Liar's Guide to True Love (2 page)

The Second Saturday in June

Wedding Planning Tip: Your wedding day is Your Day. But remember, it’s not your year, not your month, not even your week. It’s your
day
.

I’ve just hung up the phone with the string trio, to give them directions to the church again. The photographer and videographer have arrived and are checking the lighting. The florist is unraveling spools of tulle to mark the center aisle. I pause for a minute, standing at the altar to survey the work. The arrangements at the altar are just beautiful, made of four different types of white roses and sprays of stephanotis (the latter is supposed to be a lucky wedding flower, for those of you who were wondering). Just the right amount of trailing ivy adds a touch of color. The minister is mumbling the sermon to himself, practicing the names of the couple over and over again. The unity candle is in its place—the same candle the groom’s parents used at their wedding. I place a box of matches next to it.
Please don’t let the mothers set the table on fire like at the Mills/Carrey wedding.
Everything is going smoothly, I think, as I head toward the Bride’s dressing area.

She is wearing a tank top and capri pants.

At least her tank top is white, but it’s a far cry from the strapless silk organza ball gown she was wearing half an hour ago (Monique Lhuillier).

Well, thank goodness for brides with cold feet.

Oh, I’m not so hard-hearted that I am actually
happy
that the investment banker got jilted before he even reached the church, much less the altar. The bride had second thoughts on marrying for money, particularly since the groom was about to be laid off, so really they are both better off. I’m just being honest in admitting that if the wedding had happened, this beautiful day would have been spent catering, coordinating and canoodling. Instead I now have a new necklace to wear on my next date, and an entire day to spend bonding with my closest pals. Today is My Day.

The romantic in me thinks how it would have been a perfect day for a wedding, though. The morning started slightly overcast, just right for outdoor photos, and was now getting sunnier for a cliché June wedding. It was to have been a more casual, daytime affair, and relatively easy to work. But still, it was a rare summer Saturday that I had the day off, so even the cab ride from hell couldn’t ruin it. The cabbie stops so suddenly in front of my building that I nearly slide off the freshly Windexed seat.

Now let me just be upfront about my living circumstances. I have a spacious and sunny pre-war two bedroom that overlooks Gramercy Park. No, I’m not one of those lucky characters in the movies whose fabulous apartments are explained by some mysterious notion called “rent control.” The truth is, my parents paid the down payment. I’m not proud of the fact, but I am damn grateful. So if you want to hate me for being parentally subsidized, go ahead. Otherwise, get over it.

There are two messages on the machine from my mother—of course there are—even though I had just spoken to her not three hours ago. Apparently my mother just
had
to tell me right away that she and Dad are thinking maybe they just might take a trip to the Bahamas this winter. Perhaps.
Right.
The Bahamas are a three-hour plane trip from their house in Princeton, New Jersey. And despite years of saying how
wonderful
it was to finally be free of raising two daughters, Bridget Hanley can never muster the nerve to be more than a hundred miles away from them. She already complains—and often—that it is bad enough that I moved to The City.

I change into a pair of dark jeans and a lemon-yellow T-shirt. I dial Suzanne. “Suze, it’s me. No-Engagement-Ring Bride called it off. I’ve got the entire day free.”

“That’s horrible. She called it off
today?
”

“Guess it should make the groom think a bit when she says they can’t get married until they trade in her engagement ring for one with a bigger stone.”

“Ha ha, very funny. I have to do some rounds at the hospital today. I don’t think I’ll be able to meet up until tea. Want to meet at the St. Regis then?”

Three weeks ago Suzanne came back from a month-long business/holiday jaunt in London. And she’s been a wannabe Brit ever since. “Sure, Suze, but a cup of Earl Grey now and then doesn’t make you Bridget Jones.”

“See you at four, love.”

I suppose as a doctor she does have other priorities. My spirits will
not
be dampened. This is my Day Off.

Mia isn’t home so I try her cell. She yawns a hello and I apologize for waking her—it’s only just after 11 a.m. on a Saturday after all. As a young account executive in advertising she was probably out being wined and dined and living the high life of the poor and glamorous last night.

“I’m not sleepy—I’m at
work.
This client is hell. The creatives are driving me nuts. I haven’t seen the light of day all week, and probably won’t until August. What’s up?”

Does that mean she can’t meet me in an hour? “Well, it turns out I’m free today. Maybe you can meet at the St. Regis at four?”

“I’ll try and hustle out of here by then.”

I feel like I am going through my mental Black Book of Best Friends. Two down, one to go.

I pull out my newest purchase while I wait for Kate to pick up. I just love how Barney’s wraps everything up even though I was clearly just buying it for me. There it is—six tear drop-shaped peridots hanging from the most delicate 18K gold chain. I just finish clasping it around my neck when Kate finally answers. “Kate! Guess who has the day off? We can grab lunch outside, do a little shopping and then meet Suzanne and Mia for tea.”

“Sorry, I’m going to pass. I want to go for a run and then hit the gym before my date tonight. I’m going out with the great abs guy I met last week.” What! “I’m going to pass”? Just like that?

“It’s my only Saturday off for like, four months. You want to ditch me for the gym? If your abs look any better you won’t be able to get rid of this guy when you’re through with him.”

“Listen, just because I don’t choose to get tied down to some WASP in a white-collar job, like some of those child-brides you’re marrying off, doesn’t mean I want to ‘get rid’ of Justin.”

Ouch. I apologize, and I mean it. “Pleeeaaase, Katie. I haven’t seen you all week. And it’s Saturday!”

“Well I’m glad you have the day off, but some of us work in offices all day and are glad to have a run in the park now and again.” She’s softening.

“Go have your run, shower, then meet me at Nobu for lunch. My treat. You
love
the sashimi salad.”

“Some poor couple’s lives are in tatters and it’s the perfect day for Cassandra,” she says drily. She sighs. I wait. She tuts into the receiver. “Okay, I’ll be there at one. Then we can go support retail commerce in lower Manhattan.”

Ah, sushi and shopping—my perfect afternoon.

Until I talk to my mother. I figure I should do my duty before I enjoy my day. Much as I love my mother, I do not love her transparency. “Oh dear, she left him at the altar? Does that mean you still get paid?”

“Well, the balance of my fee is due the day of the event. I don’t know that I feel right taking the whole thing in a case like this since the groom was paying for it all.”

“No bride around
here
would ever call it off at the eleventh hour. And you could get the cutest little house with a garden for what you pay for your mortgage.” (I don’t really need to translate this for you, do I?) “Oh, I have to run now, darling, but call your sister, will you? I think she was depressed when I told her we were leaving for the Bahamas.”

“Why would she be? It’s not like you’re really going.”

My mother sighs. “Do you
always
say exactly what you’re thinking?”

If she only knew.

I can’t bring myself to call my little sister. After all, speaking to one family member per day is enough, isn’t it? This is My Day, and I do not want to spend it talking about Emma’s perfect little life in suburbia, with her perfect husband and their plans to procreate some Perfection. It used to be that we talked about the new projects she was working on as a graphic designer. Then she was lucky enough to get laid off by her digital ad agency at a time when they were still giving severance packages. So then we talked about how she was going to rebuild a room in her house, all by herself. Things that I could relate to. Now all she talks about is how much she’s looking forward to focusing on Motherhood. The girl isn’t even pregnant. I’ll call her tomorrow. Or maybe the day after.

So what does a Manhattan girl do with time to kill? She gets a manicure, of course. Nowhere else could you possibly get a manicure complete with hand and shoulder massage for under twenty bucks. I scoot around the corner to my regular salon, happy as a tourist with her first purchase from Tiffany’s. Until I notice all the nail stations are filled and there are two women waiting to have their tips redone. Is this always what it’s like on a Saturday? I slide into a chair next to one of them. The only magazine there that I haven’t already read is
Teen Vogue.
A thirteen-year-old has written in to ask whether she should take her boyfriend seriously when he says he wants to marry her and has already named their future children. No new messages have come in on my BlackBerry. It’s going to be a long wait.

A little while later Kate and I (finally!) sit at the sushi bar, waiting for our first course of omakase. I’m never disappointed by the tasting menu, and Kate is just adventurous enough to be the perfect dining partner. Unfortunately she is in rare form today and I’m trying my best not to get mad at her for putting a damper on My Day.

“I mean, why have kids if all you’re going to do is complain about having to stay home with them all day? People who need two nannies to take care of one child should take a good look at themselves before they start criticizing the childless-by-choice. There are just too many people out there who should not be parents. Do they think their gene pool is that important?” She’s been on this kick since she ran into a co-worker at her corner bodega, who had been stepping out for cigarettes in order to escape her kid. She pauses only to take a sip of ice water. (Kate and I believe that at a place like Nobu, flavored drinks only detract from the food.) “Just because some of us have hit the age of thirty a few years ago doesn’t mean we all need to coo over anything in a pair of Robeez.”

“I can’t believe you even know about Robeez.” I can’t believe we are still having this conversation. Working in Finance offers Kate few opportunities for girl talk, but this is over the top.

“With the kind of topics that pass for intelligent conversation with some of these women, I might as well start pushing out some babies of my own.” And here we go. Kate means to be sarcastic, but she’s been on the topic of babies a lot lately. She’s a few years older than the rest of us and sometimes she feels like she’s supposed to be hearing the tick of her biological clock. “Anyway, enough about my issues. What are you up to lately?”

“Well, the semester’s over at FIT. I have to start thinking about the next class I want to take.”

“How about a self-help class? Like a twelve-step program for compulsive liars maybe?” Leave it to Kate to abandon discussion of her own deep-seated emotional issues and move on to mine.

Let me give you a little background.

Like the time I went out with a guy I met at one of my weddings. Eric was one of those single people who knew the groom way back when, and didn’t know anyone else at the reception. And of course since I’m always trying to make sure everyone at one of my events is having a good time, I made sure to find the time to chat. It didn’t hurt that he was adorable. And when he asked me out to dinner the following week I was freshman-in-college-getting-asked-out-by-a-sophomore ecstatic. And while he was telling me about the year he spent in the Peace Corps, I felt it. That feeling that starts in the pit of your stomach, that “I really want this guy to like me” feeling. And before I could even think about what I was saying, I blurted it out. I told him I’d spent three months working for Habitat for Humanity in Mexico. The truth was that I had been on a family vacation in Acapulco for a week.

Oh, I know that’s nothing like the Peace Corps. And I don’t even know if Habitat for Humanity goes to Mexico! It just sounded good at the time, like we had some common interest in the welfare of our fellow mankind. And it’s not like I only do this when I have some self-esteem problem and feel like the guy is out of my league (which Eric totally was, but that’s beside the point). It’s just this thing that happens whenever there’s a chance of romantic involvement.

Like the time I decided to give the Nice Guy a chance. You know who I’m talking about—the guy you’d never notice in a bar, the friend of a friend who gets talked up umpteen times before you’ll agree to have a drink with him. In this case, it was the son of a friend of my father’s and it was Sunday brunch at Norma’s. His name was Gerry (now if that isn’t a Nice Guy name, I don’t know what is). He had brown hair, a slightly receding hairline, wire rim glasses and wore a sports jacket to brunch. But he held open doors, pulled out my chair, opened my menu for me. For our second date he surprised me by taking me to a downtown art gallery because I had mentioned it in passing. After he
picked me up while the cab waited outside.
It was that thoughtfulness that made me say that I loved those Brazilian steakhouse restaurants with the all-you-can-eat mystery meat. I was game for the first couple of rounds when I could get away with taking a few bites here or there. But then the meat just kept coming. So for the next two hours I chewed up meat and spit it into my napkin like in that old episode of
Seinfeld.
In the end I just couldn’t bear to date a guy who couldn’t out drink a lightweight like me, and who ordered fruity martinis.