The Gift Bag Chronicles (11 page)

“I’m not seeing anything,” I say, looking up.

“Here,” Steven says, leaning over the board and pointing to the bottom of the list. “Mickey Delano, plus one.”

“Mickey Delano?” I say, recognizing the name of the Hollywood producer who was as well known for his mega-grossing mind-numbing run-and-gun movies as for his off-camera appetites as a serial dater of young blond wannabes. “What’s the problem?”

“Okay. First, you don’t remember that little incident with Mickey and his alfresco blow job at that big agent’s party? The one that got him publicly ejected and all over the tabs. I know it was before the Paris Hilton sex tape, but still, it was big news at the time.”

I shove the clipboard back at Steven. “That was at least five years ago. The guy’s been to a million parties since then and nothing’s happened. I know he’s a pig when it comes to women, but do you seriously think something’s going to happen?”

“Second, the ‘plus one.’”

I shake my head. “The latest arm candy? Who cares.”

“Patrice Fielding.”

“What?”
Patrice has been in town less than a month as
C
’s Entertainment Doyenne, but already she, and her hair extensions, have been snapped up by Mickey?

“Okay, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Steven says. “She might legitimately just be a guest.”

“Forget that for a minute,” I say. “How did we not have the plus-one’s name two weeks ago?”

“Because Mickey never gave it to us. Or he did, but then he changed it. I don’t know. Ask Caitlin. You’re the one who put her in charge of the RSVPs after she bitched about not doing anything except answer your phone.”

“Oh, God,” I say, rubbing my forehead. Up until now this wedding was just annoying. Now we officially have “a problem.” A member of the media is now a guest at the wedding where no media, other than
InStyle
, are allowed.

“Okay, do we know if Jennifer knows what Patrice looks like?” I say. “I mean, if she doesn’t recognize her on sight—”

“I think The Beast’s teeth are pretty well known from coast to coast,” he says.

Still, it isn’t like she has the Q rating of Tina Brown or Anna Wintour. Besides, Patrice has only just gotten to town. Still, she’s already wrangled her way to Mickey Delano. “Yeah,” I say, “but only people in the media know her by sight at this point. Plus, it will be dark. Plus, Jennifer is a narcissist. Plus, Patrice may not even show. I mean, if Mickey had one date a week ago, he might have another today.”

“Denial, denial, denial,” Steven says, waving at me like he has a wand.

“Actually, I don’t think so,” I say, grabbing him by the arm and steering him away from the dining room. I’ve met Patrice only once since Andrew McFeeney handpicked her as his latest Hollywood emissary, but given her wavering accent and lack of specifics about her family background — just a lot of “Oh, Mummy this” and “Mummy that” — I’m guessing she’s as much of a gold digger as Jennifer. A wannabe socialite trying L.A. on for size before heading back up the ladder to New York.

Besides, Jeffrey’s wedding is hardly
C
magazine material.

“Consider it this way,” I say to Steven. “She’s got to be here just as Mickey’s guest.
C
wouldn’t cover Jeffrey’s wedding if it was offered to them. I mean, his show’s an aging
network
hit, the guy’s in AA, and his bride is a former exotic dancer with implants and serious control issues. No one
wants
to be here. Everyone is basically attending to show support for Jeffrey being sober, employed, and God help him, happy. Even if Patrice turns up, this wedding is going to be as exciting as a UPN series or a group therapy meeting at Promises.”

“Okay,” Steven says. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I cross Patrice off my list of things to worry about, at least for now, and head down the hall to the bathroom — that’s another
thing about event PR, you take a pit stop when you can — and then spend the next half hour in the dining room, shoes off, downing another water and going over everything one last time with Steven, Caitlin, and our team — Jill, Marissa, Maurine, Michelle, and Allie. I like to think of them as our student council presidents. Except for Caitlin, they are enthusiastic, organized, energetic, upbeat, and even more important, able to work together without fighting. In another world they would have become teachers or lawyers or editors or doctors. But instead, they’ve joined the Pied Piper’s march into publicity. Looking at them here in their pastel dresses, lush hairdos, and unqualified eagerness, it’s hard not to see them as some of Hamelin’s best and brightest who got mistakenly wooed up into the mountains, never to be seen again.

“Okay, team, let’s go over this one more time,” I say, reclipping my hair and running down the event checklist.

• 5:00–6:00
  P.M.
  Guests arrive. Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres served on the front lawn by waiters; music by the “Hey, Don” Quartet. Photographers — wedding, magazine’s, and the TV crew — shoot formal and candid shots of the wedding party on the back lawn
  .
  

• 6:00–6:45
  P.M.
  Guests are escorted to the small tent for the ceremony. Rabbi Moskowitz and the minister from Jeffrey’s church will preside. Jennifer’s sister, Elaine, of Cats fame, will perform the solo; song TBA
  .
  

• 6:45–7:30
  P.M.
  Receiving line of Jeffrey, Jennifer, and Max
  only,
  which will be held on the pathway between the two tents
  .
  

• 7:30
  P.M.
  –TBA
  Guests and wedding party are served dinner in the large tent. Dancing and music again provided
  by the “Hey, Don” Quartet. Photographers and video crew will film throughout the evening
  .
  

“Okay, any questions?” I say.

“I still don’t get why we all had to be here if there’s no media other than
InStyle,”
Caitlin says, flopping back into her chair.

“Yours is not to wonder why,” Steven says.

“Let’s just say it’s a comfort factor for the bride,” I say. “You’ll see. There’ll be plenty to do.”

“So we are or are we not wearing headsets?” says Allie.

“There’s an office pool about that,” Steven says.

“We are
not
wearing them,” I say. “Trust me.”

An hour later, the party is under way. Oscar’s A/C units have
arrived, Hot Fat has not passed out, and the temperature in the tents has dropped out of the triple digits, according to the crew guy running around with the portable thermometer. The bad news is, it’s still about 100 degrees everywhere else, and I’ve lost the fight about the headsets with Jennifer.

“Alex, it’s
not
a request,” she’d said, standing in the bedroom where I was summoned after she emerged, sleepy-eyed but not discernibly calmer, from her “bride’s massage.” “I’ve rented them and you’ll wear them,” she said, her hand clutching her fluffy white robe across her even fluffier breasts, her white blond pony-tail bobbing in fury. “It’s a security issue, and it’s what I
want.”

God, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that expression. It’s always about people’s wants. But then, that’s what I’m paid to do. Satisfy those wants. In the
Upstairs, Downstairs
of Hollywood, Jennifer is the lady of the manor and I’m her servant.

“Fine,” I said, shrugging, cutting my losses. “It’s your party, and if you want it to look like a commercial event, that’s your choice.”

“Well, it already looks like a funeral,” she said, glaring at my dress. “I can’t believe you wore black to my wedding.”

I’m tempted to tell her that it’s Jil Sander — since I’m required to look at least worthy of being in her company — and that black
is
the new black at weddings, but I think better of it. How can you argue with a woman whose taste tops out at white lattice and llamas?

“Would it make you feel any better if you thought of it as dark gray?” I said.

She peered at the dress again. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t let it happen again.”

We can only hope.

Now I’m standing on the front porch in my shades and the headset —
set it to channel 1, everybody! — a
glass of sparkling water in hand, watching the stream of guests make their way across the lawn, trying to pick out Patrice when — and if—she arrives. The “Hey, Don” Quartet is sawing away — “Lara’s Theme,” like that’ll cool anybody off—while the fleet of waiters circle with the requisite trays of champagne and sparkling water. Most of the guests are in black tie, but a few, like Richard Lewis, who’s wearing a black T-shirt under a black suit, are in typical fuck-you-
I
’
m
-a-star attire.

“I see Richard Lewis dressed up” crackles in my ear. Allie, who’s somewhere down in the crowd with Maurine and Michelle keeping tabs on the magazine’s writer. Jill, Marissa, and Caitlin are out back tag-teaming the video crew and the magazine’s photographer, who are shooting setups with Jennifer and the bridesmaids. I’ve got Steven down by the valets, ready to send up a signal should Patrice show.

“Yeah,” I say into the microphone. “There’s always somebody who has to give the finger to the dress code.”

“Who’s giving who the finger?”
blares in my ear. Steven.

“
No
one is giving anyone the finger,” I hiss. “And will you turn down your volume? You nearly blew out my eardrums.” It’s another reason why I hate headsets. Not only do they make you look like a telemarketer, but most of the time you wind up just playing one big game of telephone.

“Hey, Alex, can you send one of your team out here for a second?” Oscar breaks in. “I need to figure out exactly where the receiving line is going to be.”

I’m about to say that I’ll do it when I catch sight of Jeffrey coming through the front door firing up a cigar. It’s the first time I’ve seen him all day, and with his Armani tux, his tan (probably spray-on, but a good one), his rakish black hair (clearly a dye job, but a good one), and cigar, he looks much younger than he does on TV.

“Marissa, can you go?” I say, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ve got the groom here now.”

I click off and turn toward him. “Hey, Jeffrey, you look like a man who’s ready to get married.”

“Alex!” he says, blowing smoke over my head and grabbing me in a bear hug that practically knocks my headset off. “Thanks for coming, and thanks for all this,” he says, releasing me and nodding at the guests milling around below. “This is great. You guys have done a great job. And, God,” he adds, turning back toward me, “don’t you look beautiful.”

You have to give him credit. Whatever train wreck he had been, however many motorcycles he had crashed and marriages he had busted up, he has a winning artlessness about him. Sad, really, he’s winding up with Jennifer.

“Hey, thanks,” I say, pulling my headset from my neck. “It’s only just starting, but yes, Oscar has done a great job.”

We stand there in the blazing late summer sun for several minutes, the murmur of the guests and the music drifting up and mixing with the smoke from his cigar. I look over at him and see a
bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. He’s probably even hotter than I am in that wool tux, but for some reason it makes him look nervous, even a little scared.

“Can I help you with that?” I say, reaching out with my cocktail napkin.

“Oh, thanks,” he says, taking it and pawing at his cheek. “I should probably get out of this sun.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s pretty brutal.”

He balls up the napkin, shoves it in his pocket, and reaches to stub out his cigar. “Guess I better go down.”

“Want me to go with you?” I say.

“Nah,” he says, reaching over to kiss me on my cheek. “Just wish me luck. I’ll see you afterward.”

“Okay, I’ve got The Beast in sight” comes crackling over my headset. Steven with the first Patrice alert. We click over to channel 2 as we agreed. So he and I can talk without being overheard by the rest of the team.

“Okay,”
I say, gazing down on the crowd, trying to make out Patrice picking her way across the lawn from the valet stand. “I can’t see her,” I say, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece. “What’s she wearing?”

“White linen. To upstage the bride.”

“Thoughtful,” I say, shading my eyes. I finally spot her — a gawky, lanky column of wrinkled white. A column of white, which happens to tower over Mickey, who’s dressed like a Mafia don in black suit, black shirt, and black tie.

“You want me to talk to her?” Steven says.

I sigh. “Well, that would have been good, but no, I’ll come down. Meanwhile, stay on two.” I click off, pull off my headset, and head for the stairs. I’m not anxious to confront Patrice. In my
one lunch meeting with her, at the Ivy, which she insisted on because it reminded her of home with all the chintz, she was so patronizing, I’d vowed to deal with her only by phone and e-mail. Of course, now that she’s the point person on the magazine’s holiday gala, that’s impossible. Still, I’m not anxious to cross paths with her again. Not here, where I have to play security cop and where Jennifer is already going off like a hand grenade.