Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (19 page)

My head is spinning. Right round.

“I texted Charlie I'd be here this afternoon, but he never responded. I had no idea he'd show up. I thought I'd have time to explain everything before you saw him again. I'm so, so sorry you had to find out this way that he was engaged.”

I rub my eyes. “Wait, go back to the part where I'm undercover?”

Susan stops pacing. “Okay, here goes. You'll be a bridesmaid, ostensibly. But there's another reason I need you in the wedding party.” I raise my eyebrows at her dramatic pause. “I've never trusted Holly. It's a long story. Basically, she's a manipulator. I need you to find out what she's up to, how she roped Charlie back in. If it happens that you find out something that would cause the wedding to get called off, so much the better. But first and foremost, I need someone on the inside. Because Charlie's not talking. Or listening. I've played the Big Sister card one too many times, and now he's shutting me out. So I'm going to use any other means necessary.”

I blink at her. I'm still processing.

She continues, “I know this is a huge thing to ask. I'm willing to hire you, make this an official thing, like with my wedding.”

I don't know why I didn't see it before: Susan is the kind of person who always needs a cause. A crusader type. I envision her in a crowd of protesters, holding a homemade banner: “Save Charlie!” And there'd be a pithy chant: “Two, four, six, eight, don't let Holly procreate!”

Speaking of which, “You don't think that maybe Holly's—”

Her hands fly to her ears. “Oh, no. Don't even say it out loud. That is so not happening. We're not even going there. That's the one thing I can't handle.”

I close my eyes. When I open them, I pinch myself. What. Is. Happening?

She frowns. “So will you do it? Piper? Look, I know I can be intense, it's just that— He's my baby brother. And this isn't some teenage rebellion. This is a huge, life-changing mistake. I'm so, so tired of losing him to that—that harpy. Of watching her suck the life out of him. I won't stand by and watch. I love him too damn much.”

She finally collapses in the velvet chair next to me, and we both stare at the empty lighted platform.

I imagine myself a wedding Terminator: I march into the sanctuary, red beady eye gleaming, and say, “Get out” in an Austrian accent. Or I'm a Trojan horse: They wheel me in there in chiffon, and I blow the whole thing to shit.

But maybe I'm catastrophizing (Lin's new favorite word). I guess all she's really asked so far is that I investigate.

I imagine each dressing room door conceals a reason why I should or shouldn't do this. The ones that fly open first are the cons: I don't know how to investigate anything beyond conducting a Google search; I don't want to be a part of this in any way; it's too painful to even be around him. Then the pros: I trust Susan if she thinks this is wrong; maybe I can keep Charlie from getting hurt; I need the money, I need the money, I need the money—and, hmm—wouldn't this be the crowning jewel of my exposé on crazy jobs? And there's obviously the stray minion:
Wheeeeeee, dimples!

I tell Susan, “I need more information before I can commit. I don't know anything about their past. But I think what we should do first, pending the dress fitting, is have a shot of something strong and brisk.”

Susan sits up straight. “I know just the place.”

Twenty-Three

S
usan drives like she talks: fast and intense. I do my best to follow her west on Route 7 into Great Falls, a sleepy town tucked between Virginia and Maryland. Past a few consignment shops and a 7-Eleven, she zips into a strip mall parking lot and pulls into a spot in front of the Shoddy Wheelbarrow pub.

Once inside, we're transported from strip mall to seaside English pub. Insignia and flair cover every inch of the walls, from ads for PG Tips tea to pictures of English soldiers in World War I to a road sign that reads: “Caution, Elderly Crossing.”

Susan and I bolt for the bar, which is beginning to fill up with the onset of happy hour. The bartender sports mutton chops and wears a plaid hat that seems like it might pop off his head from the entropy of the fluffy white hair underneath.

The building, Susan explains, was imported from across the pond, along with the staff. As if to offer evidence of this, Mutton Chops places two Hagrid-sized hands on the oak bar and asks, “What can I pour ye?” A plaid towel is slung across one shoulder.

Susan and I look at each other. “Shots,” I say. “Surprise us.”

Mutton Chops raises his eyebrows, which are made of the same hefty fluff as his hair. He gives a belly guffaw that makes his beard shake. “Rrrright!” He reaches behind the bar for the bottle of Paddy Irish whiskey. “A little remedy from across the pond.”

Susan and I clink glasses, drink, then set the glasses down in unison.

“Another?” he asks.

I defer to Susan. “I have seven dollars to my name, so it's up to you.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Well, if you accept my proposition, you can consider it your first payment. And if you don't—well, never mind. It's on me anyway.” She gives Chops a peremptory nod.

He pours again; we drink. He sweeps the glasses away. “You want to tell me what kind of day involves a double dose o' the Paddy?”

“My brother's marrying the wrong girl,” Susan says.

“And what leads ye to believe tha'?”

“It's a long story. And I need props.” She nods at the liquor stock behind him. “Bottles will work.”

Chops bows. “What is needed will be provided.”

Susan narrows her eyes, discerning. “Gimme two bottles of Skinnygirl vodka in different flavors, a Budweiser, the Crown Royal, and a craft beer—maybe a Sierra Nevada IPA. We won't pour; it's for demonstration purposes only.”

Chops produces the requisite bottles. The happy hour crowd swells around us, and a general buzz of conversation fills the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. It sounds like an orchestra warming up for a long, drunken performance.

Susan lines up the Skinnygirls, the Bud, and the Crown Royal and gestures across them, Vanna White–style. “Meet the Garbo family.” She pushes the Skinnygirl Tangerine toward me. “Holly Garbo.”

The Skinnygirl Grapefruit: “Holly's older sister, Rachel Garbo.”

The Bud: “Holly's father, Mark Garbo.”

The Crown Royal: “Holly's mother, Lena Collinsworth.”

She touches the Sierra Nevada, which is still off to one side. “And, of course, Charlie. Now. Let's rewind back about ten years. My parents run their own custom tailoring business, and right around my junior year of high school, they crossed a success threshold. Charlie would have just been starting eighth grade. Anyway, they acquired enough upscale clients—senators, judges, and the like—to upgrade to a nicer neighborhood in Fairfax: as fate would have it, a couple of blocks from the Garbos. Our parents were within schmoozing distance.”

She pops a few bar nuts in her mouth, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “Here's my disclaimer about everything I'm going to tell you—it's part neighborly observation, part sisterly intuition, part reports from Charlie and my parents, part Freudian speculation.” She points to herself. “Psych minor. So take it all with a lick of salt and a squeeze of lime, but here's what I know.”

She taps the Crown Royal bottle with her index and middle fingers. “Meet Madam Senator Lena Collinsworth, aka Empress of All She Surveys. You'll have the pleasure of meeting her soon. This lady runs a tight ship professionally and personally. She's a state senator. She's been in the position for years, working her way up to senior leadership. President pro tempore, I think it's called. Never to be sated, now she's set her sights on the lieutenant governorship. The election's this November.”

She wraps a hand around the tangerine vodka bottle. “Envision for a moment what life was like for Skinnygirl Tangerine. She grew up being taught that image is everything, and that in order to be loved, she must be squeaky-clean perfect.” She wraps her other hand around the grapefruit vodka as if she's about to double-fist. “Her sister is only a year ahead in school, so they're constantly pitted against each other to see who can be the most popular, the most perfect.”

She turns the bottles so the mascots of Skinnygirl Grapefruit and Skinnygirl Tangerine hoist silhouetted martinis toward each other like weapons.

“On one level, Holly is deeply insecure because she hasn't been given the kind of parental love a kid deserves. Crown Royal only cares about herself, and Bud is so busy trying to please Crown—or dodge her wrath—that he hasn't been there for his grapefruits. Er, kids. At times, Grapefruit and Tangerine were used as political props. Oh my God, you have to see this—” She fumbles with her smartphone, tapping and sliding her finger across the screen until she produces a YouTube clip. “Watch.”

On the miniature screen is a montage of a tiny version of Holly at her mother's office: answering the phone, licking envelopes, shaking hands with constituents. Then she's accompanying her mother to the state senate chamber and saying something into the microphone. The chamber bursts into raucous applause. A “Collinsworth for VA Senate” logo spreads across the screen. The logo remains while an animated stamp featuring the words “Real Family Values” is superimposed on top.

“What did she say?” I ask, unable to hear the audio above our bar neighbors' “your mom” jokes.

“It was this promo Lena did for Take Your Daughter to Work Day. What Holly says into the microphone is ‘When I grow up, I want to fight for hardworking Virginians just like Mommy,' or some sort of political mumbo-jumbo. And then it ends up being featured in a campaign ad.”

On the screen, the video fades to black, then cuts back to its starting image of a pigtailed Holly sporting a smile sans front teeth.

“So that was Holly's childhood,” Susan is saying. “Growing up as a political prop is the kind of thing that leads a person to go a bit bonkers. But I still blame her for each and every one of her wrongs.”

This tiny pigtailed girl—I want to hug her. I grab a handful of bar nuts and munch as I contemplate Holly's past. I mean, my parents weren't perfect; whose are? But they let me be a kid. I grew up feeling safe and loved. The year I grew ta-tas and Timmy Robbins called me “fat boobykins” and made me cry, my mother was so outraged that she showed up at Timmy's house and gave them an earful about how their child's behavior was “not Christian.” At the time, I was mortified. Later, I was profoundly grateful. I make a mental note to envision Mom giving Billy an earful the next time he's rude. About his whole image, she'd say: “I don't get these metrosexuals” (pronounced: met-rah-SEX-shuls).

We look up to find Chops lurking between the Skinnygirl Tangerine and the Bud. He points to the Bud. “Wha' about him?”

“Right around the time we move into the neighborhood, Holly's father, Mark, starts behaving badly, then just up and disappears. You hear all kinds of speculations volleyed back and forth at the neighborhood block parties: addict, nervous breakdown. Some thought she only married him to get blue-collar cred. His family's from southern Virginia, and they do skilled trade work—welding, maybe?”

I wince. “It's like her family members are pawns. Selected and maneuvered for maximum political advantage.”

“Yup.”

“Did you ever meet him—Bud?”

“Once or twice. Really nice guy. Who knows how Lena sucked him in.”

“An' her?” Chops points to Skinnygirl Grapefruit with a thick freckled finger.

“Oh, Rachel. Standoffish, hung up on herself. Went off to college and never came back.” Susan pushes away the Bud and the grapefruit, pulling the Sierra Nevada toward us. “Enter Charlie, who right away saw in Holly that sweet toothless girl underneath the high school queen bee. Charlie's like that: He sees the diamond in the rough. No matter how rough. When Holly's dad leaves the family, her mom goes on publicly like nothing's different, but who knows what it was like at home.

“So Holly works even harder at creating her own social caucus at school, and Charlie works even harder at getting her to go out with him. After Charlie reads an original poem in English class to ask Holly to the prom—”

“Fuck, that's sweet,” Chops says.

“Ay, barkeep!” someone shouts from farther down the bar. Chops snaps the plaid towel in the hassler's general direction and turns back to us.

“Totally sweet,” Susan agrees. “They start dating, and Charlie's on cloud nine. It was this whole star-crossed lovers thing, artsy hipster woos popular chick. I think, secretly, he reminded her of her dad, the way he's naturally laid-back and kind. And Holly probably reminded him of our mom—remind me to tell you about her later, Lord, she's a piece of work—but again, that's the stuff of my Freudian speculation. At any rate, trying to solve mommy-and-daddy issues in an adolescent relationship is not a good plan. Add a heaping spoonful of hormones and stir vigorously, and you've got a recipe for disaster.

“So. Turns out the image of perfection that Holly presents is riddled with secret, torrid acts of batshit crazy. They break up, then she turns on the Charm Hoover and sucks him back in. Super-toxic dynamic.”

Chops pulls his hat closer around his ears. “What kind of ba'shit crazy?”

Susan sighs. “The kind of crazy that cropped up when something good was about to happen in Charlie's life. Have you heard of the Interlochen Center for the Arts?”

Chops and I shake our heads in tandem.

“It's an awesome program—they do prestigious art camps for kids. Junior year, Charlie got accepted to a camp where he was going to spend the summer working with experienced screenwriters to produce a short script.”

“Cool!”

“Yeah, very cool. But the night before he was supposed to leave, Holly completely freaks out. Like, shows up at his door, sobbing. Says she'll stop eating if he goes away and leaves her.”

I tip my head forward into my hands. “And he stays?”

“You got it.”

Chops starts moving down the bar to distribute drinks but turns back to say, “Tha's messed up.”

“Why?” I ask, rubbing my forehead. “Why did he—”

Susan's voice softens. “It wasn't all bad times. She was his first love. I'd do anything to change that, but the past is what it is.” She pushes the craft beer and the Skinnygirl Tangerine close together. “So. They go away to school together in L.A., saying they're going to start fresh. Away from her mom, she can change, she says. Surprise, surprise—same shit continues. She hurts him, then makes him feel needed, which he can't resist. They graduate and decide to stay in the L.A. area. Not too long before my wedding, she tells him she wants to move in with him. But he calls it off. For good—or so I thought.”

Susan folds a couple of bar napkins into paper graduation caps. “I think he must have been in therapy or something, or maybe it was the shock of being in the real world for a while that made him see things differently. He finally decided to give his screenwriting dream a real shot and acknowledge that he deserved to be happy. Meanwhile, Holly's in grad school for economics so she can rule the world or crash the stock market. A field oddly fitting for her volatile nature.” She pushes the Skinnygirl away from the Sierra Nevada. “It seemed they were finally going their separate ways. I was so happy for him, so relieved.”

Two more Paddy shots appear between Skinnygirl and Sierra Nevada, emphasizing the distance between them. Susan pauses and we drink. The room is beginning to spin, and I cling to the bar for support. I think Susan's feeling it, too, because she starts creating a lot of compound words.

“Charlie starts really blossomingartistically. He's writing more, he's making new friends—he's the happy guy I always knew he could be. He calls me and tells me he's sorry he never listened to me all those years; that he's finally beginning to see what the relationship with Holly didtohim. I mean, for years, this girl had him under her thumb”—here she lifts up her thumb and we gaze at it as if it's sculpture—“and at her beck and call. She actually forbade him to come to my first professional concert because she was in the batshitcrazy zone. Anyway, after they split up, he was back to himself. Creating, enjoying life, being young.