reciting a monologue from Cinema Paradiso, which has been one of my all-time
favorite movies since high school, and he knows this. It’s Alfredo telling the story of a soldier who falls in love with a princess. I don’t want to hear it, but it’s such a beautiful monologue, I don’t dare interrupt. I actually start to feel something deep in my belly, like the beginning of an orgasm, but it may also be cramping from food poisoning. Please let it be food poisoning.
“Amazing,” Maya croons, still looking at me.
“One of my all-time favorite movies,” he says.
“It’s one of my all-time favorite movies,” I say.
“Oh that’s right, I forgot you’re the only one who’s allowed to love Cinema Paradiso.”
“I love that movie,” says Sam. “Have you seen it?” he asks Maya.
“I haven’t. Erin’s always telling me I have to watch it and that I’ll cry.”
“It’s so dumb that you haven’t watched it.”
“Well, I’ve been busy.”
“You have to watch it,” Sam says. “You should watch it at my place—I’ve got a home theatre.”
“He does have a sweet set-up,” Scott says.
“I just might do that,” Maya says.
This can’t be happening. I still can’t quite tell if she actually likes Sam or if she’s doing this to get me to talk to Scott more. Regardless, it’s not working and I object on principle, no matter how attractive Sam is. I look around, trying to make eye contact with Laurie, who is at her table, busy talking to someone else. Literally everyone else here is busy talking to someone else, including the other people at our table.
Scott inches his chair over closer to me. The fact that he is not put-off by my obnoxiousness towards him is infuriating. His eyes are the same color as the iced tea that I’m drinking and I have to work really hard to keep from throwing it in his face when he leans back in his chair and looks over at me. “So how’ve you been, Duffy? What are you working on?”
The Wedding Season Page 2