The Wedding Sisters (16 page)

In the morning, she would jot down notes from her dreams, a wedding coming together piece by piece from the place of her deepest fantasies.

So far, she hadn't shared any of her wedding brainstorming with her mother, who had been disappointingly absent since the Friday night dinner. She had barely called Amy even though there were obviously a million things to talk about. Amy tried to fight the knowing feeling that her mother was simply too caught up in Meg's wedding planning to start getting Amy's off the ground. Typical.

Amy shrugged off the vestiges of her fantasy wedding slumber and the rising panic that—as always—she was being eclipsed by the bright and shining star that was Meg. For years, with Andy by her side, it had seemed like she was finally catching up. Meg might have been born with innate style and Grace Kelly good looks, but Amy had the fashion bona fides. By senior year in college, her social calendar included New York Fashion Week, the European shows in February, Art Basel parties in Miami, the CFDA awards. Meg seemed uninterested in it all, but their mother loved hearing all the details—who wore what, the kind of food that was served. For the first time, Amy had felt like the special one.

And then came Meg's new boyfriend, Stowe—and his family, the Campions. Fashion was exciting, fashion was important. But it wasn't political power.

Amy showered and got dressed. Andy was already gone, an early meeting. The apartment was filled with flowers, well wishes and congratulations from friends—Jeffrey Bruce's friends. Marc Jacobs alone sent an arrangement that was lavish enough to be a centerpiece at their wedding.

Over coffee, she opened her laptop. Andy's mother, Eileen, had given her a list of potential wedding planners. “To use or not to use, whatever you want,” she had said, and Amy knew she meant it. Eileen had also made it clear that they were happy to pay for whatever “you kids” need, but that she didn't want to “overstep.” From what Amy had seen from the preliminary planning of her sister's wedding, her parents did not want anyone else paying for the wedding—any part of their wedding. Her father was very old-fashioned, and her mother was prideful and, let's face it, a bit of a control freak.

Amy had spent fifteen minutes clicking through the Web sites of various wedding planners, when she realized she was in danger of being late. There was no margin for error today—she wasn't going to the office, but instead to Milk Studios on West Fifteenth Street for the menswear shoot.

The studio was hip and glamorous, a glass-enclosed space with panoramic views of the Hudson. But for the past week, she was a little less than focused, just a little less awed by her entrée to the workaday world of Jeffrey Bruce International. Now she wasn't just dating a Bruce. She wasn't just working at Bruce. She was on the cusp of becoming a Bruce.

Amy Becker Bruce. She mentally played with the name constantly, chewing it like the most delicious salted caramel. In meetings, she was tempted to doodle it onto her legal pad, but she didn't dare, in case Stella caught sight of it and became even more wary of her.

Stella had made it clear that she did not need Amy at today's shoot. Amy had been prepared not to go. And then the Page Six story broke.

Amy didn't know who fed the news of her engagement to the city's notorious gossip site, but she suspected it was someone from inside the Bruce camp. Jeffrey certainly seemed happy about it, somehow missing the completely pejorative slant of the piece. (Her sister clearly hadn't.) Amy had long had the feeling that Jeffrey Bruce was probably even better at branding than he was at design; every aspect of their lives reflected the Bruce aesthetic: fresh, clean, sporty, all-American bordering on preppy.

Andy confided in her that his father worried about relevancy. The advent of social media baffled him. The fact that a thirteen-year-old blogger sitting in the middle of nowhere could somehow matter sent him into a tizzy. Now everyone chased that ephemeral thing that would make them “viral.”

Jeffrey loved that Amy and her sister had landed on Page Six. He loved that the photo of Meg included Stowe Campion. Blue-blooded Stowe, who embodied the Jeffrey Bruce lifestyle and aesthetic.

Jeffrey had called Amy into his office that morning, along with Paul Derribond, head of the in-house public relations team, and a petite, blond Southern woman named Camille, who handled the outside PR when Jeffrey Bruce needed reinforcements, like during Fashion Week or for crisis management. Together, they dissected the Page Six piece with an intensity Amy had not seen since her sophomore-year study group had prepped for a midterm exam on Milton's
Paradise Lost.
Jeffrey declared that Amy was now a “brand ambassador.” Camille and Paul had clucked approvingly, and the meeting had a high-energy, positive vibe that was both thrilling and baffling.

The next thing she knew, Stella informed her, with obvious bitterness, that she would be going to the menswear shoot after all.

Amy dressed in jeans and a gray cashmere Bruce sweater with high black suede Bruce boots. The boots were impractically high-heeled, but she was running so late, she was taking a cab to the shoot anyway.

The studio buzzed with the self-important energy inherent in fashion, along with Arctic Monkeys playing at an obscenely high decibel, considering it was barely nine in the morning. The stylist, a teeny-tiny waif of a woman who channeled 1960s London, was busy with one of the male models while the other two stood nearby.

Amy grabbed a soy latte from the coffee bar and took a seat next to Stella, who barely glanced at her.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Amy asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Stella said, scrolling through the look book on her tablet. Her one terse syllable said everything.
No, there is nothing for you to do because your presence here is completely unnecessary, which is why I told you not to come in the first place.

Amy pretended to be very busy with her e-mails. When she exhausted that, she looked at the models, three perfect specimens of male beauty. One, African American with bright blue eyes. Another, with tousled sandy brown hair and pouty lips, looked like a male Angelina Jolie. The third had longish dark hair that obscured his face. He was bending down, fixing his twelve-hundred-dollar chocolate brown suede Jeffrey Bruce work boots. When he stood, shaking his hair back, tucking a lock behind his ear, he looked straight at Amy.

And she lost her breath.

He was the most magnificent person she had ever seen, in person, in print, on the screen—in her wildest imagination.

He didn't have that one startling declaration of beauty as the other two did—dramatic ice-blue eyes or lips with an almost cartoonish sensuality. And yet he stood out more than either of them because the perfect composition of his face was once in a lifetime. It was a work of art, nature at its most sublime. Maybe proof of the god she barely thought about.

She could only imagine what his girlfriend looked like. What kind of woman had the self-confidence to be with a guy who was prettier than she was? Andy was definitely cute, but there was never a question that she was the better looking of the two. She remembered reading somewhere that people tended to couple off with partners of the same relative degree of attractiveness. She didn't remember where she'd read it, but now, thinking about the couples she knew, the theory behind the article seemed to prove true.

Meanwhile the stylist, Brandi, and the photographer, Rupert, were carrying on about the clothes.

“This jacket is just … no,” said Brandi, yanking the blazer off the broad shoulders of Mr. Perfection. “Rupert, give me a minute to pull another option. Unless,” she said, looking dutifully at Stella, almost as an afterthought. “You're totally married to this one.”

“Let me see what else you have,” Stella said, hopping down from the metal stool, handing Amy her thin laptop to hold and muttering, “Make yourself useful.”

The photographer busied himself with the other two models whose clothes didn't offend Brandi.

“We're changing you, Marcus,” she called from somewhere behind a screen or a wall or something else making her invisible. “Lose that shirt.”

Mr. Perfection—apparently named Marcus—began unbuttoning the lavender and gray plaid shirt he wore. Amy averted her eyes, as unnerved as a virginal heroine in one of those turn-of-the-century novels her father loved so much.

Someone's assistant handed Marcus a glass of champagne. Amy found herself yearning for a drink herself, but couldn't. Not on the job. Even if her job today entailed very loud rock music and ridiculously beautiful men. Even if the job was currently making her feel more extraneous and cloddishly unattractive than she'd ever felt in her entire life.

And then, Mr. Perfection ambled over to Amy's spot on the sidelines.

“Guess the jacket's not working,” he said with a sheepish grin.

She realized that she was supposed to say something professional. As a rep from Jeffrey Bruce, she was supposed to assure him that they had plenty of other wardrobe items for him to wear, that they would get what they needed for the ad—not to worry.

“Guess not,” she said.

“At least, I hope it's just the jacket they have a problem with.”

Did this astonishingly gorgeous creature really think something—anything—could be wrong with him?

“I don't think you have to worry,” she said, smiling up at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” She tried hard not to look at his chest.

“You work for them?” he asked.

Her smile grew wider. He had no idea who she was. This guy just saw her as a staffer, maybe even an intern. He had no idea she was practically a Bruce herself.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Cool.” He smiled at her again, and her knees turned to Jell-O.

“Okay,” said Brandi, appearing with a T-shirt and leather jacket. “Crisis averted.”

“Wish me luck,” he said, winking at Amy.

She watched him saunter back to the other two, under the bright lights, ready for the shoot. She found she was holding her breath. Amy looked down at her engagement ring.

Pull it together, you idiot.

*   *   *

“Did I Google you?” Scott repeated. “Yes—guilty as charged. I did Google you. But that's not how I know about your daughters.”

Crap. Had she said that out loud? “So you're a
New York Post
reader.”

“In a town full of celebrities, they are writing about your kids.” He smiled.

“Yeah. Well, it's been a slow news month.”

“It's interesting stuff, Meryl.”

“That's one way of putting it. Crazy is another. Stressful, yet another.”

“Who is handling everything?”

“The wedding? I'm trying to. There's a wedding planner but—”

“No, I mean your PR.”

“Oh. I am.”

“You don't want a professional? I'd be happy to put you in touch with a few people.”

“I have all the publicity I need. More than I need, actually. My daughters—well, my eldest daughter—is very sensitive about this stuff.”

He smiled. “She'd better get used to it. Fast.”

They sipped their coffee.

“People love crazy, impossibly true stories. Reality shows are the new soaps.”

“That's very true,” she said. “The whole ‘truth is stranger than fiction' thing.”

“Exactly. But it's not always about it being strange or circuslike. I think there's a trend toward wanting to see real people with a hint of fantasy. And viewers want positivity. Take the Kardashians. Yes, there's a lot of drama and extreme wealth and jet-setting and celebrity. But what's the take away from every episode? At the end of the day, they're still a family. No matter what.”

Meryl nodded thoughtfully.

“That's why I think your daughters would make a great show.”

“Wait—what?”

“Think about it: three sisters, two getting married and embarking on that new phase of life at the same time. Both marrying interesting—and wealthy—men. Both building their own careers. I mean, it's all there, Meryl. It's gold.”

Was he serious? She hoped not.

“I don't think so.” She laughed nervously.

“Meryl, I wouldn't bring it up if I didn't think it was a real possibility.”

“Scott, I'm sure in your business this is a normal thing to think about and talk about. And maybe most people would find this idea … flattering. But trust me—my daughters would never go for it. I told you, my oldest got very upset just about that Page Six piece.”

“That's because it's someone else taking control of the narrative. This is about you—all of you—owning this story. And making a fortune off it.”

Meryl swallowed hard. How much money, exactly, did he mean by “fortune”? But no, she wouldn't ask. Wouldn't even give him an opening.

And then she realized, this coffee wasn't about connecting with an old friend, nostalgic remembrances of a seaside kiss in another lifetime. This guy was all business.

“Scott, I hope this isn't the reason you wanted to get together, because I'm afraid you've wasted your time.”

“No! Absolutely not. I just … It's the way my mind works. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize—it's an interesting thought. It's just not for us.”

“I get it. Most people don't want to be Kris Jenner. It's just, where some people see an egomaniac, I see a woman who built an empire.”

A woman who built an empire. Meryl imagined not just managing the wedding, but building a brand as well. Money would never be a problem again. She wouldn't have to look for a job—she'd create one for herself.
The Wedding Sisters
TV show, books … a line of wedding-day cosmetics.

Maybe it was time she became a little more business minded. Maybe then she wouldn't be in the position she was in.