Wedding Season

by Darcy Cosper

  “Go away now, barkeep. We’re having a girl talk.” Henry waves her fingers at Luke, who rolls his eyes and walks, very slowly, to the other end of the bar. “God, he’s so annoying. In that annoying sort of way.”

  “One of these days he’s going to eighty-six you from this place and I, for one, will stand up and cheer.”

  “Are you kidding? He loves it. Luke’s one of those men who thrives on abuse. He probably goes to a dominatrix on his nights off and gets whipped.”

  “He doesn’t have to with you around.”

  “Lucky him. Now what the fuck went down in L.A.?”

  “I don’t think I want a best friend anymore, Hank. You’re fired.”

  “And don’t spare the details—you know I’ll know if you leave anything out.”

  SHE’S RIGHT, of course. So I relate, unexpurgated, what I can remember of Theo and Angelina’s wedding. The parts that come after the second bottle of champagne I recall with less than perfect clarity. I do know—not because memory serves but because Gabe told me so—that he spent nearly two hours looking for me, and located me asleep on the screening-room floor only after being tipped off by Damon, who helped him get me into a waiting car and back to the hotel.

  Henry starts laughing more or less the instant I begin my tale; by the time I finish, she is convulsed with amusement.

  “Thank you for your support,” I tell her. “Your compassion rivals the saints’.”

  “Stop, stop! I have a cramp.” She laughs, gasping for air. “Jo, that is funny. Gabe must have laughed his ass off when you told him about it.” Henry swivels suddenly on her stool, gives me a piercing look, and throws her hands up. “Oh, good grief, Charlie Brown. You didn’t tell him?”

  “Tell him what?” I raise an eyebrow at Henry. “That I accidentally almost made out with my high school boyfriend while he was dancing with the psycho-tart who appears to be obsessing over both of them? And whom I would mutilate out of unfounded petty jealousy given a quarter of a chance? I’m sure he’d be hugely entertained. So entertained that he’d take this nice diamond everyone admires so much and run screaming. What a good joke.”

  “Luke!” Henry calls. “Emergency drinks!”

  Luke eyes her from the other end of the bar and does not move.

  “I’m betting he would find it funny, if you told him,” Henry says. “I’m thinking he’ll find it a hell of a lot less funny when Ora tells him, though.”

  “When… what?” I consider fainting.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you hadn’t already thought of that. It’d be just like her to do it. Jesus, can we get some service?”

  “Mind your manners,” Luke calls back. “Try asking nicely.”

  “Lucas, dear, would you be so very kind as to serve us another round? Pretty fucking please?”

  Luke sighs and sidles toward us.

  “I hadn’t thought of it.” I push my glass toward Luke and he refills it. “Oh, hell. Of course she would.”

  “Lucas.” Henry turns to him, oozing sweetness. “May I ask you a personal question? If your girlfriend told you that she’d run in to an ex at a party, and that he got drunk and made a pass at her, what would you do?”

  “Depends.” Luke hands her a fresh martini. “Probably something mature and levelheaded like hunt the guy down and beat him to a pulp.”

  “Defending her honor.” Henry claps her hands together. “That’s so macho and adorable of you. Okay, but what if she didn’t care, if she just thought the whole thing was funny? Shut up, Joy. Don’t interrupt.”

  “I don’t know. Just forget it as best I could, I guess. And dream about beating him to a pulp.”

  “Right.” Henry looks at me triumphantly. “But what if she didn’t tell you? What if she kept it secret, and then someone else told you? Someone who saw it happen?”

  “I guess I’d probably break up with her. If she didn’t just tell me herself, seems like she’s got something to hide, or something to feel guilty about. Doesn’t seem like a trustworthy girl would act that way.”

  “Objection. Leading.” I point at Henry.

  “Oh, stop, I was not.”

  “Were, too.”

  “Was not.”

  “Anyway,” I say, turning to Luke, “don’t you think that’s a little extreme? Breaking up with her, just like that? Maybe she had her reasons for not mentioning it, and you’d just—”

  “Want to tell me what this is all about?” Luke asks.

  “Hey, Henry,” says Anabel Kappler, setting her purse on the bar. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re early,” Henry tells Anabel.

  “I’m confused,” I tell Henry.

  “Stop the fucking presses,” Henry says.

  “I think I met you at Theo’s wedding last week.” Anabel sits next to me. “Right? You work with my husband, Hector?” She smiles and turns to Luke. “A kir royale, please.”

  “We were just talking about that wedding.” Henry kisses Anabel on both cheeks. “What were you doing there?”

  “It was my husband’s nephew’s wedding.”

  “And your husband works with Invisible Inc.?” Henry plucks an olive from her glass and studies it. “Small white world.”

  You don’t know the half of it, I think to myself.

  “Invisible ink?” Anabel frowns.

  “My company. We just did an assignment for him.” I wave off the questions. “How do you know each other?”

  “Love at first sight.” Henry flutters her lashes at Anabel. “We met at that lingerie store up near Union Square earlier this summer.”

  “Bonded over push-up bras,” Anabel says.

  “Very romantic,” I say.

  “Joy’s the jealous type. So watch out, Bel. And speaking of romance, let me get your opinion on something.”

  “Hank, please.” I put my head down on the bar. “Please drop it.”

  “Bel, if your husband told you he’d run in to a former girlfriend at a party, and she made the moves on him, what would you do?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Aha! Now, what if he didn’t tell you, but somebody else saw it happen, and they told you. Then what would you do?”

  “Nothing, Henry.”

  “Nothing? Nothing at all? Not even have a little temper tantrum?”

  “Nothing at all.” Anabel sips her drink.

  “Oh, go on.” Henry pokes her shoulder. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe it, Henry. My husband is having an affair. I couldn’t care less. Cheers.” Anabel raises her glass to us. I swallow my drink the wrong way, choke on an ice cube, and am taken by a violent coughing fit.

  “How do you know? Did he tell you?” Henry asks, slapping my back.

  “No, of course not. But it’s not hard to figure out.” Anabel hands me a napkin.

  “And you really don’t mind, Bel? Honestly?”

  “No. I honestly don’t.”

  “I used to think I wouldn’t.” Henry looks thoughtful. “How’s that work for you?”

  “I married Hector for money,” Anabel says. “Oh, please, don’t look so shocked. I wanted security, Henry. I wanted comfort. That’s what I get. Hector does love me, I think. In his way. But it doesn’t matter that much. He takes good care of me, and he’s kind to me. That’s all I care about. I know this may sound very Victorian to you.”

  “It sounds very wacko to me,” Henry tells her. “No offense.”

  “None taken. But it’s not like nobody’s ever done it before. Marriage was all about financial security until maybe fifty years ago. And social status. Right? So what’s the big deal?” Anabel looks to me for confirmation. I stare back, trying to factor this new twist into my moral dilemma regarding her husband’s account with my firm. “Look,” she continues, “I’ve tried the true love thing. I was engaged to a guy I was madly in love with. He broke it off three days before the wedding and ran off with some other woman.”

  “Oh, god,” Henry says. “I’m so sorry. That sucks.”


  “It was pretty bad. I moped around for a couple of years, and then I met Hector. We dated for a while, and eventually he asked me to marry him. I’d been trying to make it as an actress, and got myself into thousands and thousands of dollars of debt, and Hector made it clear that he’d bail me out, and take care of me.” Anabel tucks a strand of bright red hair behind her ear. I notice her engagement ring, which sports a diamond the size of a small dog. “I wasn’t hunting for a rich husband,” she says. “It just happened that way. I’d decided I wasn’t really interested in romance. I don’t think I could even feel that way about anyone again. But I want kids. I want a safe life. I just wanted out of the game, you know? Hector offered me all that. And he’s a great guy. He’s good to me. He’ll be a great father. So I thought, why not?”

  “And you said yes.” Henry gives her a thumbs-up.

  “I said yes.”

  She said yes, I think to myself. She signed on for it. I should be comforted to know that Hector’s affair, in which I may or may not be implicated, is causing no grief. Why is it, then, that I feel so unsettled? Am I, after all, as Topher insisted, a romantic—or is it some other discrepancy that is making me feel so weird and cranky?

  “I still don’t get why you don’t care about the affair, though,” Henry says.

  “Why should I?” Anabel takes a sip of her drink. “I know he won’t leave me. I’m the trophy wife.” She smiles. Henry laughs. I blanch. I can’t tell whether she’s joking. “Honestly,” Anabel says, “there’s no reason it would bother me. He’s just as good to me as he ever was. His affairs don’t deprive me of anything because, remember, I was never in it for that kind of romance. Although—it’s funny, Hector’s really not the romantic type anyway. But when he proposed to me, my god. It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard. It was like some angel was speaking through him. I think I was actually in love with him for a day or two just because of the proposal.” She stares into space for a few moments, then shakes her head. “I got over it before I accepted him, though.”

  “Huh,” I say. “Wow. Well. Imagine that.”

  “And anyway,” Anabel says, “not that you would know, Henry, since you don’t have much experience in this department. But it’s hardly a surprise that Hector’s on the prowl. He’s a man, after all. No sane woman gets married expecting fidelity.” She laughs. I flag Luke down for another drink.

  “Ouch!” Henry slaps the bar. “Bel, since you’re going to be surrounded by newlyweds tonight, I suggest you keep that opinion to yourself. And I think these husbands may be the exceptions to your rule.” She gives my hand a secret squeeze.

  “Of course,” Anabel says, smoothing back a strand of hair. “Of course they are. There always are exceptions to the rule, of course.”

  THE GIRLS ARRIVE at Pantheon one by one, crowding up to the bar, exchanging kisses, stories, gossip, photographs of weddings and honeymoons. Miel hands out copies of the picture she took of us in April, our last night together as single girls, the last time all six of us were here together. As I study mine, she puts a slender little hand on top of my head and gives me a gentle smile.

  “Bet you had no idea how much things would change,” she whispers. “What a summer it’s been for us.”

  I nod and look into her little pixie face.

  “Oh, Jo.” Miel sighs and touches the tip of my nose, then turns to Henry, who has joined us. “Can I ask you guys something? Are you, do you… have you noticed anything about Joan?”

  “Like she’s drunk all the goddamn time?” Henry says. “That kind of thing?”

  “But I think that’s because she’s sad. Doesn’t she seem sad to you? She’s always so worried about Bix. And she’s mad at him all the time.”

  “Think maybe it’s just a posthoneymoon thing?” I ask. “A phase? Marriage shock?”

  “Maybe. But I mean, she was kind of like this before the wedding, too. I thought maybe it was just because she was nervous about it.” Miel glances toward the door. “Do you think maybe we should say something to her about it? Maybe talk to her a little bit when she gets here?”

  “I don’t think she needs an intervention, honey.” Henry laughs. “Joanie’s always been a wild one. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “She has seemed a little out of hand lately.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Henry says. “Just adjusting to marriage or something. She’ll get pregnant soon and that’ll settle her right down. Hey, speak of the she-devil—there she is. And they’ve got our table ready. Let’s go.”

  OVER DINNER, my friends embark on a long, wide-ranging discussion about how marriage changes things. I suppose that, as a prospective bride, I should be all ears—and perhaps these observations might hold more weight with me if any of the participants had more than three months’ wedded bliss on which to base their findings. As it is, I find myself distracted and slightly miserable for no reason I can identify. Without noticing I’m doing so, I slouch low on the banquette until Henry kicks me under the table and I sit back up. I slide down again, she kicks me again, I sit up. And so it goes. Maud describes how much more at ease she feels when Tyler is out of town now that they’re married. Erica, who is cohabitating for the first time, chronicles the anguish of uncapped toothpaste tubes, dishwashing negotiations, dirty socks on the living room floor. Miel, who says her relationship seems to be exactly the same as it always has been, tells us about going with Max to get their names legally changed and how she laughed right through the proceedings until she got hiccups. Joan started the meal with a couple of Xanax and is on her fourth Manhattan by the time dinner arrives; she listens to the girls talk, lets out little ironic snorts, and is uncharacteristically quiet for an hour or so. Then, apparently unprovoked, she bursts into tears and collapses into Miel’s lap, weeping and babbling incoherently. It’s nearly impossible to make out what she’s trying to say, but we’re finally made to understand that, at Bix’s insistence, she had an abortion a couple of days ago.

  “He’s been so gone.” Joan sobs. “He’s been gone since before the wedding. This spring he’d go out without me and stay out until three, four, five in the morning, and wouldn’t call, wouldn’t say where he’d been, just out. People kept telling me they’d seen him out at clubs and after-hours bars with his little film coterie, with actresses. I thought it was just jitters, that he’d change when the goddamn wedding was over and done with, so I didn’t say anything.”

  “I thought you had such a good time on the honeymoon,” Miel says. “You told me you did.”

  “We did, my sweetheart. We did. It was lovely. I was so relieved. But then we came back, and it was the same. And the couple of times I said anything to him about it, he’d make these hideous arch remarks about the old ball and chain. Someone told me he’s been doing heroin again but it could be just idle gossip, I don’t know. Then my period was late. I took one of those awful home tests and I went to the doctor and she said I was six weeks pregnant. I was thrilled, and I ran home to Bix, and he didn’t miss a beat. He told me flat out he didn’t want it, I absolutely shouldn’t have it, this isn’t a good time for us to start a family because he wasn’t ready. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Do? Leave the bastard,” Henry snarls. “Come live with me and Delia. Fucking hell. I’ll kill him, I really will.”

  “But it’s my fault. I didn’t tell him I’d stopped taking the pill.” Joan begins to weep again. A long silence creeps over us. Anabel, who is seated on Joan’s right, puts an arm around her shoulders.

  “I’ll take her home,” Miel whispers.

  “I can give you a ride,” Anabel says. “My driver’s parked outside.”

  We pay the check, collect our things, and rouse Joan. I am on one side of her, leading her through the front door and out to the sidewalk, with Maud on her other side, when Joan turns and gives me a wondering stare.

  “Joy, how do you do it?” She shakes her head and sniffles.

  “Do what?” I dig into my
bag for a tissue, without success.

  “You and Gabe. You make it look so easy.”

  “Sleight of hand.” Maud laughs. “Joy’s the man behind the curtain.”

  “I’ve never once seen you fight.” Joan has begun to cry again. “You come out with us and never worry what he’s doing. You let him spend time with Ora, and you probably don’t give it a second thought, do you? You’re so good.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I look toward Maud, who raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, spend time with Ora?”

  “Oh, she told me they’ve been doing a lot of work together.” Joan sobs, as Henry holds the door open. “And I saw them at lunch the other day and—that’s so great—I could never—you’re so good, Joy. You’re so strong. I wish I were like you.” She hiccups wetly, plants a weepy, strongly bourbon-scented kiss on my cheek, and allows Miel to guide her into Anabel’s black town car. The door slams shut. Anabel waves as the car pulls away and the rest of us stand watching.

  When they are out of sight, Erica lets out a long, low sigh.

  “Pearly girlie.” Henry turns to her. “What is it?”

  “I’m pregnant.” Erica looks around quizzically; it’s almost a question.

  “Oh, wow.” Maud stares. “Oh, honey. That’s… great?” Henry crosses to Erica in one giant step, wipes the single tear from her china-doll cheek, bends, and kisses her belly.

  I sit down on the curb and watch the traffic go by.

  HENRY ESCORTS me home. I think we’re both in shock, and we don’t talk much about the specifics of Joan’s dilemma. It is agreed that Henry will take Joan shoe shopping tomorrow, and I will coordinate with Maud and Miel to make sure a Girlfriend Watch is in effect. Then we walk on in stunned silence. The streets still have the empty quiet of late summer: one season over, the next not quite yet begun. At last, as we wait for a streetlight to change, Henry cuts her eyes at me.

  “So, how do you do it, Joy? How do you keep your magnificent cool while a man-eating memoirist chases your boyfriend all over the city? Inquiring minds want to know. Joan wants to know.”