Party Girl (15 page)

“That pie really was so good,” I tell Max as I look out at the LA night slipping past the passenger-side window.

“I know; you’ve said that three times since we got in the car.”

I don’t turn towards her but I know she keeps looking at me every time we stop at a light.

“Did you use baker’s chocolate for the filling or—”

Max’s dramatic sigh cuts me off.

“Cut the crap, Landon, just ask.”

Her words are a little harsh but her tone is resigned. I spin towards her, unleashing my excitement for as long as she’ll allow it.

“You have to explain it to me, because honestly I can’t even imagine! How can you be from
your
family but choose to bartend in order to afford our crappy apartment in Hollywood?”

Max doesn’t look at me but she does answer.

“They paid for school, because that seemed fair to me. But I’ve done everything else on my own since I was eighteen.”

When she stops speaking I prompt her. “Because . . .”

“My dad built the company from the ground up, and both Liam and Brody are partners now. It sucks a little for them because their last name
is
Ashton, so everyone assumes they just inherited their jobs, but that’s not true. They both earned their places.”

“And you want to do the same?”

She shakes her head slightly.

“I don’t really know if I want work with them, but whatever I do I want to earn it on my own. It drives my mom crazy. She’s positive my chances for gang rape increase by large increments every mile I live past La Brea.”

“But they’re so proud of you, anyone can see it.”

This most definitely makes her uncomfortable; she sort of flinches. “I guess, whatever.”

“Max.” I grin at her even though she won’t look my direction. “You’re kind of awesome.”

Her only response is a scowl, but at least I know she’s heard me. After a few minutes she breaks the silence.

“Coconut,” she says succinctly.

“Excuse me?”

“Coconut milk . . . in the pie. I use it to melt the chocolate down into the filling.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

Chapter TWELVE

“Shut. The. Front. Door!” Miko screeches dramatically and then throws herself down into Quade’s old chair with the grace of a drunken toddler.

Selah’s never mentioned getting a second assistant since the Volturi left, so the chair’s only purpose now is to hold Miko when she comes calling. I’m guessing Selah’s figured she’s getting two assistants for the price of one, so she’s not motivated to bring in anyone else. With so many things to manage, Miko was right about my salary; if I ever divided it by the amount of hours I spend working, I wouldn’t be shocked to discover that I could make a better hourly wage at In-N-Out Burger.

“It’s the God’s honest truth. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.” I smile down at the reports I am sorting and stapling at my desk. I knew she’d love this bit of news.

“This is—”

Selah’s line buzzes and our conversation pauses so that I can answer, then take a message. The second I hang up Miko carries on.

“This actually explains a lot, if you think about it,” Miko says contemplatively.

I look up from the papers in my hands. “How so?”

“Max, I mean. She acts all agro-nation but she’s intelligent and even sweet when she wants to be. And she can wear all the sloppy, weird outfits she wants, but that kind of flawless complexion is achieved only through a lifetime of expensive facials. And her hair . . . You think someone at Fantastic Sams cut that?”

“I guess not.” I really don’t know. Mama’s second cousin Terry works at Fantastic Sams, and she’s pretty good at a spiral perm. I’m guessing she could cut a pixie if anyone in Texas would ever ask for such a thing.

“There’s no question. Her highlights are so subtle, they look like they were painted on by fairies! I should have realized . . . I’m actually surprised I didn’t think of this before.”

“But even if you had guessed, would you ever in your wildest dreams imagine who her family is?”

“Definitely not.” Miko has found a paper clip and is bending it into a new shape between her fingers. “But then, I don’t really know much about Brody besides the few times I’ve seen him at SSE stuff, and then Selah’s clinging to him like a bad suit because she—” Miko’s eyes snap up from the now straight piece of wire in her hand. “She won’t like this.”

I frown at her.

“She won’t like that you have any connection to him outside work.”

“I just know his sister. It’s not a big deal—”

“It will be for her. She doesn’t play well with other kids, and she doesn’t share anything, in any capacity. If she finds out you’re friendly with what she thinks is hers—”

“We’re not friends. I barely know him, and even if she finds out I was there—”

“You mean, if she finds out you spent a holiday with her would-be boyfriend and his family and she didn’t,” Miko challenges.

“Well, um, I guess she might not like that but—”

“No, Landon, seriously. She’s irrational and as far as I can tell she’s got sociopathic tendencies. One time an intern brought her the wrong salad during an off-site, and she berated her so harshly, the girl threw up in a trash can out behind the venue.”

“That’s not true.” I giggle nervously.

“It is true. She asked for sautéed shrimp, but I accidentally brought her sautéed chicken. I’ve never been able to go back inside The Grill without getting a little nauseous,” she says with a wink.

Even though she’s teasing, my face falls a little. I don’t doubt for a second that her story is real and that Selah’s reaction was over seafood. Miko’s right: Selah won’t like me having been at the Ashtons for Thanksgiving.

“So make sure you have Selah sign off on that Swarovski order by tonight or we won’t have them in time.” Miko is suddenly all business.

I look up at her, confused. What is she talking about? Then Selah’s voice rings out from the doorway.

“Brinkley, are we confirmed for that tasting for Kessler-Glen on Saturday?”

“Yes ma’am.” I’m already whirling around to open up her calendar on my computer. “Confirmed for an eleven thirty with the caterer.”

“You’ll be there too; and then afterwards we’re going for the final dress fitting.”

I look up, and my confusion must show because she only looks more annoyed with me.

“Did I stutter?” she demands.

Why is she so annoyed?
Does she know?

“No ma’am. I’m just surprised. But of course I’ll be there.”

Selah laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound.

“No one is more surprised than me, but Kira wants you there. Whatever you assisted with this weekend must have made an impression on her. I don’t need to remind you that you’re there to be seen and not heard. You have to earn the right to interact with clients, Brinkley, and you’re a long way from that.”

The brazen part of me wants to point out that my interaction with her clients saved her at the Riverton party. Or that baking cakes with Kira while she chain-smoked and told me the entire saga of her relationship, complete with details that made my tender ears burn, would also be considered direct interaction. But as usual I just nod.

Selah’s eyes slide to Miko.

“Jin, surely you’ve got something better to do . . .” She walks away before finishing her thought.

Once we hear the door to her office close behind her, Miko gets up.

“Someday, not now, but someday, I’m going to go all Jericho Barrons–inner beast on her, and it’s not gonna be pretty.” She glares at the wall that separates us from Selah’s office like she can see through it.

I spin back around to my desk so she can’t see my face. It’s more than a little embarrassing for your friend to see you get put in your place. I try to sound lighthearted when I say, “I think you’ve finally found a literary reference I don’t get.”

“Yeah?” she asks, happy again. “I’ll give you the series. It’s, like, five books of buildup, but when they finally get together . . .
so good!
I’ll see you later, ’k?” she asks from the door.

I don’t reply, just wave at her with the papers in my hand. Selah seems annoyed but not hands-off-my-man annoyed, just general displeasure. Forget her bad attitude: it’s really exciting to get to do something so personal with Kira. I’ve always wanted to work with brides on their wedding day, and this is the biggest bride and the biggest wedding ever! I can’t wait!

The Monique Lhuillier store on Melrose Place is sort of magical. When I walk inside I have one of those breathless moments because the dress on the mannequin in the center of the room looks like something a princess might wear. It’s the most beautiful combination of silk and lace, with a wide, full skirt that would probably swish a little when you walk down the aisle. I’d say it’s the most gorgeous dress in the world, but then there are similar gowns in every direction that are just as pretty. Being surrounded by this many gorgeous gowns has got to be every woman’s fantasy, and I have no idea how a bride might choose between them all.

“May I help you?” A well-tailored, older woman comes over to ask.

“Yes, I’m here for the Meeks fitting,” I tell her.

This wedding is beyond high profile and almost every detail is in code, including the names attached to the appointments.

“And you are . . .” she asks kindly.

“Brinkley from SSE. I’m meeting Ms. Meeks.” I smile back at her.

“Absolutely, they told me you were coming. Just wanted to check.” She gestures for me to walk to the back.

I’m escorted to the back room where Selah and Kira’s best friend, Meg, are already seated in fluffy white chairs, sipping on champagne. I take a seat next to them and decline the attendant’s offer for a drink of my own. I’m fairly sure Selah wouldn’t allow it, but I’m also too terrified to be responsible for any kind of beverage around this much expensive white silk. Selah and Meg chat a little about some restaurant they both like, but when Kira emerges from the back room with the help of two attendants, we all lose the ability to speak.

The dress has an empire waist with a low neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves. The entire bodice is like a second skin and made up of delicate lace. The skirt looks like a fluffy pile of whipped cream that’s been pinned up into itself here and there, and its volume only makes the dainty bodice look all the more delicate and feminine. She looks perfect . . . And once again she doesn’t even have makeup on.

“Oh, Kir—” Meg sighs.

“It’s stunning, Kira, really,” Selah tells her.

“Yeah?” Kira asks nervously. “It had a big bow here.” She runs her finger along the waistline. “But I had them remove it. It was a little much.”

“Here are the two veils you were looking at,” a perfectly tailored attendant says, coming out of the back room.

She’s got two veils in her hands. One is long and entirely lace. It’s made to lay on the bride’s forehead, completely covering her hair but not her face. The other is thin and sheer but short, and attaches to the top of the bride’s head. It’s sweet . . . sort of like something you’d see in the sixties. Kira tries on one and then the other. And then she tries them on again. She goes back and forth, and both Selah and Meg offer her polite opinions, but she’s still undecided. Finally, after a twenty-minute debate, she settles on the shorter option.

“Oh, thank God!” Meg announces, rushing over to Kira. “I’ve been sitting here praying you wouldn’t choose the lace because I didn’t want to have to tell you you looked like Mary Magdalene!”

Kira laughs at her. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me! That’s all I could think of when you put it on. I expected
Ave
Maria
to start blaring in the room at any moment.” They hug and giggle, and I smile right along with them.

Once everything is decided and I have all the details from the attendants about delivery and so on, I say good-bye and make my way out of the store. I’m smiling as I go.

This job sucks some days, well, most days; but I’ve just spent the afternoon with a celebrity couple trying the most amazing food I’ll likely ever eat and now I’m walking through a field of dresses so pretty they almost hurt my eyes.

Yes, some days this job sucks, but today is
not
one of those days.

Chapter THIRTEEN

If I thought a timeline for a mitzvah was intense, it was only because I’d never seen one for a wedding. The one in my hand is sixteen pages at last count, and I’m following along as Taylor and the production team tell the room at large the details for setup.

Kira and Jake are getting married at an old-cathedral-turned-event-venue downtown. I saw the space during the walk-through, and it’s amazing, but I can’t help but feel a little weird about throwing a party on consecrated ground. I’m hoping since Jesus’s first miracle was turning water into wine, he won’t mind the top-shelf bar or the six signature martinis we’re serving during cocktail hour.

“Just want to confirm the strike time on this?” I ask Taylor because I know that’s the next question Selah will ask.

“Midnight on this one as well,” he says with that boyish smile that’s so incongruous with the rest of him. Does he always smile like that, or is that look just for me?

“Can someone explain the cake thing to me again?” Miko asks out of nowhere. I’m glad she’s said something because I don’t really understand it myself.

“Jake’s mother is making the wedding cake.” Selah pinches the bridge of her nose like the very idea gives her a migraine.

“Is she a baker?” Miko asks the question everyone is wondering.

“No idea. She wanted to make the cake, and I advised against it, but they’re letting her.”

“Are we doing anything with that, or . . .” Taylor asks.

“Allegedly, we’re dressing the cake table per the design and they, as in the MOG and some random aunt, are delivering it to the reception by four.”

It’s taken me weeks to decipher the wedding codes they all use. “MOG” is Mother of the Groom, “FOB” is Father of the Bride, and so on, and now that I understand it, I get a dorky sort of thrill when I use it too. It’s like speaking in wedding acronyms makes me more official or something.

“How odd,” Holt speaks up, confused. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve heard her talk in one of these meetings.

“They’re from Wisconsin or something. What am I supposed to do?” Selah says, throwing her hands up.

His family is actually from outside Chicago, but I don’t correct her. I am pretty sure all the states in the center of the country are the same to Selah.

Saturday at 4:42 p.m. is when I start to panic.

Jake’s mom was supposed to deliver the cake to the venue by four, and there’s no sign of her. I have her cell phone number, but after meeting her yesterday at the wedding rehearsal I’m hesitant to call. Kira wasn’t lying when she said Mrs. Kessler hated her, but I don’t think she should take it personally. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Kessler hates everyone. It’s hard to believe such an uptight woman gave birth to someone as dreamy and sweet as Jake.

I attach another seating card to a chain of Swarovski crystals and move on to the next. It’s taking a while to put together this vignette since the chain and the custom clips that hold the cards in place are both delicate, but it’ll be worth it. When guests enter the reception they’ll come through hundreds of crystal chains of various lengths dangling from the ceiling. It feels like you’re walking through a wall of rain, and the effect is only heightened by the blue lighting and the pin spots our team is using to highlight the crystals. It’s stunning, even if the effort to achieve it is pretty tedious.

Thirty minutes later I finish the last of the 207 seating cards, and I’ve decided I’m going to have to call the grouchy MOG. Guests arrive at six, and the cake table is set up in the foyer, so they’ll see it as they walk to the ceremony. I can’t risk her being late and throwing off arrivals.

As I pull out my phone the far doors open and Jake’s mom walks into the room. She’s wearing a black dress with an ill-fitting matching jacket and black flats. It’s like she actually tried to look as miserable as possible while still in formal wear. She holds the door open, and Taylor walks through it with a cake in his hands.

I am being generous when I call the thing Taylor’s holding “a cake,” because even from a distance it resembles a multi-tiered lump more than anything close to a wedding confection. Taylor heads my direction, and since the MOG beside him can’t see his face, he looks at me and mouths a pretty distinct cussword.

For lack of any idea of what else to do I smile brightly and meet them at the cake table just as Taylor sets his burden down on it.

“Hi, Mrs. Kessler. This looks great!” I go for the bold-faced lie.

Crud!

Surely lying isn’t bad in a situation where telling the whole truth would hurt her feelings? Because the
whole truth
is that while there are four tiers, and they’re roundish, the cake is falling and sagging and in some places about to collapse completely. I know enough about baking to realize she iced this thing when it was still warm, because the icing is full of red crumbs. And that’s it . . . no piping, no flowers, no fancy scalloped edge. Just red-speckled icing on a troglodyte cake for the most well-publicized wedding of the year.

Crap!

Whether she was already coming over or she smelled fear and responded to it like a shark, Selah appears at the table next to me.

“Look, how gorgeous!” she croons to Jake’s mom. “This is stunning!”

I’m beginning to realize that “stunning” is Selah’s go-to word for everything.

That baby is stunning! Your dress is stun-NING! Did you see this rash on my arm? STUNNING!

Mrs. Kessler’s thin-lipped mouth purses further, like she’s just daring us to call her out on this monstrosity. Who would offer to bake their son’s wedding cake if they didn’t actually know how to bake?

“Thank you. I think they’ll like it,” she says finally. “Kira wanted red velvet, which I think is sort of tacky in a wedding cake, but I did it just the same.”

I glance at Selah, who’s still smiling like this is the prettiest thing she’s ever seen. How the heck are we going to deal with this? Mrs. Kessler won’t acknowledge that the cake is an obvious disaster, so we’re supposed to just display it?

“Taylor, would you mind showing Jane where everyone else is? We’re just about to start family pictures,” Selah says smoothly.

As soon as they’re out of earshot she spins around to me.

“You need to fix this right now!” Gone is the calm, collected wedding planner. Now she’s all wide-eyed crazy-town, staring me down like I’m the one who made this lump on the table.

“Should I call someone or maybe order another—”

“No, you can’t call someone! You can’t offend her by replacing the cake. But you
will
find a way to make this look better!”

“But I—”

“I don’t have time for this. I’m supposed to be with the bride, not here figuring things out for
you
.” She looks down at her phone. “You have forty minutes.” Then she turns around and walks away.

For a moment I just watch her go. What does she think
I
can do with this thing? Surely she’d be better equipped to deal with this sort of emergency.

“Left you with cleanup, right?” Taylor asks.

I hadn’t even heard him walk up.

“Yes, but I don’t know what she thinks I can do.” I look between him and the cake anxiously.

“You don’t get it yet, do you, Brinks?” He’s called me that little nickname ever since the Riverton party, and it doesn’t annoy me at all anymore. “Selah never gets her hands dirty with any of this. She doesn’t dream it up or design it. She doesn’t do setup or cleanup or anything else. And when something like this happens”—he points down at the cake—“she gives it to staff; then if it goes to hell, she always has someone to blame.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.” I look back at the door where she just walked out. “If she doesn’t do anything, how is this company so successful? How does she have these clients?”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t smart. She knows enough to hire good people. The rest was just family connections and a deep trust fund.”

But if she doesn’t know what to do in this sort of situation, how is she supposed to teach me? As if he’s read the question on my face, Taylor steps closer and puts a reassuring hand on my arm.

“Maybe you can call Jin. Maybe she’d have an idea.”

Miko left for San Francisco late last night after setup to make it home for her mom’s birthday. I don’t want to bug her, especially if I’m not even sure she can help. After all, it’s not like this sort of thing happens all the time. No. We’re tight on time, and I’ve got to figure this out myself.

Think, Landon, think!

“We just need some way to make it look
better
.” I stare at the cake intently, hoping the answer will magically appear.

“We could cover it with a sheet,” Taylor says sarcastically. “’Cause that’s about the only way it’s gonna look better.”

A disguise!

“That’s it!” I look around frantically.

Taylor looks with me, confused. “What’s
it
?”

But before I can even answer him I see what we need. It’s a crazy idea, but maybe people will think it’s avant-garde.

“Taylor, how much of that Swarovski do we have left?” I say, staring at the vignette in the entryway.

Taylor looks with me, and understanding darkens his face.

“We have plenty. But damn, Brinks, that’ll take forever.”

“We’ve got,” I look at my phone, “thirty-two minutes.”

Taylor runs out to grab what I need and is back in less than two minutes, God bless him. I grab for the first strand, but he stops my trembling hand before I reach it. When I look at him, his face is serious.

“Brinkley, promise me . . . If we make it out of this night alive, you’ll go out with me.” I can’t help but laugh at his acting skills and he winks at me, which calms me down enough that my hands stop shaking. I grab the first string and begin working frantically to wrap the long chain of crystals in neat rows on the cake. I’m careful to cover up every tiny inch of the icing that holds the gems in place like glue. SSE staff come up and murmur to each other behind me, but I don’t even acknowledge them. My stomach is churning, and the crystals keep sliding through my fingers because my hands are sweaty. I finish the cake just before the first guests walk through the door.

I quickly shove my supplies under the champagne-colored linen of the cake table where no one can see them, and step back to look at the Frankensteined wedding cake. The lighting team has washed the table in amber and used pin spots to make the entire cake shimmer. I hate to use Selah’s word, but I will: it looks stunning.

I’m sweaty and still fighting my nerves when I turn to go help with the ceremony seating.

I have no idea at the time, but the image of this cake will get a whole page in
People
’s coverage of the wedding. Because of the massive press exposure, bejeweled cakes will become one of the hottest wedding trends of the next season, and Selah of course will take all the credit.

The ceremony is almost full, which according to the rest of the team is sort of a miracle considering we’re only fifteen minutes late on our start time. I check in with the nondenominational minister, who has charged more than my rent to be here today, and then head back to Kira’s dressing area. I want to see if Selah needs anything else before we start, but when I walk in I sort of wish I’d stayed out front.

Selah and Meg are looking on nervously, and Kira is pacing the room mid-rant, looking like the most frantic but beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. She’s so pretty I’m momentarily stunned, but then I see how hard she’s fighting tears. I have to stop myself from rushing over and giving her a hug.

“I don’t, Meg. I really don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe it was just a silly thought. I fancy him and he fancies me, and so he thought to ask me to marry him, because you know, that’s what his people do. But I—that’s not what
my
people do!” Kira keens before turning to Meg, who automatically holds up the cigarette that’s lit in her hand, and Kira leans over, careful to keep her dress away from the ash, and takes a long drag off of it. “My people,” she says, whirling away and continuing to pace, “drink too much and fight constantly and tell their kids what cock-ups they are!
My people
are the bloody poster children for divorce! What do I know about marriage or being a wife? I’ve only seen the very worst examples!”