come to this so soon! I hate talking about my job. Tim is the cutest guy I’ve met in a year and I can’t bear to tell him I’m a government hack. It will suck the life out of the conversation and I’m having such fun. Maybe I can deflect his question with idle banter?
“I’m writing a book,” I say.
“Really? What’s the story?”
“Well, it’s a combination of memoir and how-to, based on my extensive experience as a bridesmaid.”
“I’ll put it on my Christmas list,” he says, smiling.
“You’ll laugh, you’ll cry… And how about you?”
“Yeah, I’m writing a book too, isn’t everyone? It’s about my career as a dog trainer.”
I can tell he’s kidding, but I’m not sure if he knows that I am, too. “Breed of choice?”
“Jack Russells—the toughest breed on the planet. The first chapter is about my technique for establishing I’m the alpha dog.”
“How do you do that?”
“I can’t just give away my secrets. You’ll have to wait for the book.”
“Does it have a title?”
“The Man Who Listens to Terriers. Don’t laugh. Dog training is serious business in my family.” He’s leaning toward me now and, judging by the flickering candles in the table’s centerpiece, he’s releasing dangerous gusts of pheromones. “In fact, my father and I have broken off our relationship over it.”
“Really? Tell me about it. I promise I’ll still buy the book.”
“Well, okay,” he says, taking my hand and gazing into my eyes. “Two years ago, his best friend bought an Afghan hound and my dad fell in love—with the dog, that is. He gave up terriers to train Afghans exclusively.”
“Ah, the blond bombshell of the dog world…” Our faces are inches apart and I am grinning like a fool.
“Careful, Libby,” a woman’s voice cuts through the fog of love chemicals “—you can see right down your dress.” Lola has appeared from nowhere to ruin my good time. But she’s right: if Tim chose to look (and I certainly hope he did), he could see my navel. I clap my hand to my chest and glare at Lola. Tim smiles innocently and shrugs.
The dreaded disc jockey steps up to the mike: “Time for the last dance, everyone. Emma and Bob want Tim and Libby—we see you hiding in the corner, you two!—to join them on the dance floor.”
“Hold on a sec, Libby,” says Tim, reaching for a cocktail napkin. The ice pack has trickled water into my eye and he gently wipes mascara away. It drains the clever banter from my mouth.
“Mop up the drool while you’re at it,” suggests Lola.
“Lola!”
“Forget it, it’s our big moment,” Tim says, leading me to the dance floor. Soon I am swaying in Tim’s arms, coasting effortlessly across the floor on a sea of pheromones. He quickly breaks the spell by asking, “So, how much truth is there in this garter tradition?”
“Given my experience with bouquets, I think you need to reach a critical mass before the tradition kicks in. At a single garter, you’re probably pretty safe.”
“That’ll be a relief for my girlfriend. She’s just accepted a job in Vancouver and it will be hard enough to keep our relationship going long-distance without planning a wedding, too.”
I’ve just wilted faster than a nosegay on a hot day, but somehow I manage a brave smile. “Try hanging the garter from your rearview mirror. It might work its magic long-distance.”
Mercifully, Tim and I are soon swept up by the crowd of guests swarming the dance floor to hug Emma and Bob. Emma asks me to help her change into her going-away outfit and the night ends in a blur of duty and booze.
I’m at home and in bed when I remember the wedding cake. “You’re hopeless,” I tell myself, but I get up and dig the piece of cake out of my purse and slip it under my pillow. Maybe I’ll dream of Tim. Maybe his girlfriend will dump him for some west-coast hippie in a VW van covered in flower decals. He deserves it. And as for Lola, I’m never speaking to her again.
2
I t’s almost noon when I roll over to behold the bouquet on my dresser. Drooping already. So much for superior quality. The squashed wedding cake falls to the floor as I get out of bed, reminding me of a hazy dream about John Lennon. Figures, twenty years in the grave. I’d never last a round with Yoko, anyway.
I shuffle to my tiny kitchen and put the kettle on. While the water heats up, I gulp chocolate milk out of the carton and rub my forehead where the garter struck me. The only thing I’d like more than a cup of strong coffee right now is to call Lola to discuss the wedding, but of course, I can’t, having written her off. Better to call Roxanne, although she missed the wedding and therefore won’t be fully able to share my lament over Tim. I’ll call her later, I decide, when the sour taste in my mouth has disappeared. I eat a blueberry Pop-Tart to speed the process along—my standard hangover therapy.
Cornelius, my gray tabby, is weaving around my feet. I lean over to pick him up, careful to lift with my legs. He’s so stout that Lola once asked, “Is that a cat or a coffee table?” Corny’s wondrous purr isn’t enough to prevent the Curse of the Bouquets from washing over me. It happens every time. Sometimes I can’t shake the blues for weeks after a wedding, and that’s without the cute guy in the picture. How could I fall for that dog-whisperer schtick? Thirteen bouquets and I am still the biggest sucker in the world. But this time will be different. I am done with guys, I mean it. I will not waste a single second moping. In fact, I will prove it by going out and raking the backyard as if nothing happened. I’ll plant some flowers. Better yet, I’ll start a medicinal herb garden. I’m already reaching for my jacket when I remember I don’t own a rake. Besides, I’m just a tenant; there’s a reason I don’t do yard work.
I go to the office instead. I may be a boring civil servant, but I take pride in being a hardworking one. There’s a pile under my office door because I was off work Friday to prepare for the wedding. I sort through it, wishing I hadn’t told Tim I’m writing a memoir. I doubt he took me seriously, but still, I shouldn’t even pretend my life is that interesting. I’m not a real writer, I’m a “communications” person, which means I write briefing notes, fact sheets and news releases about education policy. I have 45 e-mails for one day’s absence, though, so I must be important. Clicking through them, one catches my eye: a job ad for a speechwriter to the Minister of Culture. Hmmm… Not qualified. Keep clicking, government hack, then go write that fact sheet on private-school funding.
Half an hour later, I retrieve the job ad in my electronic wastebasket and open it again. A speechwriter? Now, that could be fun. It’s a political job and I’m a bureaucrat, but it’s Culture—how tough could it be? Nah! The impact from the garter has addled my brain. I have no interest in politics and I’ve only written five speeches, two of which were never delivered. Better to hold out for my dream career. I’m bound to intuit what that is any year now, especially at the rate I’m reading those woo-woo discover-yourself books. Nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.
In the end, I collect some writing
