A Rather Charming Invitation (21 page)

“We’re not doing those,” I said. “Jeremy doesn’t like the idea of picking a ‘best’ man.”

I didn’t add that his best friend was a fellow named Bertie, who’d just recently married Jeremy’s ex-wife. We had politely declined to attend their wedding, and we’d sent a nice gift of a cocktail set, replete with tray, silver-rimmed crystal cocktail glasses, stirrers and shakers, and other fun stuff to play with. Bertie loved it, as Jeremy knew he would, but Lydia was furious that we didn’t attend; and, although Bertie said he understood perfectly, he’d sounded wistful. Still, I knew if we went to their wedding, we’d have to invite them to ours, and I emphatically was not going to have that bird of an ex-wife at my wedding. Jeremy agreed, thank heavens.

“I suppose that makes it all simpler,” my mother said, perplexed, “but what about the guest list? My advice is, just invite everyone on everybody’s list, and be done with it. People harbor grudges for
years
, darling, just years, so why not have a mob and hire a hall?”

“
That’s
really romantic, I must say,” I responded, feeling wounded.

“Penny is right,” my father said unexpectedly. “It is not at all suitable for a thoughtful girl like her to have such a circus for a wedding, and besides, that is no way to spend her money.”

“Well, I don’t see
you
coming up with a suggestion,” my mother said in a testy voice I’ve seldom ever heard her use with him.

“Hey, guys,” I said quickly. “Don’t sweat it. I’m going to finalize everything this week. I’ll call you back.” I hung up, then went to report to Jeremy.

“
Your
parents were quarreling?” he asked, astonished.

I nodded, miserable at having been the cause. “And the worst part is, we left it all unresolved,” I said. “They were so cranky, and Mom wasn’t any help at paring down the list.”

“My mum says it’s your day and you should do what you want,” Jeremy offered. “But the newspapers think you’re a runaway bride.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. He flung it down at me, with the
Life-styles
section folded open. I glanced at the headline:
American Heiress Gets Cold Feet?
I groaned.

“They think you’ve lost the ‘urge to merge’,” Jeremy said with a straight face.

“Oh, God,” I said. “They didn’t actually
say
that, did they?”

“’Fraid so,” he replied.

“Erik and Tim are meeting me for lunch today to hash out some of the wedding plans,” I assured him. “I did some film research for them last month, and in return, they’re pitching in.”

“Good,” said Jeremy shortly. He looked at me sympathetically but pleadingly. “The sooner we lock everything down for the wedding, the sooner our relatives will stop badgering us,” he said. “I’ve got lunch with Rupert, to go over some accounts I’m still consulting for. After lunch, I’ll be available to do whatever you need me to do.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

I
was determined not to lose the little glow of success I’d felt in Paris. So I lugged my wedding notes with me when I met up with Erik and Tim. They had managed to get a table at a chic new hot-spot for actors and theatre folk in Soho. It was one of those friendly places where the menu is written on a blackboard, and the waiters are all young actors who have definite opinions about the food, so if you ask them about the special of the day they’ll either warn you off it, or else say, “Yep, it’s great, I tasted that one. Get it while it lasts!”

I immediately spotted my friends in the crowd—Tim is dark-haired, trim and wiry, and Erik is like a big wolfhound, very tall with white-blond hair. His beard was more silvery now, and more neatly trimmed, I noted. They have been working together for ages, specializing in creating film sets for historical costume dramas.

“Penny Nichols!” Erik cried as I approached them. “God, we’re famished. How about Dover sole for everybody? It’s the special today.”

“Yes!” I agreed breathlessly, slipping into my seat. I told them we should discuss the film research project first, before we got bogged down with the wedding plans. They were working on a new version of
The Man in the Iron Mask.

“Bruce hopes you’ve got a fresh take on it,” Erik said. “His wife’s writing the script and she said, ‘Ask Penny, she’ll find something. ’ They don’t want to just adapt the Dumas novel, saying the prisoner in the iron mask was the king’s twin brother. Have you ever seen how
long
those books are? Anyway, Bruce doesn’t want to direct another good-king bad-king story. He’s done it six times in the soaps.”

I said, “Sure, there are plenty of theories about who the guy in the mask was. And, actually, some people think the mask was leather, not iron.”

“Oh, dear,” Erik said. “‘The Man in the
Leather
Mask’? Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”

“Well, anyway,” I said, “other theories abound. My favorite is that the prisoner was really a gossipy relative of the king’s physician. Apparently, this fellow was spreading the rumor that King Louis XIV was not really the son of the previous king, Louis XIII. But this could all be just baseless gossip.”

“Honey,” said Tim, “what do you think we’re in business
for
? Baseless gossip is our bread and butter!”

“We’re going to recreate Versailles—from scratch!” Erik proclaimed.

“Boy, you’re brave,” I said. “Versailles was a job that took several kings to create—and it killed off a few architects, too. I’d hate to see you guys bite the dust re-inventing it.” I handed them my notes, and Erik glanced through the pages with delighted clucks. They were also going to check out the little island off Cannes where the infamous fortress stood that had imprisoned the man in the mask.

“Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks,” Tim said briskly after we’d eaten. “The wedding. Bruce says he wants to do a three-camera shoot, and he
promises
you’ll never notice the cameramen. Says it will all be in good taste.”

“Good, that’s the least of my worries,” I said.

“Tell Papa all your problems and we’ll deal with everything, from soup to nuts,” Erik said. I opened my planner, with my lists and Post-its stuck in the pages. Erik and Tim are so refreshingly blunt and honest that I actually began to make progress. I showed them a few pictures of the tapestry, and Erik said he’d try to match some of its colors, and would get sample swatches for the table decor.

“But
where
are you getting married? I’ve got to see the room if you want this set dressed in time!” Erik scolded, not unkindly but exasperated. “This is
so
not like you. Why don’t you just make up your
mind
?”

I tried to explain my dilemma of having to choose between what Leonora and what Margery wanted. “Like Romeo and Juliet trying to choose between the Capulets and the Montagues,” Tim said.

Knowing that I had Honorine working with me, Erik suggested, “Let the French girl find a place for the reception, and
she
can explain it to the dowagers. Just delegate, delegate, delegate.”

“No, she can’t let the kid pick the venue,” Tim argued. “Personally, I think this is all very psychological. And since there’s no time to send Penny off to a shrink, let’s cut to the chase. Penny, dear, are you afraid of marriage itself, or simply of having Jeremy for a husband?”

I was shocked, and there was a sudden silence, during which time Erik had to shoo away the waiter, who apparently wished that, while I was searching my soul for hidden conflicts, I’d drink my coffee and finish my dessert, so he could drop the check.

“If I have to pick one of those two things, I’d say it’s not Jeremy. It would have to be marriage itself, I think,” I said finally.

“Oh dear,” said Tim worriedly, “I think that’s the bad answer, according to this magazine quiz I read on the plane.”

“No, it isn’t,” Erik said in annoyance, “that’s the
good
answer, it means she loves him, but fears commitment. I read that quiz, too.”

“You must have read a different quiz,” Tim said in a tight voice.

“Yikes!” I said in distress. “Now you guys are quarreling, too. See what I mean?”

“On top of all that, our waiter now
hates
us,” Erik commented. “Not to worry, we’ll take care of that with a good tip. But honestly, Penny, you have simply got to get in there and hack that guest list to pieces, and tell us all where you want us to show up. Nobody else can do this for you. You, and you alone, must deal with it. Or else, my dear, this marriage is just not going to
happen
.”

W
ith Erik’s warning words ringing in my ears, I went back home, where Jeremy was waiting for me, having decided that we would sit down together and resolve the entire wedding. But as soon as we entered my office, the phone rang. Hoping it might be Erik with a helpful idea, I picked it up.

“Hello, it is me, Auguste,” said a familiar, feminine French voice. I mouthed to Jeremy,
It’s David’s wife
. “I just wanted to ask you to please tell your musical band to play
le fox-trot
at the reception. David and I always dance to it. Okay?” she said, her voice cheerfully shrill. “And we need to know if you are wanting to have the wedding at the château, because of course we must prepare. You must let us know which room you would like us to hang the tapestry in, and there is the priest to consider. Okay?” she trilled, and then rang off.

“Good God, the musical director has just weighed in,” I told Jeremy after I hung up. “I haven’t even hired a band, because no matter what they call themselves, they all sound like hotel lounge singers to me. ‘Tie-ya yel-low rib-bon round the o-old oak treee-e . . .’”

Jeremy would normally have grinned at this, but he didn’t now. “I’ll ask Mum. She knows a guy at the BBC who can get us audition tapes of musical groups,” he said briskly, in that mode of wanting to get everything done as quickly as possible, with little discussion. “What else do we need to do?”

Thinking about Erik’s offer to help coordinate the table decor to the tapestry colors, I glanced up at my photos of the tapestry on the bulletin board. “Hey,” I said, suddenly noticing something. I’d recently pinned up the new photos alongside the old, but it seemed to me now that some of the old ones were missing. “That’s funny. Some of the earlier pictures I took must have fallen off. Like the ones that had Leonora and Philippe posing right next to it.”

Jeremy said impatiently, “For God’s sake, forget the bloody tapestry! What’s next on the list?”

“The ceremony,” I said shortly. “We have to decide who to offend—Leonora or Margery. And the guest list. I want to cut it back. They’re not going to like that, either.”

“Look, just make a decision, stick with it, and tell everyone who’s annoying you to bugger off,” Jeremy declared. “Stand up to people. If you use the proper tone, then they’ll sense you’re in charge.”

I was already frazzled after seeing Erik and Tim, with that stupid pop quiz. Now, something in me snapped, so what did I do? I wisely escalated it into a full-scale spat.

“Oh, really?” I said testily. “Well, since you’re such an expert on getting things done, then what, may I ask, is your role in all this? I mean, it’s your wedding, too, and there’s a little more to it than just ticking off the boxes on a list. Every now and then
you
look up and realize there’s work to be done, so you tell
me
to get on it; and then you expect me to have it all resolved by the next time you ask. You act as if you couldn’t care less either way it goes, as if deep down it has nothing to do with you!” I flung out.

He looked utterly stunned, as if I’d just thrown cold water on his face. But he recovered enough to be pissed off, and said in a tense voice, “Fine. Then let me take control of the whole thing.”

I was at least observant enough to ask, “Why are you suddenly so concerned today? Did somebody else ask you about the wedding?”

Looking slightly caught out, he said defensively, “As a matter of fact, Margery called, that’s all. ‘What ails this girl Penny?’ she said. ‘Why isn’t she planning her wedding?’” Jeremy admitted. Ordinarily he might not have told me Margery’s exact words, but he was annoyed now.

“Meaning what? That perhaps I’m just not suitable to marry into her esteemed family, right?” I said challengingly, totally unprepared for him to say nothing, with a guilty expression on his face that proved my guess correct. I said, “Well, that’s just dandy! Did you tell your mother that she can’t bring Guy to our wedding, because he’s not ‘suitable’ either? You want me to stand up to people, all right, let’s tell Margery that we want Guy to come to the wedding!”

“Why are you picking a fight with Margery over him? Mum doesn’t care whether you invite him or not,” Jeremy retorted. “So why are you insisting that he come? Just to spite Grandmother?”

And, to my utter horror, he grimaced with displeasure in the exact same way that I’d seen Margery do it—with the corners of her mouth pulled down like a disagreeable fish.
Oh, God
, I thought.
He got his annoying snob gene from her
.
If we decide to have kids, will they turn out to be snobby little guppies?

“Surely you don’t really believe that your mum doesn’t care if she can’t bring Guy!” I exclaimed. “Can’t you see that she’s just trying to make it easier for us? Which is more than I can say for Margery. I’d rather tell Margery that she and all her snooty friends didn’t make the cut.”

“Fine!” Jeremy said, raising his voice. “Go ahead, tell Margery that. Just
do
it! Or else let me handle it, I will be more than happy to. And while you’re at it, tell your French relatives you hate the damned tapestry. Just please let’s just DO
something
!”

Now, I don’t know any woman—married or single—who wouldn’t get her dander up when a man resorts to that particular
tone
, indicating that he can’t understand why you are behaving like a woman, instead of like a guy. That incredulous tone—like he can’t believe how addled you are—which borders on jeering. I was hearing just that dulcet tone right now, and I did not care for it. No Sir-ee.