“Is it a concern,” Rachel says, putting a grave expression onto her face, “that people won’t think that the story is believable? I mean, what woman in her right mind would actually go to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding?”
“That’s the great thing, Rachel,” Ava says, eyes sparkling, clearly ready for this question to have been asked. “It really did happen! To my husband’s ex-girlfriend.”
“You mean to tell me that your husband’s ex-girlfriend actually came to your wedding?” Rachel says and gives the camera a look of shock. Oh, please. As if this whole interview wasn’t pre-rehearsed. Who does she think she’s kidding?
“Yes!” Ava says. “She’s actually an attorney right here in Manhattan. And she’s very nice.”
“Nice or not, I can’t believe you let one of your husband’s exes come to your wedding!” Rachel says, still doing the shocked expression thing. I mean, doesn’t Rachel have any other expressions in her arsenal? What does she do when she interviews someone who actually reveals shocking things? I guess this is why they pre-record all of their shows.
Ava nods in response. Yes, I am so wonderful that I allowed my husband’s ex to come to our wedding. I also do all sorts of other types of charity work.
“They’re making me sound like a stalker,” I say to Vanessa and she shhhes me. I finish my margarita and lean over to the pitcher to re-fill my glass.
“But,” Rachel quickly says, “it’s not as if a woman like you has to worry about any sort of competition. What man would ever choose another woman over you?”
“Oh, God,” I say, “is that what everyone’s going to be saying at the premiere? Why would he want to be with her when he could be with Ava?”
“Oh, don’t be silly, sweetie,” Vanessa says, looking at me. “We’re not going to be invited to the premiere.”
On the TV, Ava continues. “My husband, Trip, was so inspired by the story of his ex coming to the wedding that he decided that it would make a great movie.” That Ava doesn’t answer Rachel’s question and begins posturing makes me think that maybe Trip gave her a script for this interview. “She came with her gorgeous Scottish fiancé, so everything worked out in the end. It’s a story about love and friendship. And life’s special moments.”
“This is beginning to sound like a tampon commercial,” Vanessa says, taking a ladylike sip of her margarita. She’s still on her first of the night. I’m already pouring number three.
“This is so humiliating,” I say, “I can never leave my apartment again.”
“No one’s even going to see the stupid movie,” Vanessa says, “don’t be ridiculous. This whole thing will blow over in minutes.”
“Maybe the movie will be bad,” I say. “Maybe no one will see it!”
“I’m sure no one will,” she says, and clicks the television off. “And it will be forgotten before you can even say ‘straight to DVD.’”
“Really?” I ask. “You really think that?”
“Sure,” Vanessa says, filling up my margarita glass, “of course I do.”
“I guess I should be looking on the bright side,” I say, taking a handful of popcorn. “My one saving grace is that Douglas hasn’t found out. It’s bad enough that I’ve been humiliated in front of Jack. In fact, this whole thing has actually been a test of how much he truly loves me.”
“And he still wants to marry you after all this. He passed,” Vanessa says. “With flying colors.”
“True,” I say. “But if Douglas found out about this whole mess… Well, let’s just say that Douglas doesn’t have as good of a sense of humor about things. He would really torture me about this.”
“You don’t have to remind me about how awful Douglas was,” Vanessa says. “I remember.”
“Well, then, can I remind you about how wonderful Jack is?”
“Let’s just make a toast,” Vanessa says, and raises her margarita glass. “To Douglas never finding out about all of this.
“Here, here,” I say.
So, now all I need is for Douglas to never watch Entertainment Now or deign to go see a chick flick. Piece of cake, right?
Chapter Six
“Excuse me, miss, but I think I have something for you,” a handsome man says to me just as I’m about to enter my office building.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say with a smile. Normally, New Yorkers don’t talk to each other on the street, but I wouldn’t want to be rude. And it’s not just because he’s good looking-I’m not superficial like that. You see, I would speak to a stranger even if he wasn’t attractive. I just so happen to be the exception to that New York rule.
Well, okay, I wouldn’t speak to a stranger if he looked like he was deranged or something. I mean, that could be dangerous. But a stranger who was average looking? Yes, I would definitely talk to that stranger. If he was handsome and wearing a great suit and had a really really, really nice smile, well, that would just be a bonus. A big, gorgeous, well-dressed bonus. But I digress.
“I’m sure it’s for you,” he insists and I can’t help but laugh, as I continue walking into the building.
“Sorry,” I say, pushing through the big double doors of my law firm’s building, “but I’m engaged.”
How much do I love saying that?! But how typical is this? The second you’re attached, you’ve got random hotties approaching you in the street. And since you’re already involved, you can’t do a thing about it. When I was single, this sort of thing never happened to me. Life can be so unfair sometimes.
“Aren’t you Brooke Miller?” the hottie says to me as he follows me into the building. Did he just call me by my name? Um, how does he know my name?! Okay, so, now I’ve got random hotties stalking me in the street. I’m strangely conflicted about this.
“How do you know my name?” I ask, edging my way towards the security desk. In a split second, I formulate a positively brilliant plan for getting away from hottie/stalker, should things go awry. I will simply throw my briefcase at his chest and distract him momentarily so that I can run to the safety of the security guard. I don’t think that the guards are real cops or anything, but they’re still pretty darn imposing. Especially Margie Ann. That woman will put the fear of God into you with just one look. Now, if hottie/stalker actually catches my briefcase instead of getting distracted by it, my plan will be pretty much blown.
The whole plan becomes moot when he says: “Yes, I thought it was you. Brooke Miller,” he says, reaching into his briefcase. “You’ve been served.”
***
“I don’t get it,” Trip says, walking into my office unannounced (it’s like there’s just no point in actually having an assistant in the first place). “I thought that Douglas was cool with all of this. He seemed fine when I told him the other night about the movie we were making about a girl who goes to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding. We had that great dinner all together at Pastis. But now, this.”
“You mean the movie you’re making about my life,” I said.
“No,” he says with a nervous laugh. “I thought we already established this. It’s my story about getting married and then inviting my ex-girlfriend to come to the wedding.”
“You say tomato,” I say, under my breath as I roll my eyes at Trip. Then, in my sensible lawyerly voice, without the eye rolclass="underline" “I don’t get it, either. Let me give him a call and I’ll call you as soon as I hear back from him.”
Trip settles into one of my visitor chairs, clearly ready to watch as I make my phone call, which confuses me. If he thinks that I’m about to call my fiancé to ask him why he’s suing me, does he really think that I want my ex-boyfriend here to watch? Trip can be such a moron sometimes. Which reminds me…
“Trip, I thought you told me that I couldn’t sue you for making a movie out of my life?” I ask.
“Didn’t you get an A in torts?” Trip asks. “I got a C, but I still remembered that a private citizen can sue for their rights of privacy.”