Authors: Bella Cruise
Still, I don’t get time to wallow. With just ten days until ‘I
do’, this wedding is shaping up to be the event of my career.
No sooner do I solve one crisis than another pops up in its place,
until I come to dread the sight of Marcie’s name on my caller
ID. But she turns out to be the least of my problems, because there’s
a new sheriff in town: a slick Hollywood guy called Brent that the
network have sent to make sure their big moneymaking series stays on
track. If Marcie was cynical when it came to our moment of true love,
this guy takes manipulative to a whole new level.
“We want to get them reaching for the Kleenex, baby, and I’m
not talking late night Cinemax!”
It’s another staff meeting at the B&B, and Brent is in full
swing. He looks like he just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad: all
preppy popped collar and slicked back hair, pacing around the room.
“I want to wring every last tear out of these people. This is
the magic of true love we’re selling, and it don’t come
cheap!”
Marcie looks at me from across the room and rolls her eyes.
“Do we have Pixie’s father lined up?” he demands,
“Ready for a real heart to heart on camera about giving his
precious baby girl away?”
“Like I told you in my daily status updates, everyone’s
RSVPed.” Marcie says through gritted teeth. “Her mom’s
just had a facelift, and we’ve already written the script for
their toasts.”
“What about the conflict?” Brent asks the director,
ignoring Marcie yet again. “I need backstabbing and bitching,
baby, all the way to the altar.”
Marcie speaks up again. “We have a bridal party event today,
all her old
Park Avenue Princess
co-stars have flown down to
Miami. We’ll get plenty of material there, don’t worry.
In fact, we should hit the road,” she says, already getting to
her feet. “Ginny?”
“Right behind you!”
I follow Marcie out before she explodes. Once we’re in the car,
she lets out a long hiss of tension. “I can’t believe
that asshole,” she curses. “Three years at the network,
my shows have some of the highest ratings on air, and he still treats
me like a glorified assistant. You know he asked me for coffee before
the meeting today? Like I was some kind of intern he could just boss
around.”
“He seems a real treat,” I agree, sympathetic. Pixie and
the crew have already driven up in the limo, so it’s just the
two of us for the road-trip north. I hit the road out of town, hoping
Marcie isn’t going to spend the whole journey wound tight like
this. “But once you pull it off, he won’t be able to walk
all over you anymore, right?”
“Don’t bet on it,” Marcie scowls, but she seems to
be relaxing the further we get from town – and Brent. “He’ll
probably wind up taking credit for the whole thing like usual, and
get his name splashed all over the trades.”
“But everyone else knows that this is your project.” I
try to reassure her like one of my highly strung brides. “It’ll
be the event of the TV season, you said so yourself.”
She looks over, suspicious. “Are you handling me?”
I grin. “Why, is it working?”
Marcie finally laughs. “A little,” she admits. “It’s
just my career on the line here. It’s all I have. I’ve
spent years working to get here, and I can’t bear the thought
of it going down in flames.”
“You and me both. But just ten more days, and it’ll all
be over.” I don’t know whether to be happy about that
fact or not.
“I can’t wait to get back to LA. I miss Jack so much.”
“Your boyfriend?” I ask, surprised.
She snorts. “My dog. A little maltese snickerdoodle. You think
I have time to date, handling this circus?”
“Me neither,” I agree. “I’m run off my feet
in New York. Most evenings and weekends, I’m working with
clients. And the only men I ever meet are drunk groomsmen or creepy
uncles looking to score for the wedding.”
And hot ex-boyfriends
, I silently add.
“It’s the choice you make, having a successful career.”
Marcie sounds determined, but I wonder if that has to be true.
“I don’t know, I’d like to think there’s
more,” I say, wistful. “I’d like a partner, maybe
even a family of my own.”
“Good luck with that.” Marcie doesn’t sound
convinced. “Anyway, you’re going to have more than enough
work to deal with once this thing airs. People will be signing up a
waitlist a mile long to book a wedding from the planner who threw the
famous Dalton-Ross-Kincaid festivities—and at ten times your
usual rates to boot.”
I laugh. “Fingers crossed.”
“No hoping about it.” Marcie looks over, serious. “I’m
telling you, I know a hit when I see one, and this has winner written
all over it. You’re good,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And
the sky’s the limit if you want it to be. Book deal, branded
line of wedding favors, even a TV show of your own.” Her
expression changes, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Now, that’s
an idea. You’re pretty photogenic, once we get hair and makeup
sorted out—”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So all we’d need is a killer show concept, and you could
write your own ticket. Maybe you swoop in to save couples in crisis
fighting over their big day.” She starts brainstorming aloud.
“Or you could team up with the groom-to-be to plan a wedding
that’s a total surprise to the bride. Yes, I like that one.
Plenty of drama, potential for fights and meltdowns—“
“Whoa there!” I cut her off. “I’m not
interested in being on TV. I haven’t even gotten through this
wedding.”
“You’re right,” Marcie says, way too agreeable.
“It’s just a thought.”
Something tells me Marcie’s thoughts could end in me with a
three-year contract and Nick and Neil stalking my every move. But
luckily, she drops the subject for the rest of the trip. Soon, we
arrive in the city for bridal party boot camp.
“Ginny!” Pixie’s squeal greets me the minute I step
through the doors of the exclusive bridal store. “Did I tell
you you’re, like, my favorite wedding planner of all time,
ever?”
I laugh, detaching myself from her enthusiastic hug before she can
spill her champagne glass all over me. What’s left of it, at
least. I’m guessing from her flushed cheeks and giggling that
this isn’t her first drink of the day.
“I’m excited to see you, too,” I smile. “I
can’t wait to see you in your dress.”
“Me either.” Pixie’s eyes are wide. “Can you
believe I’m getting married?”
I steer her into the back, where the production has set up the
ultimate bridal salon. Six of Pixie’s closest
friends-slash-co-stars are lounging on white settees, sipping
champagne and ignoring finger sandwiches as the staff fuss around,
making sure the VIPs have everything they need. Cameras and mics are
posted at every angle, spotlights shining on our happy bride and her
not-so-happy friends.
“You better not make us wear peach,” one of them pouts. A
blond girl with over-puffed lips, she glares at Pixie, clearly
jealous. “It totally washes me out.”
“Or pink!” another pipes up. “My color consultant
says I’m a spring, not summer.”
“And you know if cut-price fabric even touches my skin, I’m
going to break out in hives.”
Marcie is already grinning ear to ear. If Brent wants a cat-fight,
he’s definitely going to get one.
I step up. “Pixie has picked out some dresses I’m sure
you’re all going to love.” I smile. “And the
important thing is, you’re all here to support her for her big
day!”
The smirks tell me that may not be the truth.
“How about we get started?” I say quickly. I beckon to
the store manager, a woman I’ve been talking with all week.
“The first bridesmaids’ dresses?”
“Right away.”
She goes to collect the clothing, and the production kicks into
action. Of course, it’s not as simple as just having the girls
try on the dresses. Every shot has to be set up and filmed, from
Pixie revealing the color scheme (a gorgeous dusky pink), to every
bridesmaid’s individual reaction.
They replay the same conversations over and over, under Enrique and
Marcie’s direction. These guys are pros. I guess spending years
in front of the camera has taught them how to repeat lines like it’s
the first time they’ve ever said the words.
“I don’t see why you pick the color that suits Bex, but
leave me looking like a freaking spinster,” one of them glares,
squaring off with Pixie. “Is this because Clyde saw my boobs
that one time?”
“He couldn’t help it,” Pixie shoots back. “You’re
the one who walks around butt naked all day long. And FYI, underwear
is
not
optional at my wedding.”
“Cut!” Enrique interrupts. “Can we try that again?
You had a clerk walk through the background.”
Right away, their face off drops. “Sure,” Pixie says,
agreeable.
“And maybe you don’t say spinster,” Marcie adds.
“Like, what about saying it makes you look like Lulu’s
mom after she’s had a skin peel?” another of the girls
pipes up, smug.
“I like that!” Marcie exclaims. “OK, reset for take
two.”
The girls get back into position.
“And, action!”
Just like before, the friend squares off with Pixie. “Why did
you have to pick pink?” she whines.
I watch as they finish the scene. It’s so weird that they’re
recreating their lives on camera, complete with bitchy comments and
‘spontaneous’ moments. Poor Pixie must feel like she’s
living her life in a fishbowl. Except she seems to deal just fine.
Maybe this is just her version of work. After all, it’s like
acting in a way.
Finally, it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for.
Pixie disappears into the dressing room to try on her dress. Usually,
I would have helped her pick it out, but it turns out the show did
some kind of sponsorship deal with a famous designer, so I haven’t
even seen it yet: we just sent her measurements for them to work
from. Now, it’s time for the final fitting adjustments before
the big day.
“Pixie?” Marcie calls. “Honey, are you ready to
come out and show us all?”
There’s a muffled sound. “No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Is it terrible?” one of the girls asks eagerly. “Does
it make you look fat?”
“I told you to drop ten pounds,” Marcie says.
I roll my eyes and head in back to the dressing room. “Pixie?”
I pause by the curtain. “It’s me, Ginny. Is everything
OK?”
The curtain opens, and Pixie yanks me inside. I get a glimpse of a
gorgeous fitted bodice with delicate embroidered pearls before she
collapses back on the floor in a heap of silk and taffeta.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Don’t you like
it?”
“I don’t know.” Pixie’s voice wavers, and
when she looks up at me, her eyes are filling with tears. “I
don’t know anything anymore. I wish those bitches would just
shut up.”
“Forget about them.” I carefully sit beside her on the
dressing room floor. “Do you like the dress? That’s the
only thing that matters.”
Pixie looks down. “I love it,” she says, still on the
verge of tears. “It’s like my dream come true.”
“Then that’s great.” I try to cheer her, totally
confused. “Don’t worry about the other girls. They’re
just jealous.”
“I know,” she whimpers. “Lulu gets this vein
popping in her forehead when she’s pissed. It’s going
crazy right now.”
“That’s because you look so pretty. Clyde will love it,”
I add. “I can just see his face when you come walking down the
aisle. And everyone watching at home too, you’ll be the center
of attention. The star.”
I hope I’m saying the right thing, but Pixie doesn’t look
any happier.
“We can take a break, if you like?” I offer. “I’ll
get Marcie and the team to clear out for five minutes, or we can go
get a soda, just you and me.”
“Like this?” Pixie plucks at her skirts.
I smile. “Maybe not. But you tell me what you need, and I’ll
make it happen. I’m on your side, remember?”
Pixie blinks back her tears, and nods. “You are, aren’t
you?” She brightens. “You can be my maid-of-honor!”
“What?”
“It’s perfect!” Pixie exclaims. “Lulu doesn’t
want to do it, I can tell, and she’d probably rip my dress or
spill something all over me right before I have to go down the aisle.
But you’ll take care of me, won’t you?” Her face
turns hopeful. “You won’t let Marcie push me around.”
“I… don’t know what to say.” I stare at her,
but her expression is so pitiful, it would take a heart of stone to
deny her now. “Are you sure you don’t want someone else?
Someone you’ve known longer than a month,” I add. “One
of your real friends.”
“They’re not my friends,” Pixie says, sounding sad.
“I never even liked Lulu, but they hired her to be on the show
because her daddy is so rich. And the rest of them can’t wait
to see me fall flat on my face. You heard them out there. There’s
nobody.”
“You have Clyde,” I try to cheer her up. “And who
needs those bitches anyway? We’ll be just fine on our own.”
“So you’ll do it?” she beams.
I exhale. “Sure, why not? I’m going to be there every
step of the way anyway.”
“Yay!” Pixie scrambles up and hugs me. “This is
going to be so much fun, and you look way better in pink anyhow.”
I laugh, even as I wonder what I’ve just gotten myself into.
But the bride always comes first, and if this is what it takes to
make Pixie happy, then it’s my job to play along. “Atta
girl. Now, enough sitting around and smudging your mascara. Let’s
go kick this wedding’s butt!”
Pixie pulls back the curtain and bounces towards the main salon, all
smiles again. “Lulu? I’ve got news for you. You’re
fired!”
“You did what?”
Marcie throws a fit when we tell her I’m going to be Pixie’s
maid-of-honor. Not because she hates the idea, but because Pixie
asked me when the cameras weren’t rolling. Now, to make up for
the grievous error, she sets up a back porch BBQ dinner for Pixie to
formally ask in front of Nick, Neil, Enrique and the rest. “You
guys can hang out with Clyde and the best man, toasting the big
occasion, blah blah, all the best of friends.” She says,
checking her schedule once we’re back in Pelican Key Cove.