‘So sweet pea, are you anywhere nearer making a decision about the guest books?’ Alessandro Franchetti’s voice on the telephone was impatient. ‘If you need a steer, I just love the hand-bound midnight-blue calfskin or the taupe ostrich. Two hundred gsm paperweight, ivory rather than white. The paper is handmade in Italy, by the way. I just love it.’
Brooke sighed. For some reason she just couldn’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for the guest books. After all, it was just a large bound book left at the wedding for people to write their messages of goodwill in. She looked at the huge pile of them that Alessandro had sent over. It wasn’t just the guest books, of course. Her apartment was littered with swatches, folders, boxes, and endless samples of envelopes, cards, fabric, and even cutlery. There were so many choices to be made, she felt overwhelmed.
‘Okay, yes to the heavy ivory paper and I like the midnight blue,’ she said, ‘but I’m just not comfortable with the idea of calfskin.’
‘What are you suggesting, baby?’ he asked. ‘Fish skin? Tofu? Never mind, never mind. I’ll sort something out. Now, are you totally happy with that?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Brooke, propping the receiver under her chin and flicking idly through a copy of Elle. She wondered when the shift had happened, when choosing every last detail for the wedding had become, well, a bit of a chore. It hadn’t been so long ago that she had bought every single bridal magazine – US and international – poring over them night and day. She wanted her day to be perfect, of course. Of course she did, but Jewel Cay was so gorgeous, she knew that just the sound of the sea and the tropical breeze washing over them as they said their vows would give the day all the stardust it needed. If she was honest, she really didn’t care what sort of card the place settings were made from. Brooke was well aware of the irony; she and David had quarrelled over this very thing only weeks ago, but now meetings, phone calls, and emails from Alessandro took up at least an hour of her time a day. It was starting to get too much.
‘We can still do lunch on Friday, sweetness?’ asked Alessandro. ‘I haven’t quite worked out the details for the ceremony departure yet.’
‘What’s that?’
There was the smallest of sighs down the phone. ‘When you leave the chapel, darling. Well, in this instance, the ceremonial platform.’
‘Oh, you mean the “confetti bit”,’ said Brooke.
He coughed meaningfully. ‘Alessandro Franchetti doesn’t do confetti, sweet thing. I was thinking hundreds of butterflies released from an aviary. Maybe red admirals, as red is traditionally good luck at Chinese weddings?’ he mused aloud. ‘Although blue is the lucky colour in the West, isn’t it?’
‘What do they say about working with children and animals?’ said Brooke, smiling to herself, but Alessandro didn’t seem to be listening.
‘Maybe I’ll give Princess Olga of Greece a call,’ he said. ‘You must know her, right? She’s a butterfly catcher. I’ll call her right now. Get her view on it and call you straight back.’
Gratefully, Brooke put down the phone and threw herself back on the sofa, gazing out at the greying Manhattan sky. It was funny how quickly the dark nights came in, she thought. She grabbed the controls for her TiVo, and decided to watch Dispatches, which she had recorded earlier in the week. It featured the thirty-minute documentary segment David had recorded in Iraq. He had a presence and substance you didn’t often see in TV presenters. The critics seemed to agree with her and were already calling it one of the documentaries of the year, while at the network there were rumours about a promotion for David to lead anchor, or even his own show. Brooke hoped he got it; to her mind, that was a better fit than politics.
When her phone rang, she debated not answering it, but while she’d definitely had enough of Alessandro Franchetti for one evening, it was better to get this guest book and butterfly business sorted out sooner rather than later.
‘I was just thinking,’ she said, snatching up the phone, ‘maybe we should go for red butterflies. I think David’s dad is inviting lots of prominent Republicans, so I think he’ll prefer the party colours.’
‘Butterflies? What are you talking about, Brooke?’
‘Matt, is that you?’ she said, pleased to hear his voice.
‘The same.’
She giggled. ‘God, save me from wedding madness. I’ve just been debating whether I should have five hundred red or blue butterflies released after my wedding.’
‘What happened to the plain old shower of confetti?’
‘Too plain and old, apparently.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said. ‘Where did you get to?’
‘Just busy,’ said Matt vaguely.
‘Well, how about doing something this weekend?’ She ran through her diary in her head. David was away again and although Tess had said she and David should meet Matt together, what harm could a coffee or a pizza do?
‘I think I’m busy this weekend.’
‘Long shift?’
There was a long pause.
She knew instinctively what he was doing that weekend.
‘You have a date!’ she said, chiding him.
‘I guess.’
‘I thought we were friends, Matthew Palmer,’ she said over-brightly. ‘But you tell me nothing.’
Matt laughed. ‘There’s nothing much to tell. We’ve only been out a few times.’
‘You’ve been out a few times and there’s nothing to tell? You have a girlfriend!’
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Matt. ‘She’s called Susie, she’s fun, she’s an aromatherapist.’
‘Ooh, just think of all those sexy, oily massages.’
‘Brooke—’
‘So where did you meet her?’
‘At a party. She’s a friend of a friend.’
Brooke was suddenly aware that Matt had a life that she knew nothing about. Somehow she had this romantic notion of him toiling in ER for twenty hours at a time, then returning home only to sleep and eat pizza before doing it all again, but clearly he was out at parties with attractive bohemian aromatherapists.
‘So when am I going to meet her?’ asked Brooke.
‘Well, that’s why I’m calling. It’s my birthday in a couple of weeks, I thought I’d better do the decent thing and celebrate.’
‘Great. I’ll bring David. My publicist has been telling me forever that you two should meet …’ She paused, realizing that sounded wrong somehow. ‘Well, you know, just in case anyone thinks there might be something funny going on between us. Ridiculous, but you know how people talk.’
‘No, no, she’s right,’ said Matt. ‘That’s a good idea.’
There was another long pause.
‘Well, I’ll text you the details of the meal when I’ve decided what to cook.’
‘Fine. Great. See you then.’
She snapped her mobile shut and marched straight over to the towering pile of guest books, taking them down and examining them with total concentration. Suddenly choosing between the blue book and the taupe one was the most important decision in the world.