Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? (14 page)

“But you
will
have to eventually because—”
Your name is really Phyllis Wilschitz
.

“Because why? Because Philippa Wills isn’t really my name?” she asked. “It is. It’s as much my name as if my parents had named me that twenty-five years ago. I’m Philippa Wills.”

But—

But what? Was she wrong?

I tried to imagine telling Noah that my name wasn’t really Eloise Manfred.

Me: “Noah, before we get married, there’s something I have to tell you. My name isn’t really Eloise Manfred. It’s Elowishious Manfrednoodle.”

Noah: “What? You lying liar! You’re not who said you were. It’s over. We’re breaking up. The wedding is off!” Yanks ring off finger and stomps away.

If I told Noah that my real name were Elowishious
Manfrednoodle, I had no doubt he’d really say, “Thank God you changed it. I wouldn’t have gone on a first date with you if your name were Elowishious Manfrednoodle.”

Then again, Elowishious Manfrednoodle wasn’t a name anyone would have.

I tried to imagine Philippa telling Parker Gersh that her real name was Phyllis Wilschitz.

Parker: “Phyllis Wilschitz? How are we supposed to get our wedding announcement in the
New York Times
with a name like Phyllis Wilschitz? I can see the headline now: Instead of Philippa Will Marry, it’ll say Phyllis Will Shit.”

Or: “Phyllis Wilschitz? We
are
a match made in heaven! My real name is Phallus Gershhead.”

I didn’t know Parker Gersh well; I didn’t know him at all, actually. I’d met him only once, on his and Philippa’s first date. Noah and I had arranged it as a double date after work. Philippa had rushed into the
Wow
rest room at exactly 5:00 p.m. with her cosmetics kit, curling iron, straightening iron, hair spray, perfume and three different outfits, including the one she was wearing.

Two seconds after we arrived at the restaurant, a busboy spilled my glass of red wine all over Philippa’s dress. Parker snapped unnecessarily at the busboy, but he was beyond gracious to Philippa, running to the bar to ask for a little seltzer and napkins, assuring her she still looked remarkably beautiful and would were she wearing a burlap sack. Philippa had beamed and let down her guard and that, as they say, was that.

He’d adored her from minute one and had treated her like a princess since. Philippa was right. Why would he care that her last name didn’t match his? What did it matter what your name was? Didn’t we all learn in eleventh-
grade English class that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet?

Then again, Emmett had learned the opposite. He’d changed his name for two weeks when he was in high school.

“Why should I have the last name of someone I haven’t seen since I was two?” he’d said in angry defense of his newly chosen last name, Smith, after his then hero, Robert Smith of the alternative-rock band The Cure. Unfortunately,
Emmett
wasn’t an uncommon name in New York City; there were four Emmetts in his English class alone and two in his history class, and he didn’t get credit for homework he’d turned in or reports or tests, and my grandmother had to come in for a meeting with his guidance counselor and the principal. Emmett had to make up the homework and reports and tests he’d turned in as Emmett Smith, despite the fact that his teachers still had the original work. Apparently, if the work didn’t have Emmett’s real name on it, he couldn’t get credit.

It seemed so silly then, and even sillier now. Emmett Smith’s book report wasn’t (according to the school),
really
written by Emmett Manfred because it had another student’s name on it (despite the fact that there was no Emmett Smith enrolled), even if it really was. So if Phyllis Wilschitz’s name was on the marriage license, would Philippa Wills really be married?

What
did
it matter what your name was? My mother’s last name had never been Manfred—she and my father had never married. Did the fact that she had a different last name than me and Emmett make her any less my mother? Did the fact that I had the same name as a man I hadn’t seen since I was five make him any more my father?

I’d always planned on taking my husband’s name—the
perfect opportunity to ditch the Manfred that I never felt connected to in the first place. But Emmett was a Manfred. His child would be a Manfred, even if he or she were named Gould. Unless, of course, he or she changed it to something else in eleventh grade.

Eloise Benjamin.

That was the first time I put the two names together. Who the hell was Eloise Benjamin?

A
fter she’d assured me she was all right, that she just needed to think and sip her peppermint mocha, I finally left Philippa at Starbucks and headed for the subway. I was meeting Noah and the
Wow
staff at Round Rings for the wedding-rings “selection.” As the train zoomed and shook and rumbled its way downtown, I took out the red leather journal book Jane had given me as a New Year’s gift and wrote
Eloise Benjamin.

Didn’t feel right. No, that wasn’t it. The name didn’t feel
familiar.
Didn’t look familiar.

I tried script. Print. Calligraphy. (I took a course two years ago during my hiatus from dating.)

Eloise Benjamin. Eloise Benjamin. Eloise Benjamin.

I rummaged through my bag for a Tums. I popped two in my mouth and wrote
Eloise Manfred.

Yes, that was right.

Okay, fine, I was Eloise Manfred, but I was marrying
Noah Benjamin, so even, say, spiritually, when we became one, I would become Eloise Benjamin.

I wrote
Eloise Benjamin.
And needed another Tums.

I put away the journal book and stared up at the advertisements lining the top rim of the subway car.

“That means you don’t want to get married.”

I glanced up to find a middle-aged woman sitting next to me pointing at my ring. “When you tug at it like that,” she added, “it’s supposed to mean you don’t want to get married.”

Mind your own stupid business,
I wanted to yell, but luckily, the doors opened and I fled onto the Spring Street platform.

Why, after last night, wonderful, delicious, orgasmic last night, was I back to twisting my ring? Just because I wasn’t yet used to Eloise Benjamin?

Eloise Benjamin. Eloise Benjamin. Eloise Benjamin.

What was the big deal? It was my first name and my fiancé’s last name. Put ’em together you got Eloise Benjamin.

I popped another Tums.

What was my problem? It couldn’t be the name, since I didn’t
have
to change my name—even though I wanted to. It couldn’t be the guy, since I
wanted
to marry him—or I had until he proposed, anyway.

Unless it was the guy.

Was
it Noah?

The man in question arrived at Round Rings at exactly the same time as I did. I, from the north, and he from the south.

“Jinx,” he said, kissing me.

That had to mean something, arriving at the ring shop at exactly the same time from opposite directions. There had to be something yin and yang about that.

“Your lips are cold,” I told him, closing my eyes as he hugged me.

I will not twist my ring anymore. I will not twist my ring anymore. I will not twist my ring anymore. It isn’t Noah. It’s not him, it’s
me.

Hey, wait a minute.
It’s not you, it’s me
meant it
was
him!

The moment we entered the shop, everyone turned around to check out the Modern Bride’s fiancé. “Um, everyone,” I said. “This is my fiancé, Noah Benjamin.”

Noah gave a little wave to the gaggle of
Wow
ers.

Devlin eyed him up and down. “We’ll have to lose the Burberry. The Modern Bride’s fiancé needs to be strictly metrosexual.”

There were once-overs and nods, and in less than a minute, Noah’s heavy tan trench coat was replaced by the proprietor’s black suede jacket. Devlin offered Noah his ridiculous eyeglasses, which the King of Pretentious confessed were for show only when Noah pointed out that his vision was twenty-twenty.

Devlin wrinkled his nose at Noah’s pants. “We’ll shoot from the waist up. The black pants are okay, but they’re a little too ‘midtown.’”

Devlin was lucky that Noah wasn’t the type to punch him out.

Astrid was picking over every inch of Noah. “All right, Groom of the Modern Bride. Let’s have a look at you. Spin around twice, please.”

Noah spun. As a guy who staked out UFOs in mayors’ backyards, Noah couldn’t possibly be surprised by anyone. Acid O’Connor, in her minuscule eyeglasses and orange cashmere wrap, barely fazed him.

She eyed him from head to toe, stopping midsection to peer at his tie—many tiny Morticia Addamses today.
“Yes, I would say you’re now Modern Bride-worthy,” Astrid affirmed.

Well, well. The tie got to stay. Score one for Morticia.

The proprietor was beaming. “It’s my pleasure to welcome
Wow Weddings
to Round Rings Jewelry Emporium. We’re delighted to be participating in the magazine’s Today’s Bride feature. And to that end, we’ve selected two display cases that feature rings we feel best reflect our ring salon and the clientele we’d like to cultivate.”

He placed the cases onto the tiniest desk I’d ever seen. Noah and I and the
Wow
staff crowded around and peered at the rings.

“This case is hers and that case is his,” the man said.

If he hadn’t made that distinction, I wouldn’t have known the difference.

Noah eyed the rings in the
his
case. “Is that rust?” he whispered to me.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“It’s a special finishing process,” the proprietor said, pronouncing the “o” in
process
like
pro.
“It’s one of our most popular bands.”

Noah coughed. “I was thinking something simple. Gold or silver, simple band.”

The proprietor looked at him quizzically. “We don’t do
simple,
sir.”

In Noah’s display case were twelve rings, one more bizarre than the next. There was a rusted zigzag. A square with tiny diamonds that spelled out
peace.
A triangle whose point hit the knuckle.

No. No. And more no.

It was one thing to have the word Peace spelled out on a veil I’d wear for a few hours; it was another to have it on the wedding ring I’d wear for the rest of my life.

“Um, I can’t see these going with my engagement ring,” I said.

The proprietor didn’t blink. “Don’t you worry about that—you’ll simply move your ring to your right hand. That’s what brides do when they fall madly in love with a ring that doesn’t blend with their diamond.”

I had to restrain myself from laughing in his face.

Noah held up a thin square band with an inlet of bronze. “I guess this one is okay.”

The proprietor looked disappointed. “It’s our most traditional piece, but if it’s what you like…”

“I’ll take the bride’s version,” I said.

Astrid sighed. “Perhaps the Modern Bride and her groom can take another look at the displays.”

The Modern Bride has seen enough.

I feigned a look at the rings and picked up the hers version of Noah’s. “Yes indeedy, this is my choice. You, Noah?”

“I’m very happy with the one I picked,” he said.

The proprietor nodded. “The selections are fine with me. The rings may be our least avant-garde, yet they’re sure to lure modern brides to our Web site and to visit our shops nationwide.”

Ha! Sure to lure modern brides anywhere
but
Round Rings.

“Um, what metal is this, anyway?” I asked.

The proprietor smiled. “It’s a special blend of metals.”

“Whoa,” Noah said, peering at the tiny sticker inside the ring. “This ring is nine thousand dollars?”

“The bride’s is twelve thousand, seven hundred,” said the proprietor.

But I could have found this myself at the scrap yard.

“I’ve saved the best news for last,” Astrid announced. “We’ve secured two celebrities to model a selection of Round Rings for the feature!”

“Fabulous,” the proprietor exclaimed with a little clap of his hands, and off he and Astrid went to sign papers.

But we hate these rings, I wanted to yell at them. We have to wear these for the rest of our lives and we hate them!

Devlin and his assistant began setting up their equipment. “Okay, Modern Bride and Groom. Let’s shoot a roll with you two entering the shop, expectant smiles on your faces. You’ll beeline straight for the display case and both reach for Eloise’s ring at the same time, making happy, surprised faces. You’ll then ooh and aah at the ring on Eloise’s finger, then do the same for the Modern Groom’s ring.”

Devlin shooed Noah and me outside.

“It’s freezing out here,” Noah said.

I made faces at Devlin to hurry up.

Finally, he waved us in.

“Back outside, please,” Devlin said. “You didn’t look thrilled enough when you came in.”

Oh, God.

Fifteen minutes later, my toes frostbitten and Noah’s ears bright red, Devlin was satisfied with our fake expressions.

“Modern Bride,” said Devlin, “beam with delight as you pick up your wedding ring and slowly slide it on your—”

“Eloise,” Astrid interrupted, “move your engagement ring to your right hand.”

I pulled off the diamond ring—for the first time since Noah slid it on—and was flooded with relief.

Whoa.

I slid it back on.

Instant panic. A call for Tums.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

“Eloise, your
other
right hand,” Devlin said with a snort.

I took off the ring—again, blissful relief—and slid it on
the fourth finger of my right hand. Where it didn’t belong. The relief remained.

I glanced at Noah, who was politely half smiling as he awaited his big photographic moment. Polite, supportive Noah, who’d come home early from his business trip just to be there when I got home. Wonderful, sweet, kind, good-looking Noah, who was edging toward being five minutes late for a press conference Robert De Niro was holding in Tribeca.

“Eloise,
put
on the wedding ring, please,” Devlin scolded. “We’ve got to finish up. The Classic Bride’s shoot at Circle of Love jewelers is set for four.”

Philippa’s wedding ring would be gorgeous. A beautiful, simple, classic gold band, perhaps accented by baguettes. She got a circle of love; I got scrap metal.

“Eloise…” Devlin muttered.

Noah tapped me on the nose.

I hadn’t realized I was staring into space. I slid on the wedding ring, waiting for my stomach to roll, waiting for the panic, Tums at the ready in my pocket.

Turned out the ring was so ridiculous that it didn’t bother me one bit.

I was on my way home from Round Rings (Noah had sped off to the press conference) when Jane called from one of those huge stores in which everything costs under ten dollars. She’d been searching every shoe shop and department store for red, white and blue shoes for her bridal party, when she passed the dollar store and spied in the window a pair of white pleather pumps with a tiny American flag on the heel. Price: $4.99. She wanted to hold a mini Flirt Night Round Table for our opinions on whether or not Ina would
consider super-ridiculous bargain-bin shoes a hostile gesture.

Over hot chocolates and s’mores (complete with a lit candle to melt the marshmallows between the graham crackers and the chocolate bar. Yum!) in DT*UT, our favorite coffee lounge, Amanda and I (Natasha and Summer were visiting Grandma and Grandpa) advised Jane to tell Ina that she’d found them on sale in Bloomingdale’s.

Amanda stuck her marshmallow in the little fire. “Tell Ina the salesman said if you bought them any closer to July Fourth, they’d be two hundred bucks.”

Jane pulled one of the shoes out of the huge plastic shopping bag (the shoes didn’t even come in boxes) and placed it on our table. “She won’t know this cost $4.99 from a dollar store?”

“Trust me,” I assured her. “Only our feet will know the difference.”

Jane and Amanda laughed, and we built our s’mores.

“You’re sure they’re not too ridiculous?” Jane asked, eyeing the tiny flag on the heel.

“They’re almost cute,” I said. “Though the flag’s missing around forty-five stars.”

Amanda smiled. “Besides, what are bridesmaids for? For torturing, that’s what. Aren’t we proving that by wearing rubber dresses at Eloise’s wedding?”

“Just think,” Jane said, sipping her hot chocolate. “When these shoes are on your feet, I’ll be
married.
Isn’t that wild? Eloise, you’ll already be married for
months
at my wedding.”

“You novices,” Amanda said. “I’m an old married woman.”

For the past twenty minutes, I’d been on ring-twist alert, and neither Jane nor Amanda had even touched
their rings. Meanwhile, every time I looked down at my ring, my right hand was on it, tugging away.

I ate the last crumb of my s’more. “Okay, Flirt Night Round Table Discussion 1, 000, 002—how do you know?”

“How do we know what?” Jane asked.

“That your guys are
it?
That Ethan and Jeff are the one? How do you know?”

Amanda leaned close. “Don’t kill me for saying this. But it’s just like they tell you—you just
know.
”

“But what does that really
mean?
” I asked. “I need specifics.”

“It means you know you’re home,” Jane said, tucking her brown hair behind her ear. “It means he
is
home. He feels like your family. You feel absolutely comfortable. You know you’ll get the truth, but with support. You know you’ll argue, but that you’ll both be there the next morning. It means love.”

“And jackass in-laws,” Amanda put in.

“Hear, hear,” I agreed. “That I
do
know.”

“I really like Ethan’s family,” Jane said.

“Yeah, because they’re in Texas,” Amanda pointed out.

“Jeff’s family is in Louisiana,” I reminded her.

Amanda groaned. “They might as well be at the next table.”

“Eloise, are you having doubts again?” Jane asked.