Liar's Guide to True Love (20 page)

Mia writes next:

Of course Mia is the one to articulate my fear. We can’t be headed into friends territory
this
soon, can we? I start to analyze our last few encounters. Granted, our phone conversations are not exactly hot and heavy, but how are we to get to know each other otherwise? Our dates have always had some romance to them—you do
not
kiss friends on the street—with tongue, pardon the bluntness. Of course, we keep getting interrupted, but that is just bad luck. That should hardly put an end to a budding romance that has
such
potential! And then there’s the part that I really worry about, how I keep turning him down when he asks me out on weekends. Sure I’ve got reasons to give him, but honestly, who else is
that
busy
every
weekend?

Mia texts again:

I reply:

I don’t hear back from Kate. She is probably sick of me and has disavowed this whole Nick thing. Or maybe
she
isn’t spending the evening alone with her phone.

When I get to Suzanne’s one-bedroom apartment in one of those new, glassy high rises, she greets me at her door in her pajamas. For as long as I have known her she has always worn red plaid pajama pants and a white Hanes tank top (wife-beater style). When one pair of pants wears out, as in it develops holes in the wrong places, she somehow finds another pair. “You’re just in time, Cass. I was about to make a cuppa.” I roll my eyes at her Briticism, but she mistakes my meaning and says, “I can’t drink when I’m on call.” I don’t bother to correct her as I splash a “spot of milk” into my cup of specially blended tea leaves from Harrod’s.

Suzanne gives me a long sigh after I tell her about dinner, including yet another wedding date invitation that I had to turn down. “Did you ever read that book
He’s Just Not That Into You?
” she says. I shake my head no; I haven’t even seen the movie. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this Match.com dating is that life is too short to spend time on guys who aren’t that interested. Especially when you could be spending time with someone who
is.
”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know who I’m talking about.” She refills her tea cup and mine too. “Kevin came to your July Fourth party for the first time in what, five years?”

“Nick and I really connected. Things have been going great with him. Until tonight, that is.” I grab a “biscuit” and start munching, even though I’ve just eaten and am not remotely hungry. “Besides, Kevin and I are…complicated. Simple and yet complicated. I don’t know how else to put it.”

“Nothing’s ever simple at our age.” Suzanne sighs.

“What do you mean?”

“Face it, we are at that age where most people have either recently gotten married or are about to. Look at all the weddings you do. Maybe in a few more years there will be more men our age who have gotten divorced already. The ones our age now are pretty much committed.”

“Have you been watching too much
Oprah
or something? Worse,
Dr. Phil?
”

“I’m serious, Cass. Don’t be too quick to pass on Kevin just because you have a ‘complicated’ history. There is no simple relationship these days. Everyone’s got baggage by now.”

“So then maybe I need to put more effort into this thing with Nick. Like you’re saying—maybe it’s not so simple that I can just let it happen.” I can tell that she is not so into my seeing both men at once, and it’s clear whose “side” she’s on. But that is just Suzanne. She would go through an old-fashioned Jane Austen-esque courtship where letters were passed and companions chaperoned if she could—including quickie engagements by the end of the “season.” You’d think that maybe one failed attempt at a young marriage would have soured her on such notions, but to the contrary, it made her yearn for what she envisions as simpler social times. “Maybe he isn’t sure that I’m interested since I keep turning him down, so that’s made him cool off. Or it could be that he thinks I’m trying to find someone to marry in a hurry after the apartment fiasco,” I add drily.

“When are you going to come clean about that anyway?”

I think about this and help myself to another biscuit. Even I know that I can’t keep up the charade forever. I mean, what would happen if we did get serious? I wouldn’t actually go as far as to find a new job, would I? “When it won’t matter anymore,” I answer. “When he’s too into me to care.”

Suzanne lets out a sigh. “This could get tricky.”

It hasn’t already?

By the time I leave Suzanne’s I am resolved to pour more effort into showing Nick that I am interested. Up until now I have waited for him to ask me out, to initiate coffee, which he has—but then I’ve also had to turn him down. I decide that he must be cooling off because of these mixed signals I’m giving. I mean, really, what normal advertising account executive has to work
every
weekend in the summer, and can’t think of any details about the actual work that she’s doing?

Wedding Tip: Sometimes posed candids are better than real ones.

A photographer once told me that brides who don’t know any better always ask for a “photojournalistic” style for their wedding, since that seems to be The Thing for the past decade or so. But really, he said, a bride who gets true photojournalism is never happy with the pictures, because true photojournalism does not make flattering portraiture. So he makes subtle, but significant adjustments during the wedding shots, asking for a pose or smile to be held a second longer than it naturally would be, looking away for that split moment when the bride is jutting her jaw in exasperation over a soon-to-be-mother-in-law, fluffing a veil to catch a breeze. While this may not be absolute truth in capturing an event, the end result is always better for it.

I get up early on Monday morning, answering emails that came in the night before, and leaving voicemails with vendors, all before 9 a.m. I’ve dressed with care today, a smidgen more eye makeup—I used a lash curler
and
mascara—and have blown out my hair. I am wearing a smart-looking pencil skirt, a lavender blouse and a long strand of pearls along with a few chunky silver chains. At 9:15 I grab a cab to midtown and text Nick on the way:

He texts right back:

That gives me five minutes, so I duck into Mia’s (“my”) lobby and pretend that I’m waiting for someone so that the security guard doesn’t think I’m some floundering, lost idiot. When I see Nick crossing the street, I check my BlackBerry, as if the guard who is totally ignoring me would even care that I might suddenly have received a message with a change in plans. “Nick!” I call out as I step out of the revolving door. “Great timing.”

I lean in to give him a quick peck on the lips, and to my dismay he seems a bit startled by it. Has it been that long since we were in my apartment building lobby being interrupted by my sister’s surprise arrival? I place my hand in the crook of his arm as we walk toward Starbucks. This would be a natural way for him to take my hand instead. But no, we walk with my hand in his arm as if we are about to be introduced at a coming out ball instead. Finally I drop my hand to fish out my wallet while we stand in line. “I got this,” he says. “Chai again, or a latte this time?”

“Chai, please. Grande.” Two good signs here—that he remembers what I like to drink in the morning, and that he’s paying. No, I don’t mean that it’s good that I can save a few bucks. I mean it’s good that he considers us
together
. A small thing, but I’m looking for any positive signs of romantic life here.

There aren’t any empty tables left when we pick up our drinks from the barista, so we decide to stand by the bar, looking out on to the street. Another plus for this morning, since this position allows me to stand a little closer to him. I am starting to like that he doesn’t wear cologne—there’s something so honest about the just-showered, freshly laundered shirt scent of him. We people-watch a little bit, and I like that he can take a few minutes to watch the outside world, and isn’t completely involved with only himself. “You can tell it’s the beginning of the week just by how people carry themselves,” he says. “On Mondays everyone seems a little more tired, not as brisk of a pace as later in the week. Funny how you’d think we would all be rested from the weekend.” And then a moment later, “Oh, that poor guy is having a
bad
morning already,” he says of the grey pin-striped suit who just spilled his coffee down a subway grate by accident.

“Good thing there’s a Starbucks right here. It could have been worse, like on the next block.” He chuckles and I notice that crooked tooth again. Okay, it may not seem like the most scintillating conversation, but it’s a real one. One that makes me think once again that we are naturally clicking together. “So what did you do last night after dinner?” After you left me alone with a spanking clean apartment, I add silently.

“I was pretty wiped from traveling. I watched a little ESPN and then went to bed.” He sounds like he is telling the truth. Maybe no late night booty text after all. Another plus.

And then there is the downside. Nick starts asking me about work, starting with a seemingly harmless comment about how Mondays are always busy for him since they have early morning project meetings. “Oh yeah. I hate project meetings,” I say. “Everyone sitting around, trying to pay attention while they are trying to recover from the weekend.” I have no idea what I’m talking about really, but I must sound credible since Nick laughs in agreement. My BlackBerry starts to ring, and from the tone I can tell it is either a bride or a vendor. I always answer the phone when I can, but this time I decide they can wait a few more minutes, so I let the call go to voicemail. Unfortunately the phone rings again, right away.

“It’s okay if you need to get that,” Nick says, always the gentleman. “It’s technically business hours and all.” He smiles—what a nice guy.

“Sorry, I’ll just be a sec,” I say to him. I take a step away from him and turn away to answer. It’s Elton, calling about bouquets for Saturday. His words all come out in an agitated string.

“Cassandra, darling, thank God you’re there. The peonies arrived and they are
brown.
God-awful,
brown,
not the cream color that I specifically ordered to go with the green hydrangea. I used my usual supplier, and they’ve arrived
half dead.
I’ve already called them, and apparently there is just a
run
on peonies and they can’t get me any more by the
end of the month
much less by
Saturday.
”

“Elton, calm down. Can you call someone else? Someone must have peo—” I catch myself just in time. It may be crowded in here, but I’m fairly certain Nick could hear every word I was saying. As it is I’m hoping Elton’s voice isn’t coming through loud and clear for him to hear. “I’m sure someone else must have that item. Have you called around?”

“Do you
think
I am an
amateur,
darling? Of course I’ve called around already. I’m not about to call you with a false alarm, am I? I have been doing flowers for twenty years now, may I remind you. I have called
every
supplier I could think of.
No cream peonies.
” Elton is practically yelling now.

“Well, I’m sure we could get a substitution,” I say in my most professional voice. I take a quick peek at Nick and give him a tight smile. Nick smiles back and points his thumb outside.

I ask Elton to hold a second, and I say to Nick, “Do you really have to go?”

“Sounds like you’re in the middle of something here—some sort of flower catastrophe? I’d better let you get back to it.”

Is he making fun of me? I didn’t catch sarcasm or an eye roll. “I—it’s for a—photo shoot.” This photo shoot thing sure comes in handy. “I’m so sorry. Can we have lunch or something?” I hear Elton grumbling on my phone, and realize I forgot to press the mute button. He’s saying something sarcastic about having peonies for lunch.

“I can’t do lunch today. Maybe some other time. It’s really okay.” Nick leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, but I turn my head to peck him on the lips. My boldness pays off. He smiles wider and kisses me again, for a second longer this time. “I’ll call you later,” he whispers. I watch him stroll out the door, before I get back to Elton.

“So what other flower looks like peonies?” I say to him.

Elton sighs in exasperation. “Peonies are
unique
my dear. The shape of the petals, the fragrance—” He pauses, knowing that I am waiting for his expert opinion on how to deal with this. “You could suggest to the bride that she use orchids. I just got a big shipment of cymbidiums and could make a
divine
bouquet from orchids and hydrangea. She is using orchids in the table settings, so everything would still be coordinated.”

“That’s the answer I’m looking for, Elton, thank you. I’ll call the bride right now.”

I decide that I may as well set up right here at Starbucks, since the crowd has thinned and I can grab a table. I don’t want this bride or any other to think I’m slacking on a Monday morning. This Saturday’s bride seems appreciative that I called her about the peonies as soon as I found out myself, which seems to make her more amenable to a late date flower substitution. There are some brides who suddenly experience an odd sense of calmness come over them during the final days’ countdown—I love when that happens. I promise to email over a photo of what the new bouquets will look like by the end of the day.

When I check my email, I see that Kate has finally responded to last night’s inquiry about Nick.

She writes:

Damn. I write back:

She writes almost immediately:

A lot of help she is! I scroll through my email to find ones from clients—actual business purpose emails. Seattle Bride wrote late last night (well, late Eastern time anyway), apparently in a frenzy, having second thoughts about her dress.

“Please, please call me as soon as you get this. I’m usually up by 5 a.m. anyway,” she writes at the bottom. I know a late-night panic attack over a one-time-use dress costing thousands when I see one, so I call her back immediately and pull out my notes on her wedding while the phone rings. It’s already close to 7 a.m. there, and when she answers I can tell that she has clearly been up for a while. She is having second thoughts, that maybe she wants a princess-style ball gown because after all, she is only a bride once, and shouldn’t her dress be something special? I have been through this type of second-guessing before, and try not to sound too mechanical as I doodle dresses and flowers in my notes about her wedding. I gently remind her how happy she was when she tried on sheaths, how certain she was when she put on The Dress. And by the way, did she happen to talk to her mother about this over the weekend? She admits that in her weekly call with her mother (I guess
some
people only speak with their moms on a weekly basis), her mother mentioned how the dress she ordered just “wasn’t what she would have pictured her daughter in on the most special day of her life.” I think to myself that this is the type of comment that is best said
in the store,
not weeks after the order has been placed.

Seattle Bride becomes a little calmer, but could I please call the store and see if it’s too late? She may still end up with the same dress, but wants a little more time before she commits. I remind her (again, as gently as I can on this early Monday morning) that she risks losing the 50% deposit, and let’s face it, $2,000 is a lot of money to anyone. But I will call them this morning, I promise her, and see if there is something the store can do. Of course, I also remind Seattle Bride that she’ll need to go dress shopping again soon.

I am not optimistic when I call Saks. Surely she is not the first bride to get cold feet about a major purchase and that is why they take a deposit, isn’t it? Luckily at least, I speak with a saleswoman whom I’ve worked with before and she doesn’t just give me the haughty “read the fine print” answer. She tells me that the dress has been ordered. But Saks has a good relationship with this design house, so she can try to hold it. If Seattle Bride chooses a different dress by the same designer, they may let her apply her deposit to that dress instead, maybe just for a nominal fee.

I write all of this down in my wedding notes—I learned early on that it pays to be organized when planning more than one wedding at a time. It is one of my great fears that I will call someone’s mother by the wrong name, or worse, send a vendor to the wrong venue. It also doesn’t hurt to remember what’s already been discussed when I’m finalizing details—I’m not the only one in this business balancing multiple brides, some of whom display multiple personalities. While I wait for the Saks saleswoman to call me back to confirm that they can hold the order at the designer, I reply to a few more emails, make a couple of phone calls and am quite pleased with how productive I have been, working out of my Prada at Starbucks. I do take a break to people-watch for a few minutes, and think to myself that there is something about the hustling professional midtown scene that gets me energized a little more than the relaxed Gramercy atmosphere of my own neighborhood.

By the time I am able to call Seattle Bride with the news that she’d better go out and try on some more Amsale gowns (thank goodness they are nationally distributed), it is close to 11 a.m. I am just wrapping up the call with her when I see Nick walking by. Unfortunately he sees me too and gives me a quizzical look. I turn around to see him walking in toward me, and I hurry a very appreciative Seattle Bride off the phone.

“Not working today?” Nick says.

“I am. You need another Venti already?”

“No, I’m on my way to a job site, but I saw you in the window. Have you been here all this time?”

I look a little sheepish, I know. Do ad execs really work in the office
all the time?
“I just needed a little cubicle break, you know? I’ve been working.”

“I see that.” Nick nods at my open notebook, full of wedding dress and flower doodles. Oh jeez. “I thought you said you have an office.”

“Oh did I?” Did I?!?! “I meant I share an office. Sometimes it gets loud in there.”