Going Off Script (17 page)

“I think you can do it,” the nutritionist said. I’d been sugar-free for nearly three months. I went ahead and indulged in Chicago—it was every bit as decadent and delicious as Bill had promised—then I jumped right back on the wagon that Monday. I waited anxiously to see if the sugar cravings were going to kick in again, but night came and I felt no magnetic force drawing me to the Cheesecake Factory. I took this as the best of omens: with Bill, I actually could have my cake and eat it, too.

Bill would later tell me that he knew I was the one that weekend, too. We had gone for a motorcycle ride along the North Shore and got caught in a torrential downpour on the way back. We pulled over in a little mall that happened to have a Crate and Barrel. “Let’s go buy some towels,” Bill suggested. We went inside and he randomly pulled a couple of thick, plush towels off the shelf. I examined them more closely. “Whoa, whoa! Too expensive!” I objected. I had another idea.

“Just start drying off and fold them up and put them back,” I said.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said as we rubbed ourselves dry and I stuffed the sodden towels back on the shelf. “We better buy those.”

“Are you kidding? We’re not going to spend a hundred dollars on towels! Let’s get out of here!” We jumped on the getaway bike and sped off. Bill thought he’d met the frugal girl of his dreams. Most women he’d known would have gone for the towels, added a couple of robes, and kept shopping.

Our first big fight happened that August, just as I was about to
not
turn thirty. When we first met, and age came up in casual conversation, I fibbed. I was still twentysomething in my head and not ready to put a “three” in front of my age. “Oh, good,” Bill said when I claimed I was twenty-nine. He admitted that he had this rule against dating women over thirty, because he felt they were “in a hurry.” He had just turned thirty-five himself. As my birthday approached, Bill grew worried and then angry that no one was reaching out to set anything in motion to celebrate my big three-oh.
Man, her friends are horrible!
he thought, racking it up to the inherent self-centeredness of L.A. Obviously he was going to have to arrange a surprise party himself. He got in touch with Monica. She played it cool but called me with a heads-up. When we all went out to dinner and my approaching “big day” came up again, Monica had had enough. She fixed me with a hard look.

“If you don’t tell him, I’m going to,” she warned.

I confessed to Bill that twenty-nine was my “Hollywood age.” I was actually about to turn thirty-two.

He was livid, and refused to see anything funny about it.

“Oh, c’mon,” I said. “What’s the big deal? Everyone has their Hollywood age!”

But to Mr. Salt of the Earth Midwest, this was a major moral transgression. Even worse, it called my entire character into question. If I was going to tell white lies, Bill argued, then how could he trust me about anything?

I didn’t think a woman claiming to be twenty-nine instead of thirty-one, especially in the entertainment industry, was tantamount to torturing small animals or instructing people to wire their life savings to a Nigerian bank account because my passport had been stolen, but my Bill was not cutting me any slack.

“Either we’re going to be honest or we’re not going to be together,” he said.

I swore I would never lie to him again. (Occasional misleading for the greater good doesn’t count, for the record. The time I blindfolded him and took him for a birthday surprise that he thought was going to be a Cubs game and turned out to be an appointment for Botox injections, for example, was not dishonest because he’s the one who jumped to a false conclusion. And then wouldn’t get the Botox. Big baby. I thought it was the perfect gift, because he had been moaning and groaning about getting old.)

Our next falling-out happened when I was the one who felt deceived. We were taking our first big trip together, to Hawaii, and Bill started out on a sulky note when I discovered that the upgraded seats I’d gotten us weren’t together.

“Forget first class,” I snapped. “Let’s trade these seats for a couple in coach.”

“I’m six foot four, I’m not going to sit in coach,” he said.

When we got to Maui, we rented a Jeep to drive around the island. I had tried to wax my lip with a homemade wax kit the night before, and had this huge, painful welt on my mouth as a result. Of course, I couldn’t admit to waxing my lip, so I made up some bullshit excuse about how I burned my lip drinking hot cocoa the night before. Thankfully, he bought it, but being unkissable does not make for a romantic vacation. Truth is, I was really expecting Bill to propose to me on this trip. I thought I might jump-start that with a little conversation.

“So where do you see us in six months?” I asked.

“Maybe we’ll be engaged,” Bill answered.

Maybe?
WTF?
What aren’t you sure about?

I silently fumed. For ten hours, I refused to speak to him. My lip hurt, anyway. I finally cooled down enough to tell him how I felt: “We’ve been mapping out our future together since we met, and now I’m feeling like maybe you’re not serious. Do you not see us going somewhere?”

“Of course I do,” Bill said. We were still learning about each other, and Hawaii was an important lesson for me. Bill likes surprises. He’s the type of person who doesn’t want you to tell him what to get you for Christmas. He likes to give it thought and plan every little detail without someone else stage-managing everything. I had trusted Bill absolutely from the moment I met him—you
know
when you’re with someone worthy of that—but I still needed to learn how to let go. He wasn’t about to tell me then that he wanted to pop the question someplace more special than the front seat of a rental Jeep.

We spent our first Thanksgiving together with my parents, and Bill pulled my father aside when I was out of earshot and asked for permission to marry me. Babbo gave his blessing, and Bill began planning an elaborate engagement. He began scouting for perfect diamonds to design my ring. Jewelers would FedEx him bags of diamonds, and he would sort through them with his mother and sister Karen, handpicking only the flawless ones. “I’m not looking for the biggest ones,” he told them. “Size isn’t what’s important; they just have to be perfect.”

The second weekend in December, I was supposed to come visit him in Chicago. Bill said he would be getting in later from a business trip, and would send a limo to pick me up. When I landed, the limo was waiting, but it wasn’t our usual driver, and he wasn’t taking the usual route. On top of that, he weighed about three hundred pounds and looked like a guy straight out of
The Sopranos.
When he suddenly pulled into a deserted field, I convinced myself I was being whacked and started freaking out.
What if he’s kidnapping me? Will Bill just pay the outrageous ransom or refuse to negotiate with thugs? Who’s going to do
Fashion Police
for me?
The limo stopped and the back door opened. Expecting to see a gun aimed at my head, I was beyond relieved to see Bill on the other side with a huge grin on his face and his hand extended
to help me out of the death car. He led me to a waiting helicopter. We climbed inside and put on the giant headphones as the chopper lifted off the ground. I am absolutely terrified of helicopters, but as we swooped over Lake Michigan, the spectacular view of Chicago and all its Christmas lights glittering beneath us made me forget that I was going to die any second. Bill had deep-dish pizza and champagne for us, and he set his glass by his feet and unstrapped his seat belt. He got down on one knee, accidentally smashing the champagne flute in the process. Unhurt, he went on.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

I pretended I couldn’t hear him over the whir of the helicopter’s propeller, but really I just wanted to hear him say it again. And again.

“Yes!” I finally answered. He slipped a ring onto my finger.

When the chopper landed, Bill led me back to his place, where a path of rose petals led to a whole chocolate cake from Bill’s favorite spot. We were in heaven.

Later, when I went to the bathroom, Bill heard a sudden yelp.
“Holy crap!”

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he called.

“This ring is
innnnsannnnnne
!” I shouted back. I hadn’t looked at it in the light yet. The five-carat cushion-cut diamond was clear as ice, throwing off sparkles in every direction.

We planned a September wedding and decided to have it in Capri, where I had spent my childhood summers. It would be a small, elegant ceremony with a full, traditional Mass in both Italian and English. Like any woman, I had been working on the details since I was a little girl. We were surprised when the Style network asked to film our wedding, but thought why not? Great way to save the cost of a videographer.

I had been in awe of Monique Lhuillier dresses ever since I had
first seen her exquisite creations. She had jumped into the international spotlight when she designed Britney Spears’s wedding gown, and her evening wear frequently appeared on A-listers walking the red carpet. When I reached out to the boutique for an appointment to look at wedding gowns, I was shocked when I got a call back the next day telling me that Monique happened to be a big fan of mine and would like to meet with me herself. She wanted to personally design the perfect dress for me. I freaked! It was a dream come true! Just like marrying Clooney. I mean Bill. I went in to meet Monique and she was the kindest, sweetest woman. She showed me around the showroom, and we picked apart the different silhouettes to get a feel for what I gravitated to and what felt right for me. Was it a strapless princess gown with a big, full tulle skirt? Or a long-sleeved, lace-embroidered sleek and super-elegant gown with a straight skirt? I had always admired Grace Kelly’s iconic wedding gown of silk tulle and taffeta, with a bodice of antique Valenciennes rose point lace with seed pearl buttons. Created by MGM costume designer Helen Rose, it was a masterpiece that managed to be regal yet understated. I pictured mine to be very similar. Long lace sleeves, cinched waist, full skirt, dramatic and long veil. Monique gently brought me back down to earth when she reminded me that my wedding was in the hottest month in southern Italy. Was the church air-conditioned, she wondered.

“Great question,” I said. I called the Santa Sofia Church in Ana Capri and shouldn’t have been shocked to learn that a church built in the late 1400s did not have AC. Crap,
there goes Grace Kelly part deux!
I said to myself, not to the nun who presumably answered the phone. Instead, I settled on a gorgeous satin strapless ivory gown with ruching on the skirt and a pretty bow wrapped around the waist. I still got the dramatic veil, à la Grace, since one of the most moving parts of the ceremony I always envisioned is when the bride reaches the altar and her father
tenderly lifts the veil to reveal her face. I didn’t give a shit how hot it was, AC or not, I was not willing to give up that moment!

I got to know the creator of BCBG, Max Azria, and his stunning and fabulous wife, Lubov, when I first started at E! and often wore their pieces on air. When these longtime friends heard I was getting married, Lubov, the designer of the line, offered to design my bridesmaids’ gowns. This whole wedding planning thing was turning out to be a lot more fab than I expected. I should get married every year, I thought. Errr…maybe not.

Anyway, I went to her showroom on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, and the choices seemed endless. Together, we then came up with a flowy chiffon floor-length dress that was lightweight but still elegant. “I can do this dress in any color,” Lubov told me. I considered all the possibilities. Black? Too harsh for summer. Blue? Never been a fan of blue. Then I literally closed my eyes for a few seconds and thought of Capri. The tastes, the smells, the yellow lemon trees. Yellow!!! That was it! I decided on canary yellow for the four bridesmaids—Bill’s sister Karen, Pam, Colet, and my friend Bobbi Thomas. Monica was maid of honor, of course, but I wanted her to stand out. Her dress needed to be different, not matchy matchy with the other girls in the wedding party.

“I know the perfect dress,” Monica announced. She would precede me down the aisle in a stunning yellow Oscar de la Renta with black embroidery throughout. The dress was one of the most coveted pieces from Oscar’s most recent runway show. I recall a friend of mine asking if I was cool with my sister wearing such a statement dress at my wedding, not to mention it having close to the same price tag as the bridal gown.

“Heck no, I think it’s fabulous,” I quickly responded. My sister is a baller. Always has been, always will be. She added so much glamour and high fashion to my wedding day. I will never forget that dress. I may have to relive our teen years and sneak
into her closet someday to steal it. I burglarized her closet so often when we were younger that she’s probably upgraded her security system and has guard dogs living in there now.

The bridesmaid dresses came with a sash, and Lubov once again offered limitless color options. I decided on black. Yellow and black looked cool together, and it was really the only color that would work with the embroidery in Monica’s dress. When I called my mom on the way home to tell her, she freaked.

“A black sash? On your wedding day? You-
a
crazy or what? Is this your wedding or a funeral? No black sash, Giuliana! No black sash!!!”

Here’s the thing: I could either argue with a superstitious Italian woman that a black sash at an Italian wedding does not signify death, or I could just let it be. A matching yellow sash it was.

Bill and I made a reconnaissance trip to Italy a month before the wedding. For a control freak like me, having to do it long-distance had been unnerving. And not without disaster. For the reception, we booked the historic five-star Grand Hotel Quisisana, nestled on one of Capri’s sunniest bluffs. Conversations with the catering and special events staff about my very specific requests tended to end in typical Italian fashion, with a noncommittal “Don’t worry, we take-
a
care of it!”

“Yes, but will you be able to get enough red roses for each centerpiece?”