School of Fortune (2 page)

Thayne reverted to scissor kick. “Fortunately I know a dozen wedding planners who would cut off their right leg to be part of this event.”

More likely they'd cut off both legs
not
to be involved, but Robert called, “You are absolutely right, darling. I'm sure you'll have a replacement within the hour.” He turned to leave.

“Robert! Make sure you're at the hotel at four. The rehearsal begins promptly at five.”

“Certainly, dear. Call if you need me.” That had been Robert's exit line for the last quarter century. Thayne had not once taken him up on it.

She left the pool after eight more laps and wrapped herself in a thick terry robe. Without showering, Thayne went to an upstairs bedroom that had been converted into Command Central. Striding to her desk through a jungle of dry erase boards, mannequins, printers, slide projectors, spreadsheets, invoices, faxes, swatches, and mountains of brochures, Thayne opened her laptop and located a phone number. Seconds later she was calling Steve Kemble, the hyperfabulous event planner whose show,
Whose Wedding Is It Anyhow,
held a national audience spellbound week after week. “This is Thayne Walker,” she said in an unusually melodious, carefree voice. “Connect me to Steve, please.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. Mr. Kemble is in Madagascar for two weeks.” A tinge of irritation crept into Thayne's voice. “He doesn't have a cell phone?”

“Excuse me, who is calling?”

“Thayne Walker from Dallas. I'm sure you're aware I have a wedding this weekend.”

All too aware: Wyeth had been wailing to Steve almost daily about his tribulations. “How may we help you, Mrs. Walker?”

“You may connect me to Steve, as I have already asked.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. Mr. Kemble is in Madagascar for two weeks.”

“Are you a robot? I understood you the first time.” Thayne needed a moment to resettle her voice to a more honeyed level. “Would you be so kind as to tell me exactly what he is doing there?”

“Filming the nuptials of a supermodel and an Iranian prince. I'm sorry I can't be more specific, but this is all very secret.”

“Would he be able to fly to Dallas this evening?”

“I believe I just explained he was in Madagascar.”

“Thank you for telling me a third time,” Thayne snapped. “I could have my jet there in seven hours. He could disappear for a day. No one would be any the wiser, certainly not a supermodel and an Iranian.”

A frosty silence elapsed. “If you leave me a number, I'll have Steve return your call as soon as possible.”

“If you were Pinocchio, your nose would be longer than the Texas panhandle.” Thayne slammed down the phone, resolving to have a word with Steve about the rudeness of his staff. She proceeded to the next name on her list.

“Gizelle? This is Thayne Walker.” Hearing no reply, she continued, “Something has come up. We need a little extra help with the wedding this weekend.”

Last January Gizelle and her six employees had spent two solid weeks preparing a proposal for Pippa' s wedding. Thayne had chosen Happily Ever After, Inc., instead; she didn't like the looks of that sleazy
z
in Gizelle's name. “Surely Wyeth can find some extra help for you,” Gizelle replied, hanging up.

Thayne proceeded to the third name on her list. “Bartholomew? This is Thayne Walker.”

“Don't bother me.” Click.

What was the matter with these people? Business was business. Were Pippa not an only child, were another Walker wedding a future possibility, Thayne was sure that Steve, Gizelle, and Bartholomew would be falling over themselves to assist her now. Clearly they were still hurt that she had chosen Wyeth to do Pippa's wedding. Thayne related to that. She had felt the same crushing disappointment when she didn't get into Kappa Kappa Gamma on the first try.

Thayne called two more wedding planners, both “busy,” neither able to recommend anyone else who could help. Her lower digestive tract began to feel her pain. Thayne rushed into her pink marble bathroom, there to swallow her first pint of Kaopectate as she considered her options. Maybe she should take over. No, bad idea: if she had learned anything over the last six months, it was that underlings didn't respond to her laser-sharp management style. Besides, this was her time to reap the harvest of all her hard work. The mother of the bride should now be basking in the reflected glory of her daughter's white gown. She should not be down in the sweatshop with the peons.

Margarita, the maid, tapped on the bathroom door. “Are you all right, madam?”

“What is the problem, Margarita?”

“The pastry chef is fighting with the fish chef over the lemons. They want to speak with Mr. Wyeth right away.”

“He just left on an errand that will take all day. Buy another crate of lemons and tell them to grow up.” “They are fighting with knives, Mrs. Walker. I am afraid.” “Margarita, I can't deal with this right now. Go downstairs and remove their knives.” “But—”

“Do as I say! That's an order!” Thayne flushed the toilet, drowning out her maid's protests. She took half a step toward the shower before the need to return to the toilet became overwhelming. Her arms were beginning to itch from the chlorine in the pool. Thayne thought she saw a few blotches forming on her face as well. To think that an hour ago, she had been jogging on her treadmill, happy as a victor of
Survivor!

The phone next to the toilet rang. Surely that was one of the wedding planners coming to his/her senses, about to grovel for mercy. “Yes?” Thayne snapped.

“Mama? Are you all right? You never miss my wake-up call.”

“I'm sorry, Pippa. It's been a busy morning. Are you and the girls done in the gym?”

“Yes. We're getting ready to go for our manicures.”

“Good. I'll see you at the bridesmaids' luncheon.”

“Weren't you going to get your nails done with us?”

“Don't push me!” Thayne shrieked. “If I can, I can, if I can't, I can't!”

Like her father, Pippa knew when to back a few miles off. “Sounds good. I'll take care of everything here. Don't you worry.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Thayne replied weakly. “See you at the luncheon.”

She managed to take a shower before her intestines recurdled. Thayne considered calling Wyeth McCoy and promising to lock herself in her bathroom for the weekend, if only he'd come back. Then her phone rang. “Yes?”

“Twinkie? How are you bearing up?”

Dusi Damon, Thayne's old college roommate, was calling from Rangoon, where she and her husband, Caleb, had gone for a month-long, four-star vacation involving a bit of plastic surgery. Thayne was the only person in the world who knew that Dusi and Caleb hadn't gone to Asia to photograph sampans in the Bay of Bengal. “I am not bearing up at all,” Thayne answered, breaking down into sobs. “Wyeth just quit on me. He thinks the wedding is jinxed.”

“He quit the day before the wedding? That is unconscionable. I would sue, if not hire a hit man.”

“I would do both if I could leave the bathroom.” Thayne told Dusi about her digestive troubles. “How am I ever going to manage the rehearsal tonight? Wyeth is the only one who could keep all the marching and music straight.”

“Hire a band leader. Like John Philip Sousa.”

“This is my daughter's wedding, not intermission at the Cotton Bowl!” Thayne screeched. “God is punishing me, Dusi. I should never have created the wedding of the century. I should have settled for wedding of the half century.”

“That's nonsense, Twinkie. You can do it. No one's irreplaceable, including Wyeth.” Dusi thought a moment. “You must call the Mountbatten-Savoy School of Household Management in Aspen. Their people are used to handling events with a guest list of thousands.”

“Mountbatten-Savoy, you said?” Thayne weakly scribbled the words in lipstick on the pink marble tile nearest the toilet. “Thanks so much. How was your surgery, by the way?”

“Fantastic. Caleb looks so much better. I'm devastated we can't be there with you.”

“You're an angel.” Thayne sniffled.

“You go out and show Rosimund Henderson who's in charge! She's just a Theta.”

Reinvigorated, Thayne got the number of the Mountbatten-Savoy School of Household Management in Aspen. “I'm Thayne Walker of Dallas,” she announced grandly.

“Hello! You're having a wedding this weekend.”

“Who is this? How did you know?”

“I'm Olivia Villarubia-Thistleberry, director of the school. We're following events in Texas with great interest. It's not every day that the American equivalent of two royal families are united in marriage.”

Thayne immediately liked this woman. “My wedding planner has come down with a case of adult measles. I'm in need of someone who can handle a rehearsal involving a symphony orchestra, a two-hundred-voice choir, two brass quintets, a bell choir, an organist, and thirty-one attendants, not to mention an obstreperous mother of the groom. I'll pay you fifty thousand dollars to get someone here this afternoon. On top of your usual fee, of course.”

“I don't think that would be a problem for Cedric,” Olivia said after a gut-wrenching hiatus. “He has personally dressed the Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz for twenty years. He has organized three royal weddings. And he happens to be here this week presenting master classes on Large Scale Events Requiring Hats.”

“Hire a jet and fly him to Dallas at once.”

“This is very exciting, Mrs. Walker. I'm so glad you called.”

“I'll e-mail you all my files. Cedric can study them en route.”

Thayne consumed another half pint of Kaopectate before feeling confident enough to venture into her fifteen-hundred-square-foot closet. She conducted a phone interview with Zarina, a Hollywood society reporter, while Margarita fixed her hair. She phoned Rosimund, Lance's mother, to say she'd be late for the bridesmaids' luncheon. She phoned Pippa and told her to proceed with the food service; she would get there as soon as possible. After choosing eight items of pearl jewelry to wear, Thayne finally allowed herself a smile. They didn't call her Superwoman for nothing.

S
ix months ago, within minutes of learning that her daughter planned to marry Lance Henderson, Thayne had phoned the Mansion on Turtle Creek to reserve the presidential suite as well as the upper four floors of the hotel. By acting with lightning speed she was able to get a group rate and, better yet, prevent Rosimund Henderson, Lance's mother, from booking the best rooms for the groom's family and friends. Thayne thus ensured that her lifelong relationship with Rosimund, a formidable social rival, began on the correct footing.

That done, Thayne had focused on the daunting task of selecting ten perfect bridesmaids. At SMU Pippa had been a very popular member of Kappa Kappa Gamma. As word of her engagement torched through the sorority, Pippa was besieged with requests to be included in her wedding party. She would have loved to accommodate all her friends, but that was impossible. Thayne solved the crisis by holding a competition for the ten precious places. Each candidate had to submit family credentials, four photographs (front and rear shots in bathing suit and debutante gown), and write an essay entitled “Why I Should Be Pippa's Bridesmaid.” The winnowing process was fraught with peril because the most socially desirable heiresses, including some of Pippa's absolute best friends, were not necessarily inheritors of the most graceful faces and forms. Thayne also had to deal with the girls' mothers, many of them powerful social matriarchs, all masters of flattery, bribery, and blackmail. After great deliberation she chose ten bridesmaids and three alternates and had them sign two-page contracts outlining their obligations. The zaftig bridesmaids were told exactly how many pounds Thayne expected them to lose if they wished to remain in the wedding party; each Monday all thirteen young ladies were required to phone in their vital statistics to Thayne's personal trainer.

When the bridal entourage arrived in Dallas a week before the wedding, the Walker limousine delivered them directly to the scale in her gym. One bridesmaid, having filed false reports about the thirteen pounds she had gained, was sent home in tears. Pippa tried to intercede on her behalf but Thayne held firm and installed an overjoyed alternate. Her final team was rewarded with a week of horseback riding, film screenings, shopping, fittings, and spa treatments.

At eight A.M. the day before the wedding, as Wyeth was confronting Thayne at her treadmill, Pippa and her bridesmaids were feverishly working out in the hotel gym. Thayne had engaged Richard Simmons for the week to keep the girls in tip-top shape. It was a grue-somely early hour to be sweating, but workouts were part of the contract each bridesmaid had signed. Afterward they regrouped in the presidential suite for a date with eleven Korean manicurists.

“Where's Kimberly?” Pippa wondered aloud, checking her Patek Philippe, a gift from Lance. No occasion; he just thought it would look nice on her wrist. “She knows we're getting our nails done at ten.”

“She's probably still in the sauna,” replied Charlotte, a willowy brunette. “One extra ounce shows when you're only four foot eight.”

“And addicted to chocolate,” added Hazel.

“Where's Ginny?” Pippa continued. “She's never late.”

“She's probably doing an extra five miles on the treadmill,” sniffed Chardonnay. “Just for fun.” Chardonnay wasted no time grabbing an unattached Korean for a pedicure.

“I think she's taking her shoes back to Neiman's to be stretched,” Francesca said. “She's got incredibly wide feet, you know.”

“Do you think any guy on earth notices her feet?” Steffani snorted. “Pul—eeese.” Ginny was endowed with full, nonman-made breasts, a great derriere, and a swanlike neck, in short, the best body of all the bridesmaids. She looked absolutely smashing in the slinky aqua silk gown Vera Wang had designed for them. Her mere existence annoyed the other females in the bridal party, six of whom had blown thousands on breast implants. The other two had had nose jobs. Nobody could do anything about their necks, however.

“No more cat talk!” Pippa interrupted. Ginny was her oldest, dearest friend. “I want everyone to say only nice things today. And tomorrow. Then you can go back to normal.”

Everyone laughed: they could more easily fly to Mars than go forty-eight hours without trashing a rival. As the bridesmaids settled down with their manicurists, conversation turned to the groomsmen. None of them were married, either, so chances of Pippa's wedding resulting in half a dozen more weddings were quite high. “Tell us everything you know about Lance's friends,” Cora demanded.

Actually Pippa didn't know much. Lance and his retinue had spent a great deal of the last six months in football camp. “I shouldn't prejudice you one way or another. You'll meet them all at the rehearsal tonight. Just turn on that Southern charm.”

“Can you at least tell us who's richest?”

“I haven't noticed. Money isn't everything.”

“Easy for you to say, Pippa. You're going to be swimming in it.”

The door burst open. In teetered Kimberly wearing a body-hugging slip of a little black dress with slits up either side, Asprey sunglasses, four-inch-high Christian Louboutin pumps, and an enormous black bonnet with pink ribbons.

“Kim! You look fantastic! And that hat!” Pippa's manicure-in-progress prevented her from hugging the shortest bridesmaid. “Find a seat and get your nails done.”

Instead Kimberly flopped onto the presidential bed. “I'm breaking up with Rusty,” she cried. “He told me it was safe to have thermal reconditioning and highlights and now look!” Removing her hat, she exposed a swatch of overprocessed blond hair. “Split ends! My hair's broken. My spirit's broken. My Vedic astrologer thinks I might never heal.” Kimberly burst into tears. “I hate him!”

Fortunately Thayne had arranged for Brent, the famous jetrosexual hairdresser (he would only do clients who had their own planes), to be in Dallas for the weekend. In fact he and three assistant trichologists would be waiting for the bridesmaids when they returned from their luncheon. “That's nothing a few deep conditioning treatments won't cure,” soothed Leah, the ecstatic alternate.

“Absolutely,” Pippa confirmed. “Brent can perform miracles.”

Kimberly smiled through her tears. “I knew I could count on you, Pippa.”

“Don't thank me, thank my mother. This is her wedding.”

Kimberly laughed although this must have been the hundredth time Pippa had repeated her good-natured jest. Any normal daughter would have spat out those words, Kimberly thought. Or eloped. She could not imagine having a mother like Thayne, but Pippa seemed to adore the woman. She claimed Thayne was not only brilliant but
sweet!
Alas, Pippa thought well of everybody, Kimberly noted with disgust. Such an attitude was not conducive to survival in the real world. “This is not Thayne's wedding, Pippa.
You're
the lucky bitch marrying Lance Henderson.”

Kimberly presented her hands to a manicurist. Thayne had decreed that all one hundred fingers in the bridal party be painted Flamme Rose Naturel Pink, a Chanel shade that perfectly matched their Blahnik sling-backs. As her nails were buffed, Kimberly shut her eyes and concentrated on another mortal enemy: Wyeth McCoy, the wedding planner. First he had convinced Thayne that no one deserved to be maid of honor. Then he had ordered the bridesmaids to process down the aisle by height, tallest first. Obviously Kimberly would be last onstage. She would enjoy only a few seconds in the limelight, admired by Lance's friends, before Pippa appeared and usurped all the glory. Kimberly had no intention of lowering her chances of matrimony simply because she was the size of a Munchkin. Whatever it took, her high heels were going to be first to click across that marble floor tomorrow at five o'clock.

“Kim!” shouted Leah. “You asleep there, honey?”

Kimberly snapped out of her trance. “You were saying?”

“Where did you get that superb
chapeau?”

“London. Daddy flew me over in his plane last weekend.”

“Well, you definitely win the prize for best hat.” Pippa smiled, hoping to cheer her up. Kimberly had been in a sour mood all week.

“And you were so clever to come up with the Mad Hatter theme for the bridesmaids' luncheon.”

“It wasn't
that
clever, Pippa. This wedding is already a lot like
Alice in Wonderland,
isn't it?”

Kimberly never imagined that Pippa would marry before she did. Instead of finishing school, Pippa had flitted off to Prague with an actor who looked like Jude Law. Meanwhile Kimberly had graduated with honors then enrolled in the Christie's training program in New York. It was a job but not a jobby job, fortunately, because Kimberly couldn't care less about art. Her sole aim in moving to Manhattan was to acquire a last name like von Furstenburg or at least Kravis. One year later Kimberly still hadn't managed to become serious with any “sons of riches.” The best bachelor she could land was Rusty, who owned a chain of upscale florist shops and therefore got invited to lots of charity balls. When she heard that Pippa had become engaged not one tiny month after a humiliating return from Prague, Kimberly almost threw herself in front of the A train. She had intended to marry Lance Henderson herself.

“Alice in Wonderland?”
Pippa laughed. “At least it beats
A Series of Unfortunate Events.”

Half an hour later, their fingernails, hats, plaids, and polka dots in place, all bridesmaids absent Ginny packed into the elevator. Their aggregation of loopy millinery caused quite a stir in the hotel lobby. Paparazzi, camped out in the piazza, swung into attack mode as the ladies walked to their private dining room. Since Thayne had leaked the Mad Hatter theme to two of her favorite society reporters, two media types knew what the costumes were all about. Everyone else thought the luncheon was themed on either Abraham Lincoln (who had worn a top hat like Kimberly's) or Jiminy Cricket.

Lorenzo, the maftre d', led the entourage to a room containing a round table set for sixteen. “Please be seated,” he announced. “Mrs. Walker will be a few minutes late.”

Thayne was never late for anything. “Maybe her treadmill ate her,” Francesca said.

Pippa and the bridesmaids snuggled into their deep brocade seats. Their wineglasses were emptied within minutes. Two hovering waiters offered only water for refills: I'
m sorry, mademoiselle, Mrs. Walkers orders.

Pippa's cell phone rang. “Start lunch,” Thayne commanded. “Is something wrong?” Pippa asked. Her mother sounded unusually stressed.

“Damn traffic!” Thayne hung up.

Pippa instructed the waiters to bring on the meal. The first course consisted of tiny mounds of buffalo tartare on transparent wafers. Each bridesmaid received two. The second course was a pair of rather small lobster tacos.

“Will Lance's mother be coming?” Cora asked, still hoping to gather critical information on the groomsmen.

“Of course,” Pippa said. “Mama's probably picking her up this minute.”

“Who else isn't here?” Cora persisted, staring at the six empty seats. “Besides Ginny.”

“Two reporters. And Wyeth McCoy.”

Across the table, Kimberly shuddered: Wyeth, her archenemy. She should have brought some arsenic for his wine. “Maybe his Hummer fell into a sinkhole.”

Now that they didn't have to behave like proper ingénues for Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Walker, nine bridesmaids miraculously located flasks of vodka in their purses. The table was acquiring a nice buzz when the doors swung open and Ginny, the missing bridesmaid, entered. Despite her black and white striped top hat, red polka dot bow tie, and wild orange plaid jacket, she looked as elegant as Greta Garbo. “Sorry I'm late.” She found her seat next to Pippa. “Getting nervous?”

Pippa laughed. “I'm too busy to even think about it.”

“That's the whole point.” Ginny snickered at the costumes the nine other bridesmaids were wearing. They looked like a coven of demented Freemasons. “Whose Mad Hatter idea was this anyway?” She turned to Kimberly. “Yours, I bet.”

Kimberly kicked herself for not bringing two doses of poison. “Thank you.”

Ginny stared at the two buffalo crackers on her plate. “This is lunch?”

“That's your starter.” Steffani couldn't take her eyes off Ginny. Something was
wrong,
even in the flattering light of the dining room. “May I ask what you did to your hair?”

“I got it cut.” Ginny beckoned a waiter. “Whatever you just served for the main course, could you bring me two plates of it? I'm starving.” “So are we,” nine voices chimed in.

“In that case bring nine more plates. My treat. And bring it fast, before Thayne gets here.”

“Ginny! Take off your hat!” Steffani called.

Ginny obliged, revealing a pixie that showed off her neck to perfection. “Something wrong?” she asked, amused at the surrounding looks of horror.

“Omigosh, Thayne's going to kill you. Six inches minimum was in the contract! You signed it!” “Oops. Guess I forgot.”

Even Pippa looked worried. Ginny had always been a free spirit, but this was pushing the limits of independence. Hopefully Brent would think of a fix before Thayne saw the damage.

“Are you making some sort of statement, dear?” Hazel drawled.

“No, I'm leaving for an expedition right after the wedding.” Ginny loved taking trips to jungles and deserts and other horrible places with giant bugs and no electricity. Although a triple legacy to Kappa Kappa Gamma, she hadn't even rushed, an aberration that made her little above a leper in the bridesmaids' eyes. After her first debutante ball, she had never been seen in a gown again—until now. No one could understand what Pippa saw in Ginny.

“You mean you won't make it to the reception?” Cora asked.

“Correct. My plane leaves at eight and flies directly to Costa Rica. I have to be at camp by midnight to see the kinkajous feeding in the trees.”