by Gigi Garrett
“Masterpiece, huh?” I say. “Are we heading to Vegas on a private jet?”
“I already asked,” Mia says, slipping on a sequined, one-shoulder, pink number. “Oh, she priced it out, but it was too expensive, even with our Dazzle-sugar-daddy money.”
“I feel like the stakes are elevated since Jane is writing about all of it,” Elsa May says. “There’s, like, this extra pressure for it to be perfect. Even if Birdie had slept this week, I still wouldn’t have. I’m running on four hours, according to my Fitbit, and pure adrenaline. Plus caffeine. It’s going to be epic.”
That word rubs on me. “Isn’t this whole thing supposed to be about throwing everything to the wind and having fun? Isn’t that why we started?”
Mia looks at Elsa May and laughs. “Did Lottie of all people actually just say that?”
They laugh, but in that catty-girl way. They never laugh at me that way. We laugh at other people like that, not each other.
Elsa May applies another coat of red lipstick, a shade I’ve never seen her wear. “It’s Mia’s,” she explains to me. “I have to stick to the theme.”
“Okay,” I reply.
I think of what Tyler said about women in this city, but then I try to push him out of my mind. I also resist the urge to check my phone. “Hey, Mia,” I say. “Did you ever call Ralph? You know, for, like, business purposes.”
Elsa May raises her eyebrows. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Not yet,” Mia says. She touches her cheek to her shoulder and blushes.
“Okay, you two catch up,” Elsa May says. “I’m going to make the Clover Clubs, a popular drink in Vegas.”
“Clover Clubs?” I repeat. “Where does she get this stuff?”
“Go easy on her,” Mia snaps. “This means something to her.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say defensively. I pull my dress down. I hate wearing clothes like this. I feel worse than I did when I walked in the door.
“I know you didn’t,” Mia says, sitting on her chevron-print comforter. “But Elsa May’s sensitive these days.”
“And I don’t know that?” I say. “Elsa May and I have been best friends since we were eighteen.” I feel like a fourth grader arguing on a playground.
“Let’s drop it,” Mia says. “We should go have some clover cocktails or whatever they’re called.”
I try to shake the feeling that Mia and I are in a fight, and that somehow Elsa May is also annoyed with me. This is why I didn’t want to go through with this whole ordeal in the first place. When you play games like this, stuff happens. Bad stuff.
I smile, trying to change my own attitude. “So what is going on with Ralph?”
“I told him,” she says, her fake eyelashes batting.
“The truth?”
She laughs. “He said he thought he was getting a weird vibe that night. He found the whole thing pretty hysterical and loved it. We’re going out on Tuesday.”
“That’s so great,” I say to Mia. “So he didn’t care?”
“Nope. And we’ve talked like three times on the phone.” She pauses dramatically. “Like on the real phone. I call an actual landline, connected to a brick and mortar wall.”
I smile, this time genuinely. This bachelorette thing can’t be all bad if it’s helped pull Mia out of her rut.
“Who are you?” I ask.
Mia laughs. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, but I’m okay with that.”
For the first time in my life, I’m wondering if it’s better not to know who you are.
Mia stops in the doorway and turns around to me: “Hey, did you cash your commission check yet from that guy Tyler? I can’t believe you’ve made money off this whole thing. So very Lottie of you.”
I shake my head. “Oh, it didn’t work out,” I admit.
She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it before remarking with a shrug, “Too bad. I guess even when you’re Lottie, there’s still going to be that one that gets away.”
I nod in agreement as my stomach drops.
“Just like with Rock,” I say.
Mia puts her arm around me. “I didn’t mean him,” she says. “I meant the commission.”
I nod. “Yes, that too,” I say. “You know how I hate losing,” I say, recovering.
Mia nods and gives me a squeeze. I think maybe even she knows there’s more to it than a lost fee.
* * *
“Our chariot is waiting,” Elsa May says, downing the rest of her Clover Club, which turned out to be a dangerous concoction of gin and egg whites. I wanted to say no since gin is the only alcohol that’s ever made me sick, but I didn’t want to get called out for being a party pooper.
“Our chariot?” Jane repeats.
“You didn’t!” Mia squeals, looking out the apartment’s third-story window down onto Twenty-Eighth Street. “A stretch Hummer. No way. People are going to think we’re, like, P. Diddy.”
I join her at the window. Not only is it a stretch Hummer, it’s a pink stretch Hummer.
“Oh, I went there,” Elsa May answers, putting her arms around us. “The limo is a symbol of the bachelorette. How could Jane write the proper story without the proper resources?”
I turn and watch Jane blush. “Thanks, Elsa May,” she says. “I never did prom and the whole limo . . . This will be my first time.”
“That makes it even better,” Elsa May proclaims. “Please hand over the faux bachelorette worksheet. We need to study the details in the car. It’s important we have our stories straight, especially tonight.”
Jane shyly relinquishes her worksheet that she’s been laboring on for the past hour. We all gather around to listen while Mia reads it out loud:
Jane’s Dream Man:
He’ll be a fellow professor. He won’t be in the same department. Perhaps Literature or History. But he’ll understand feminist theory nearly as well as I do.
We’ll marry quickly and get tenure the same year.
We’ll both be highly regarded in our fields. Perhaps he’ll even publish a novel that’s commended for its refreshing take on gender roles.
How We Met:
We’ll start as colleagues at NYU who met at a faculty orientation party. He’ll stop by my office every few days and we’ll eventually become good friends. I’ll try to set him up with another professor only to find myself jealous when they go out. I’ll confess my feelings to him and he’ll admit that he feels the same way.
Dream Wedding:
Our wedding will be literary themed and will be held at my favorite restaurant in Brooklyn, Blanca’s. There will be candles on all the tables and the cake will look like a stack of our favorite books. I’ll wear my mother’s vintage gown and he’ll wear a gray suit. Only a harp will play. There will be no Electric Slide or conga line. It will rain lightly as we leave and he’ll carry me over a large puddle into a waiting cab.
When Mia finishes reading, Elsa May applauds. “So great,” she says, repeating the major details. She has the best memory; it’s what would’ve made her a great lawyer. “I always knew you were a romantic,” she says.
Elsa May reaches deep into her overnight bag. “Wait. The bachelorette crown.” She places it on top of Jane’s head; Jane beams. “I never played dress-up as a kid,” she admits. “My parents are professors and are philosophically opposed to the whole princess construct. Is it terrible if I admit it’s sort of fun?”
Mia pulls out her fancy DSLR camera and zooms the lens in and out. “I’m bringing the big boy out tonight. If Dazzle uses any of my photos, I’ll get a credit. I wonder if that’d earn me points with Ralph . . .”
I look at Mia. This whole thing is blowing up too big. “Don’t worry,” Mia adds. “All the pictures are just going to be of our Jane.”
“Let’s go,” Elsa May says impatiently.
I’m about to fake a migraine to get out of this when Jane turns to me. “Thanks,” she says. “For doing this.”
“Sure.” I reluctantly follo
w the trail of sequins out the door.
* * *
Despite myself, I check my emails and missed calls again when we’re stuck in gridlock in the limo. Still nothing. My pristine record might be about to go up in smoke. Thanks to Tyler. I should’ve listened to my gut and not gotten involved.
In fact, I should’ve never agreed to the first bachelorette party to begin with.
This is actually Elsa May’s fault. If she hadn’t hatched this great idea, then I would have never met Tyler. Maybe I’d even be dating that handsome Brit, Harry.
And my life would still make sense.
I finish my glass of champagne and wait for the bubbles to go to my head. Maybe then I’ll feel better.
Once we finally reach our secret destination, I take our driver Frank’s hand and step down out of the limo. Looking up at the maroon awning, I feel my mouth drop. “We’re going to Sparks?” Sparks is a ridiculously expensive—and iconic—steakhouse in Midtown East. It’s famous for its beef, its history, and the fact that mobster Paul Castellano was gunned down outside it in 1985. I’ve only been once, when Rock and my parents met for the first time. Basically, the place is high roller and reserved for special occasions.
Elsa May hops out of the limo. “Pretty fabulous, right? What’s hotter than a bunch of ladies taking themselves out to a steakhouse sans men? I like sushi and salads and all, but sometimes, I want a bloody steak. Plus, this is on Dazzle, and fits the theme.”
“I’ve always wanted to go here,” Mia and Jane say unison.
“Consider that bucket-list item checked,” says Elsa May. “And remember, everyone, Jane’s fiancé is Andrew. They met at work, and the small, intimate wedding is being held at Blanca’s in Brooklyn.”
“We got it,” we say. Elsa May has only drilled this into our heads through the entire drive over here. She even took liberties and embellished from Jane’s worksheet. Jane didn’t seem to mind, though.
When we walk into the dark restaurant, with its white tablecloths and old-school wooden chairs, the entire population of the testosterone-filled space turns their heads.
“Were the sequins really necessary?” I ask.
Elsa May wraps her arm around Mia and rolls her eyes. I try to remind myself to play along. Calm down, Anxious Lottie. Tomorrow, Tyler will call, and you’ll rent the apartment and close this entirely weird chapter of your life.
I just wish I could convince myself the same way I can usually BS my clients.
The maître d’ leads us to a round table in the center of the room. Within a minute, a bow-tie-adorned waiter is carrying over a bottle of champagne and a bucket of ice.
I look at Elsa May and she mouths: “Not me.”
“From the gentlemen at table forty-two,” the waiter says. A table full of white-haired men—our fathers’ ages—waves back at us. “It’s the finest cava in all of Spain.”
Jane gives a shy wave back. “Would it be okay if I take notes? I don’t want to miss any of these details.”
“Don’t worry,” Mia says. “We can rehash all together. We’ll remember everything, or at least until midnight.” She holds up her flute. “Here’s to our beautiful bride-to-be,” she says, clinking Jane’s glass. We all hold up our own glasses and toast across the table. I can’t help but notice that Elsa May doesn’t look at me when our glasses tap.
I hear my phone ringing, so I scramble to reach into my purse and silence it before excusing myself to the bathroom. Yes, I have a rule about phones at tables, even at faux bachelorette parties. Even when it might be Tyler.
By the time I reach the bathroom, I’m breathless.
I fish my phone from my purse like it’s going to explode.
“Hello,” I say urgently. But no one is on the other line. I’m too late. There’s just silence.
I look at my phone’s screen.
MISSED CALL. TYLER.
I curse him for being unprofessional. Who calls a broker on a Friday night? A week after the last contact? I wait a few seconds, but no voicemail appears.
Do I call him back? Does that look desperate? Maybe it was a pocket dial.
Calm down Lottie, I tell myself. This is about an apartment. Tyler thinks you’re engaged, I remind myself.
I look around the empty bathroom. I can’t call him here. Someone might come in and flush a toilet.
Talk about unprofessional. And embarrassing.
I leave the bathroom and motion to the girls that I need to make a phone call outside. Even from a distance, I swear I can see them roll their eyes. I want to give a lecture on how my work comes before the hoopla and make believe, but I don’t want to become persona non grata. Not more than I already am tonight.
Out on the curb, I tell myself it’s the champagne that’s causing my heart to race. I press Tyler’s contact info.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
Maybe it was a mistake. Pocket dials happen, right?
Four rings.
Does he not even have voicemail? Who is he?
“Lottie,” Tyler finally says. His voice is even and thin. “Thanks for calling me back.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I firmly believe the person who says the least wins.
“I’ve thought it over,” he says. “And I want the apartment. Is it still available?”
I pause for a couple of beats, so he can feel a little of what I felt all week. “You know, real estate in New York doesn’t wait for anyone,” I say. “If you wanted it, you should’ve let me know right away.” I wait.
“Oh,” Tyler says with a disappointed sigh.
I hate hearing him sad, even over the phone.
“But you’re a lucky guy, because yes, it is still available,” I say.
“Excellent,” he says. “You had me scared there for a second. I can meet tomorrow and do the paperwork if you’re around.”
“Okay,” I say.
“And sorry about calling on a Friday. I needed time to think on it.”
I pause.
“You aren’t at another bachelorette party, are you?” Tyler asks.
I give him my most hearty laugh. “Of course not,” I say. “We can meet at that coffee shop Caffeinated—the one right across from your new place—at ten a.m.”
“Sounds good,” Tyler says.
I pause. “One more thing,” I say.
“Uh-huh?” Tyler says.
We both pause.
“Congratulations,” I finally say. “I think you’re going to be really happy there.”
“Thanks, Lottie,” Tyler says. Was it just me, or did he seem a little disappointed? “See you tomorrow.”
I put my phone back in my purse. I thought that I would be elated, but I’m not. It’s almost as if I wished he were calling for something else.
Don’t be crazy, Lottie, I tell myself. He thinks you’re engaged. And neither of us would have any real interest even if he didn’t. You rented the apartment. You’re going to get your commission. Your record stays intact. And soon, everything will go back to normal.
When I return to the table, the girls are drinking out of the dreaded penis straws and laughing. I want to say “Oh, come on,” because I’m sick of pretending, but I hold my tongue. The night is still young.
* * *
A very-high-three-digit meal later, we’re back in the pink Hummer.
Mia lies down dramatically on the fuchsia, leather, wraparound seat. “I’m going to pop a sequin,” she proclaims, rubbing her stomach.
Elsa May lies down next to her. “We had to say yes to the dessert and Irish coffees, though. They were on the house, after all.”
“I feel like a prisoner who just had her last meal,” Jane says. “But Elsa May, I loved the dining choice. It totally went against gender expectations. Great call.”
Elsa May shoots up like a soldier called back to duty. “Now, girls, we’re off to a place we haven’t been before. It’s as classic bachelorette as this limo.”
“The strip club,” Jane shouts. She really has a thing.
>
Elsa May shakes her head and then raises the roof. “We’re going untz-untz clubbing.” I want to burst out laughing. Elsa May and I are not the type of people you find in clubs. In fact, I don’t think either of us has ever been in a New York club. Of course, shows like Sex and the City make you think that in New York you club the way you take the subway, but most people I know rarely frequent them.
“What club?” Mia asks. Mia is not a stranger to the club scene, but she usually goes with her other friends. She knows Elsa May and I are too boring for clubbing.
“The Boom Boom Room,” Elsa May answers. They both squeal like teenage girls spotting a member of One Direction.
The Boom Boom Room is the club on top of the Standard Hotel in the Meatpacking District. I’m acquainted with it from my work reading, Us Weekly. It’s a lair for people like the Kardashians, the newest “It girl”, and of course, all of the city’s notorious playboys.
“Not to be a buzzkill,” I say. “But will we even get in?”
Elsa May literally shoos me with her hand. “Of course. We have a table booked. And chilled vodka and bottle service waiting.”
I shrug. “Sorry. I just thought you had to be on a TV show or know someone very important.”
“And I don’t know anyone important?” Elsa May asks, clearly offended. “Am I not important just because I have a kid and live in the suburbs?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “C’mon, you know that.”
Elsa May lowers her voice while Mia and Jane pretend to sightsee out the window. “Tonight isn’t about you, Lottie. This is Jane’s night. Now play along and be fun.”
I literally have no words about how my best friend is speaking to me, so I pour myself another champagne and watch the lights out the window.
I might still have a perfect record when it comes to renting apartments, but it seems like I’m failing everywhere else.
* * *
I follow the group up the elevator, past the huge line of people waiting to get in, and find a seat at our VIP table. My new plan is just to say nothing until this awful night is over. Then Elsa May will hopefully return to her normal, sane self, go and take the bar exam, or find some hobby other than this. She’s become the She-Devil of bachelorettes.