Canceling your own wedding has got to be one of the most humiliating and humbling experiences a girl can ever have. It’s pure torture telling your friends and family the news, trying to explain what happened, and that’s all before you’ve even thought about having to return all of the presents. Then, you’re faced with the worst part of it all—having to call each and every one of the vendors and losing your deposit as you cancel the most important day of your life. Even when your mother and father do most of the actual canceling for you, it’s still pretty awful.
The process began for me with my mother stoically packing up all of my engagement and wedding presents, one by one, and then shipping them back to their respective senders with a kind note. Next, my father called the Pierre Hotel to tell them that the whole thing was off. It pained my father to call the Pierre to cancel his little girl’s wedding. It truly killed him to give up on the plan for my wedding day—a day he and my mother had dreamed about since the day I was born. And even more so to actually lose the 20% deposit he’d put down on the whole thing. When he made the call, he had that expression on his face that he reserves only for impromptu visits from the health department, tax audits, or a particularly bad New York Jets game loss. Actually, I’m not really sure what he was more upset about: losing the deposit money itself, or that he was unable to “chisel them” down to a smaller amount like he’d bragged to my mother and me that he could.
Most of the wedding vendors have been nothing short of kind and understanding. I’m sure I’m not the first person in the world to have had second thoughts and cancel her wedding— they’ve been through this before. Most of the people we spoke to were absolutely professional and appropriate. For example, when my mother called Maximo the florist to call off the wedding, he told her, in his charming Spanish (or definitely Italian) accent, that she needn’t worry—a woman as enchanting as her daughter was sure to find another man immediately. In fact, he explained (or, she thinks he explained—this was over the phone and his accent is really very thick) that while he had to keep the deposit money as per the contract, he would use the deposit money for my next wedding, which undoubtedly would be coming up very soon. My hairdresser, Starleen, after bursting into hysterical tears when I told her the news and then composing herself because she “wanted to be strong” for me, was very supportive of my decision to cancel the wedding and agreed not to keep the deposit. And that’s not just because I hadn’t actually given her a deposit yet. She truly meant it from the bottom of her heart. And even Savannah Moore, the bandleader (who, it bears mentioning, I didn’t want to use in the first place), refunded all of the deposit money to my father, saying that she wouldn’t feel right keeping it, since she had a wait list in place for our wedding date and would definitely be re-booking a different party for the night. Probably within the hour.
Yes, all of the vendors we’d used had been a pleasure to deal with, even in the darkest hours of my life. Or my parents’s lives, as the case may be. They made this very difficult time for me and my family easier, and the transition from bride-to-be back to single girl as painless as they could.
But not Jay Conte. Not my wedding videographer to the mob. You’d think that after you bail a guy out of jail—well, technically a detention center, but close enough—you’d have formed a bond with him. But, no. Even after your father calls him to explain to him that your wedding is off, he will still track you down like the rat that you are in your place of business.
“Brooke,” my assistant says over the intercom. “Your wedding videographer is here to see you.” I can hear her faintly giggling in the background.
My wedding what? Did she not get the memo that my wedding was off? Clearly, I no longer have a wedding anything anymore. Jay Conte, of all people, should not be here at my office. As I try to articulate this to my assistant, I hear more giggling over the line.
Oh God, I think. What on earth is going on out there? Has he threatened her life? Has he threatened my life? Is he already trying to kill her or something? But then I hear more giggling. This is worse that I could have imagined. There’s a lot of giggling going on out there. Is my assistant—dare I say it—flirting with him?
Oh God. This is the first thing they teach you in the movies. Do not flirt with the mobster. Do. Not. Flirt with the Mobster!!! Have we learned nothing from Scarface?
“Uh,” I babble into the intercom, “who?”
“Me,” Jay says, materializing in my doorway. “I brought you flowers, but your assistant loved them, so I gave them to her.”
“You brought me flowers?” I ask.
Oh no! Is he hitting on me? Has he come here to ask me out? I should have seen this one coming—I guess he was secretly thrilled when he heard the news that Jack and I split up and ran down here as quickly as he could to profess his love for me! I had a feeling that I’d seen him trailing me when I went to Monique’s brownstone for meetings. Vanessa said I was crazy, but I knew that I was right! Damn it—why am I so darned irresistible?
“Yes, flowers. Roses, actually. Because I knew you’d be in mourning,” he says, taking his fedora off and holding it across his chest, as if he was about to recite the National Anthem. Or the pledge of allegiance. “For the death of your relationship.”
“Well, thanks,” I say, “I guess. But, really, that was unnecessary.”
“Good,” he says. “Because your assistant out there really is quite a looker.”
“She’s my secretary,” I say, sitting down behind my desk. Jay takes that as a cue to sit down in one of my visitor’s chairs.
“So, I spoke to your father,” he says. “I really am sorry about what happened with you and Joe.”
“Jack,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “Jack. What did I say?”
“It’s not important,” I say. I lean back in my chair as I puzzle over how to ask him why he’s actually here if the wedding is off.
“Well, there’s another reason for my visit here today,” Jay says, taking a toothpick out of his jacket pocket and sticking it into his mouth. He moves it to one side of his mouth with his tongue, where it sits for the whole time he’s talking. “I know that you’ve called your nuptials off, but we have a contract.”
How come when Jay says the word ‘contract’ the ‘on your life’ part sounds like it’s implied?
“Yes,” I say, sitting up straight in my chair as I shift it back to the regular seated position, “I understand. You keep the deposit money. Didn’t you speak with my father about this?”
“Yes,” he says, toothpick still firmly placed in the side of his mouth. “I did speak to your father. But you do realize that you can’t just cancel on me, don’t you? That’s not how it works.”
Oh God. I have a mobster in my office and he’s pissed at me for canceling on him. Any minute he’s going to tell me: “Say hel-lo to my little friend….” I’m too young to die!
“Can I get you two some coffee?” my assistant says into the intercom. Ah, saved by the bell. Or assistant, as the case may be. “That was so rude of me not to ask earlier.”
“I’d love some, sweetheart,” Jay says, “Black.”
Now, I suppose that I don’t have to tell you here that if any attorney ever used the term “sweetheart” on his or her assistant, that attorney and that attorney’s law firm would immediately be slapped with a million dollar lawsuit for sexual harassment. They give us lectures and workshops about this sort of thing constantly, so I really know what I’m talking about. But using such un-politically correct terms of affection apparently works for Jay, since my assistant giggles and says: “Coming right up!”
“Brooke?” she asks. “Anything for you?”
“May I please have a glass of water?” I say, barely choking out the words. And a cigarette, I think. Now, I know that I don’t smoke, but since that’s what they give prisoners before they get executed, I figure that now’s as good of a time as any to get started.
“So, our contract,” Jay says. On your life….
“You know what?” I say, using my best negotiation techniques, “why don’t we do this: how about you just keep the full amount of the contract? I’ll get you a check tomorrow.”
Jay shakes his head ‘no.’
“Bank check?” I offer. More head shaking. “Certified check?”
Jay shakes his head ‘no’ again and flicks the little toothpick over to the other side of his mouth.
“I’ll get you cash,” I say. “How’s cash?”
“You know, this really isn’t all about the money,” Jay says. I will later find out that my dad actually already paid him in full. Cold hard cash. “The damage here extends well beyond the amount of the contract.”
There’s that contract again. On my life.
“It does?” I ask. I’m terrified to have him tell me what this actually is about, and why the damage well exceeds the amount of the contract, but I figure the sooner I find out, the sooner I can get him out of my office. Or the sooner they take me out of my office in a body bag. Either way, mission accomplished.
“But the way I figure it,” he says, “there’s a way for you and I to make things right.”
“There is?” I ask. Do I really want to hear more?
“I want the exclusive deets on your girl Monique and her idiot husband Jean Luc,” he says, leaning back in his chair. My visitor chairs are really not meant to be leaned back in. All I can think is, if he breaks the chair’s legs and falls down, RUN!
“Jean Luc’s not an idiot,” I say, even though I’ve never actually met him.
“I don’t really care whether he is or isn’t one. What I care about is getting an exclusive on any dirt,” Jay says, as my assistant comes back in with Jay’s coffee and my water. We both thank her simultaneously and she gives another gratuitous giggle before exiting my office.
“There’s no dirt,” I tell Jay as soon as the coast is clear. “There’s nothing to get. And anyway, I thought you weren’t a pap?”
“I’m not a pap,” he says, “Those guys are disgusting. I am an artist. But a guy’s gotta’ eat. If the pictures I take and the stories I tell just so happen to get printed somewhere, and I just so happen to get paid for it, well, then, that’s that. But, I’m no pap. Paps are the scum of the earth, as far as I’m concerned.”
Okay, taking pictures and getting the inside scoop on celebs and then accepting money for them. Um, so then, doesn’t that mean he’s a pap? I’m so confused.
“There’s nothing for me to get for you,” I say.
“I can get you outfitted with a tiny little camera that she wouldn’t even see,” he says. “I know how much you love the world of surveillance.”
“I do not want to be outfitted with a camera,” I say. “And that was not surveillance we were doing. That was background footage of the groom!”
“Whatever, hon. We could put it into a pair of earrings for you,” he says. “You like earrings, don’t you? Tell you what, you think about it.”
“I don’t have to think about it because there’s nothing to find out. The pictures wouldn’t be anything more exciting than the inside of any bridal salon. Muslins, fabrics, dresses. A bridal magazine or two. That’s it.”
“Do you ever see Jean Luc?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “Why would he be there? I’m there for a wedding dress. I try on muslins and Monique fits them. He’s never around for that.”
“He’s never around?” Jay asks, leaning forward in his chair.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, leaning back in my own chair. “He just isn’t at the bridal studio.”
“I see.”
“There’s nothing to see!” I say, and then take a sip of my water.
“Well, when there is,” he says, “you keep me in mind. And I’ll keep you in mind.”
Now, I know I should just let him leave my office at this point. It doesn’t really matter what he thinks he’s going to keep me in mind for. It doesn’t. Nothing more could be gained by continuing this conversation. The goal was to settle my business with the mobster and then get said mobster out of my office. My assistant would have to be on her own once he got out there. So, even though it seemed like he was close to leaving my office, I inexplicably asked: “Keep me in mind for what?”
“Well, I’m saying that you can just owe me,” he says, and then shrugs. “I could use a lawyer on retainer. My usual guy’s been giving me trouble lately.”
“Um, no, thank you,” I say.
A lawyer for the mob? Somehow I just know that when my parents sent me to law school, this was not what they had in mind. And at any rate, who really remembers the lawyer in The Godfather? I think I’d actually rather be Jimmy Caan, if anything. Not that I want to be on retainer for a mobster in any capacity. And more importantly, does this mean that Jay’s been promoted from soldier? I didn’t hear anything about that from my father. Is there somewhere you can look stuff like this up on the internet? A Facebook for the five families?
“Why wouldn’t you want to be my lawyer?” he asks. “I can introduce you to friends. Drum up some business.”
Great, I can just see it now in my law school’s alumni newsletter:
Brooke Miller—promoted to consigliere of a prominent New York City crime family. Next year, she’s hoping to make underboss. We’ve got our fingers crossed for you, Brooke!
“I don’t—” I say, only to be interrupted by Jay.
“And I’ll be your photographer on retainer,” he says. Visions of beautiful Kennedy-like portraits of me and my family for the rest of my life fill my head…. Only, I’m not going to have family any time soon, since I just called off my wedding. “So, we’ve got a deal?”
“No. No deal.”
“Great,” he says. “I’ll be in touch, then. And you do the same.”
“There’s nothing to be in touch about,” I say. “I don’t need any pictures and I certainly won’t have any dirt on Monique and Jean Luc.”
“Just keep your ear to the ground,” he says, standing up and putting his fedora back on his head. “You never know what might happen. Your life can change in an instant. You know who told me that?”
“Who?”
“Mr. John Gotti.”
Why did I even bother to ask?