You see that? I wasn’t the villain of this story after all. I know you were dying to hate me, because I’m gorgeous and stylish and smart. Yeah, smart. (How many of you have a book on the New York Times best-seller list?) But in the end, I turned out to be sort of the heroine. Amy got the man she wanted and the job she wanted, and I was the one who made that happen.
And no, I’m not being overly self-congratulatory. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have gone after Tony in the first place, nor would she have garnered all that attention within the publishing industry. She owes me a lot, when you get right down to it. But am I keeping score? Please. I’m not that petty. What’s important here is that she and I are best friends, just the way we used to be. While we still have our little bones of contention, we’re there for each other. We really are.
For example, as soon as she and Tony set a date for their wedding, she asked me to be her maid of honor and I accepted. Talk about a long-overdue gig. And when the big event finally arrived, I couldn’t have been more excited if I’d been the bride myself. Well, in a manner of speaking.
“I wish you two had picked a place with some panache,” I said. Amy and I were standing in the back room of the steak restaurant in SoHo where she and Tony were getting married in an hour. The manager had done a fairly decent job of sprucing it up for the ceremony. There were a few rows of chairs, flowers at the ends of the aisles, and a makeshift altar at the far end of the room. But still. It smelled of slabs of beef, for God’s sake.
“We had our first date here,” she said, “so it has sentimental value for us. And the waiters treat Tony like their firstborn son. He’s comfortable here.”
“Maybe, but people get married at quaint country inns, not at steak joints.”
“Stuart and I were supposed to get married at a quaint country inn, and look how that worked out.”
“Point taken,” I said. “Besides, my job as maid of honor is not to criticize, just to help the bride prepare.”
“Then let’s prepare me already.”
I shut up about the restaurant—you can’t force people to have good taste—and concentrated on the crucial aspect of the wedding: what I was wearing. Well, okay, what she and I were wearing.
We carried our garment bags into the ladies’ room and undressed, dressed, then admired each other.
“You look beautiful,” said Amy.
You bet I did. I had chosen my own gown this time around, and it was smashing on me. It had a pale green silk top with matching—
Never mind. It was her night to shine.
“You look beautiful, too,” I said, and made a huge fuss over the Vera Wang number I’d found for her at Neiman Marcus. “The gown, the shoes, the bouquet. The whole enchilada.”
She smiled. She really was radiant and, thanks to my tireless efforts, downright chic. I envied her happiness almost as much as I envied that rock Tony had put on her finger.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Maybe I should be, but I’m not,” she said, then giggled. “I can’t wait to get out there, say ‘ I do,’ and then party.”
“I’m up for the party, too,” I said, “although I have no idea if my date will be any fun.”
“You have a date? Since when?”
“Since last night. Forgive the short notice, but you told me I could bring someone.”
“Sure I did,” she said. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“You know him, actually. He’s an accountant at L and T. He runs the Business Affairs department.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Michael Ollin?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “We met last week and I just started seeing him. He’s a hunk, isn’t he?”
“He’s a hunk all right.” She made a face. “A hunk of jerkiness. He calls women ‘bodilicious’ and cheats on his girlfriend.”
“The girlfriend’s history. He told me.”
“Oh, Tara.” She sighed. I felt one of her holier-than-thou lectures coming on. “Since the divorce, you’ve dated a string of men with absolutely no redeeming—”
Just then, there was a knock on the door. It was Tony.
“Time’s up,” he called out. “I’ll be waiting for you two at the altar in five minutes.”
Amy and I gave each other a hug and an air kiss (I can’t speak for her, but there was no way I was smudging my lipstick).
“I’m so glad you’re by my side tonight,” she said.
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” I replied.
We clasped hands, then hurried into the ceremony area.
She took her father’s arm, the keyboardist struck the chords of “The Wedding March,” and the show began.
I walked down the aisle first, toward Tony and his best man (he had asked his car mechanic to do the honors, of all things). I glanced at the guests as I moved along, nodding at each of them, the way Miss America nods at her well-wishers as she glides along the carpet after her crowning. There was Amy’s mother, of course. There was Amy’s tacky friend Connie and her husband, Murray, the abstract artist/insurance salesman. There was Michael Ollin, my handsome and, according to Amy, disreputable date. And there was Marianne, Amy’s therapist, who was now my therapist and was teaching me to deal with what she called my “grandiosity issues.” Over on the groom’s side sat Tony’s father, his mother, and his three stepmothers, as well as his friends, some of whom were New York City cops in uniform. It was a motley crew, in other words.
Once I’d reached the spot where I was supposed to stand, Amy and her father proceeded down the aisle. She beamed when she reached Tony, and the current of love that passed between them was unmistakable.
After the justice of the peace delivered his remarks and Amy and Tony recited their vows, it was time for the Kiss. My big moment. Well, okay, their big moment.
I stepped forward and lifted Amy’s veil for her. I was about to return to my corner, I swear I was, when it occurred to me that a maid of honor should have more to do. I mean, why rush off so damn fast, especially after all the time I spent on my makeup? There had to be other tasks for me to perform in front of those people, right?
I saw that a hair on the top of Amy’s head was sticking up, so I smoothed it. And then I saw that one of her earrings was twisted, so I straightened it. And then I saw that there was a wayward piece of string hanging from her bodice, so I gave it a little tug and pulled it off.
I was about to check the skirt of the gown, when she leaned over and whispered, “Thanks, Tara, but I’ll take it from here.”
I smiled and went back to the sidelines like a good girl. But I’ve got to tell you: It was a kick strutting my stuff, you know?