Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305) Read online

  “Oh, then you definitely deserve a bumping up, Miss Bride-to-Be!” she enthused. “I won’t know until boarding time, so I’ll call you to the desk then, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I made a beeline into the waiting area, in search of my favorite comfy seat and a power source. Between touring on the road with Allen’s band and escorting him down to that medical trial in Philadelphia, I was actually a frequent traveler through this particular waiting lounge.

  The airline had pairs of great square chairs near the windows, in padded black leather with electrical outlets built right into the armrests. Unfortunately, the only free one was next to a guy in a matchy-match gray suit, draining half the tristate’s electric grid. Not only was he hogging both armrest outlets, with his fancy phone and his tablet charging, he was also typing one-handed on a laptop balanced on his knee, its power cord like a tightrope that I had to maneuver past just to get close to the empty seat. At close range, his cologne was a force field I had to skirt around. A hands-free device winked from behind a lock of his thick jet-black hair like a glowing blue locust. This guy was wired to the gills and completely self-absorbed within his sensory-overload bubble.

  I made a production of carefully draping the garment bag across the chair before plopping myself down on the floor near the one wall outlet he wasn’t zapping power from. New text messages from Danica lit up the minute I plugged in.

  Where are you!?!?! TEXT ME.

  Sorry, needed to find a plug. Evil supervillain is harnessing all airport energy at his superbase to fuel his death ray.

  Tech-Boy had stopped typing. I stole a glance. Maybe that was no ordinary Bluetooth device in his ear: could it read my thoughts? Or my texts?

  English, please?

  Dude totally hogging the outlets at my gate. And now he is staring at me.

  Oh. :-) Is he cute?

  I flicked my eyes up nonchalantly. He now had his cell phone in his hand and was frowning at the screen as he loosened his tie.

  A little like Keanu.

  Pre-Matrix or post-Matrix?

  Pre-Matrix. But with more technology. And more hair.

  LOL. Take a pic!

  Are you THAT bored in Hawaii already? What time is it there, anyway?

  Laney! Come on. Pic or I don’t believe you.

  The stuff I do to amuse you, Dani.

  I nonchalantly angled my phone and pretended to admire my toes, freshly shellacked in a blue the color of sea glass, and stealthily captured him still in frowning mode. Three button pushes later, his picture was in Hawaii, in my best friend’s waiting hand. Gotta love technology.

  Pretty hot. I like the scruff.

  I snuck another peek. I liked it, too. It was a nice contrast to his high cheekbones.

  Maybe I should go buy him an electric razor so he can have one more thing to plug in.

  Ha! Maybe he’ll be sitting next to you.

  Just what I don’t need. Thanks.

  Come on. Live a little. Think WWDD.

  What Would Dani Do? You’d probably be joining the Mile-High Club with some sexy pilot.

  LOVE a man in uniform! LOL. But no, not exactly . . . I would keep my eyes open, tho. And you should, too. You’re one bad sweater away from becoming a crazy cat lady, you know.

  I frowned, glancing down at the long, gray, belted cardigan I had picked for my traveling ensemble. After a day of criminal-butt-whooping badassery, I could totally picture Wonder Woman or Supergirl kicking back to relax in such a thing. It was comfy and hip when paired with my black leggings and high black leather boots . . . although my boots were no more. True, I had picked the sweater’s neutral color with the thought in mind that it wouldn’t show cat hair as much as black would.

  One cat does not a crazy cat lady make, Dan.

  Wait, I thought you had three cats.

  No, Sister Frances Tappan Zee Got Milk just has a really long name.

  LOL. Whatevs. You’re about to board a jet for a grand adventure, Laney. At least take off Allen’s stupid ring.

  I bit the raised stone on the ring guiltily. Even from the middle of the Pacific Ocean, my best friend knew me all too well. The peridot was warm against my lips, but the metal was cold. It was a subject I really didn’t feel like talking—or texting—about. I deleted her last comment and changed topics.

  They want to upgrade me AND the dress to first class. Isn’t that a scream?

  Cool. Will it get you here any faster? Cuz your mom is already driving me crazy! Tell me again why she didn’t just have her wedding on Long Island. There’s a perfectly good beach, like, a mile from your house.

  You know my mom . . . she was worried people would get stuck in traffic on the L.I.E.

  I sent the last text and smiled, picturing Danica laughing at the absurdity of Hawaii being an easier commute than the Long Island Expressway.

  A half hour till boarding time. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out my sketchpad, a fresh Faber-Castell 2B, and my earbuds. Music was essential when I worked, especially with Tech-Boy keeping up his staccato one-hand typing trick just inches away from my eardrums. Using my legging-clad knees as my easel, I began to flesh out an elaborate throne. Coils of wire and tubing emanated from every crack and crevice; if I had my colors handy, I would ink them in neon yellow or toxic green, perfect for the supervillain siphoning all the world’s energy for his death ray.

  I bit my lip into a smile as I sketched, my lines becoming looser and freer with every stroke of the pencil. Tech-Boy was sprawled spineless in his airport lounge chair now, barking short responses at someone on the other end of his Bluetooth. Funny how one tiny piece of technology was the fine line between socially acceptable and looking like a crazy person ranting into thin air.

  In my drawing, he was rod straight in the chair, long fingers gripping the armrests in evil victory. A large T was emblazoned across his muscled chest in classic superhero style. I added Bluetooth devices to both ears—why not?—and, for added effect, a metal band around his head like a crown, connecting with bolts to all the tubes. May as well wire his brainpan. With simple wavy lines and a few bursts, I achieved a glow effect in a halo around him.

  I was totally lost in my process now, not even aware that I was staring as I studied his facial features. Those cheekbones could cut glass, they were so sharp. His dark eyes were almond shaped, but I could see the curling fan of perfect, lush lashes. I had eyelashes like that, too, but mine came out of a mascara tube. His brow was thick and straight. He was actually a dream to draw. I smudged in his five o’clock shadow with the tip of my pinky, softening his strong jawline.

  Allowing myself one last look to make sure I had captured the length and wave of his hair, I was met with a stony, irritated stare. I quickly dropped my eyes and slammed my sketchbook shut. Since leaving my job at Marvel, drawing was a guilty luxury, an escape.

  Since losing Allen, I had a hard time being on board with the whole justice-prevailing-over-evil thing. Turns out, the good guys don’t always win.

  Noah

  CHOOSE YOUR BATTLES

  From: Manhattan Paperie

  Subject: Bidwell-Ridgewood wedding PROOF

  Date: March 5, 2013 8:00 AM EST

  To: Noah Ridgewood , Sloane Bidwell

  Dear Sloane and Noah,

  Thank you for letting Manhattan Paperie help commemorate your special day!

  Attached please find your revised invitation proof. Your approval is required to complete the order, so please let us know at your earliest convenience if it meets your satisfaction.

  It is a pleasure to be of service to you at this joyful and important time in your lives.

  Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Bidwell

  request the honor of your presence

  at the marriage of their daughter
>
  Sloane Rose

  to

  Mr. Noah L. Ridgewood

  Saturday, the eighth of June

  two thousand and thirteen

  at half after five in the evening

  Grace Church

  New York, New York

  Dinner and dancing

  immediately following

  The Altman Building

  135 West Eighteenth Street, Manhattan

  From: Kewana Jones

  Subject: Fwd: Fwd: Wedding flowers

  Date: March 5, 2013 8:28 AM EST

  To: Noah Ridgewood

  Is she STILL not speaking to you?

  P.S. Don’t shoot the messenger . . .

  K

  Begin forwarded message:

  From: Sloane Bidwell

  Subject: Fwd: Wedding flowers

  Date: March 5, 2013 8:25 AM EST

  To: Kewana Jones

  Tell him if we change date, lily of the valley go out of season. Imported from Holland $9/stem. Revised estimate attached. Remy’s shooting schedule is tight and he leaves for Paris on June 20th. Also, band now booked up for the entire month of July. HIS CHOICE.

  From: Noah Ridgewood

  Subject: Sorry . . .

  Date: March 5, 2013 8:31 AM EST

  To: Kewana Jones

  Kiwi,

  I bet you didn’t think handling the boss’s daughter’s rebel fiancé would be in your job description when Bidwell-Butler hired you to be my secretary, did you? Sorry you are caught in the middle of this . . . I will deal with her.

  Thanks, N.

  From: Kewana Jones

  Subject: Re: Sorry . . .

  Date: March 5, 2013 8:32 AM EST

  To: Noah Ridgewood

  Noah,

  Don’t apologize. You know I would follow you to the ends of the earth. If only you could pay me half as well as B-B does.

  Kiwi

  From: Noah Ridgewood

  Subject: Re: Re: Sorry . . .

  Date: March 5, 2013 8:33 AM EST

  To: Kewana Jones

  LOL someday. Meanwhile, you would NOT have wanted to follow me into 7am mtg. w/ Bidwell today. Was basically handed my balls in a sling. Told to go “get it out of my system” in Vegas, then come back and make things right. As if it were that simple . . .

  From: Kewana Jones

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Sorry . . .

  Date: March 4, 2013 8:35 AM EST

  To: Noah Ridgewood

  Mama always told me to keep my eggs out of the same basket. You should never have put all your balls in that one basket, if you know what I mean.

  Safe travels, boss. What happens in Vegas . . . ain’t none of my business!

  • • •

  My father had always told me to choose my battles wisely, but with a fiancée on the wedding warpath, no topic was safe these days. Sloane had accused me of not caring enough about the details, but then she had thrown a fit when I suggested dove gray ink for our invitations might be a nice alternative to the traditional black. She sulked for days after I chose my groomsmen (they’re more IQ than GQ), but couldn’t understand why I might have a slight problem with her inviting not one, not two, but a whopping three of her ex-boyfriends to the wedding. She turned that tug-of-war into an exchange as complex as the Dix-Hill Cartel: my five buds for her three exes. I would hardly put them in the same category, since I had never slept with any of my groomsmen.

  I hit speed-dial and announced my name and account. “I’d like to order two dozen long-stemmed roses, please. Um, cool water lavender and white. She likes a fuller petal in white, is that the Vendela? Perfect. Yes, to the usual address. No, no card needed. Thanks.”

  Chi non ha denaro in borsa, abbia miele in bocca, my mother liked to remind me. He who has no money in his purse, should have honey in his mouth. But when it came to girls like Sloane, bribing with sweetness didn’t really impress. You’ll catch less hell with the push of a button to Sloane’s favorite West Side florist, over more flies with honey, any day of the week.

  Last month we were fighting over honeymooning in Belize or Sardinia (as if either were a losing proposition) and this month: the date. She changed it while I was out of town on a business trip last week. And by changed it, I mean she changed it with the church, the caterer, and the venue before even consulting me. I got a “BTW,” courtesy of a Post-it waiting on my pillow when I got home. Since when does the groom rank a “by the way” level of importance on the ball-and-chain food chain?

  Sounds petty, but out of the three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, she had to pick the one day that I’d rather have wiped from the calendar altogether.

  I frowned as I scanned over the proof from the printer once more, my eyes going out of focus as they stared at the details I had not agreed to. “Can we not make any other changes until I’m back from Vegas?” I had specifically asked her. “And what about all the Save the Date e-mails that went out earlier?” Sloane had dismissed my concerns with a blanket “Oh, nothing’s set in stone” comment, but seeing it there in the printer’s proof felt pretty damn concrete.

  My thumb worked its way into the tight Windsor knot of my tie while I waited for her voice mail. “Sloane. I saw the bill you forwarded to Kiwi. So import the flowers from Holland if you have to, that’s fine. I’m all right with choosing another band if it comes to that. And I’m sorry, but there are other photographers in the world besides Remy Georges. Just . . . please. Don’t sign off on that invitation proof until we’ve had time to figure this out, okay? Just . . . just call me back.” I slumped back in the chair and let out a gusty sigh, remembering the power struggle over the Post-it Note.

  As usual, she had had the last word: “I get that the day sucks for you. It’s a lemon. So why not turn that day into lemonade?”

  Because that’s not how my brain works.

  And I thought she’d know that about me by now.

  I’m not a game changer. Slow and steady wins the race. Not that I’m winning at much lately. Especially not the game of Marital Monopoly. In that game, Sloane’s father is the top hat piece. Mr. Moneybags. He’s also my boss in real life. And he’s controlling the bank; he rolls the dice first. Sloane, she’s like the iron token. She gives off the impression of being sweetly domestic, but when no one’s looking, she whacks me upside the head and leaves a scalding burn mark. Me? I’ve been the Scottie dog. Trotting along behind them, loyal to a fault. Trying to keep the peace. Trying to please everyone.

  But lately, it’s all been Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect Your Prize. Sloane and I had been fighting like crazy. Plus, there was not even the bonus of amazing makeup sex, because even when we agreed to disagree, there was still the no-sex-till-the-wedding-night ban she had unilaterally imposed on us. Even if she finally agreed to bump the date out of June and back into July, I had the feeling that would be my last Get Out of Jail Free card.

  “Thank you, young man.” I felt a soft hand fall on my shoulder. The elderly woman from the row of seats across from me was getting ready to board with the help of her grandson. She looked at me expectantly.

  “Oh, no problem. They really need to add more outlets around here.” I wiggled the prongs of her adapter loose and handed back her Kindle, which had needed charging. “Happy to help, ma’am.”

  “Such a gentleman.” She gave my shoulder an extra pat. “Your mother raised you well. Safe travels, dear.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  With a sigh, I clicked my laptop shut and glanced
around. Half the passengers had boarded already and I hadn’t even noticed. Amazing how one stupid e-mail could bring the weight of the world down on my shoulders. Then again, Sloane Bidwell expected the very same world to revolve around her, twenty-four/seven, so why was I surprised in the least? I released myself from my necktie’s stranglehold and shoved it into the side pocket of my computer bag. If only I could loosen the grip she had on me as easily. Or her father’s, for that matter. I roughly pushed a hand through my hair, upsetting the careful grooming I had gone through to make my best impression at that morning’s meeting.

  Trying to ungroom, Noah?

  How fitting.

  “Get it out of your system, Ridgewood.” My boss’s words echoed in my ears as I walked down the chilly gangway to the aircraft.

  I’ve never been a game changer.

  God, I really hoped Vegas was good for something.

  Boarding and Departure

  “Safe and sound,” the flight attendant assured me as she clicked the first-class closet closed with the dress inside. “I love your hair! Are you going to wear it like that for the wedding?”

  I pushed a hand through my unapologetically pin-straight tresses that wouldn’t hold a wave no matter how hard I tried. The grass is always greener on the other side of the septic tank, Dani would remind me, with her Keri Russell curls that she considered a curse. Unlike its texture, my hair had a hard time making up its mind what color it wanted to be. A caramel-fudge combo in the winter that became streaky red-gold in the summer sun. “Nature’s highlights,” my mother would allow. “You can’t duplicate that in any salon.” I think it was a compliment.

  “Maybe in an updo?” the other flight attendant offered. “You have enough for a French twist.” Sometime over the last year, it had reached past shoulder-blade length. A last-minute decision, along with a night at home alone, a bottle of red wine, and nothing good on television, had left me with the thick fringe of bangs that I was still getting used to. I had been conservative with the cutting shears, afraid to go too short, and was now constantly blinking them out of my eyes.