Rich and Pretty(58)

Sarah wonders what Dan is doing, if he’s taken a shower yet. The guests are due to arrive at four. The ceremony itself is supposed to take place half an hour after that. It’s early, but she knows how quickly these hours will fall away. Time being relative, of course, and speedy on a day such as today. Dan will send some last work e-mails, take a shower, dress, take a taxi to the hotel to meet his parents, fetch them, take another taxi downtown to her parents’ place, come inside, chitchat, fuss over the arrangements, retie his tie, and then guests will start trickling in. What seem like hours will turn out to be minutes. She’s excited to see him all dressed up. She likes the way Dan looks in a suit.

Last night was fun. More fun than she’d anticipated, and genuinely celebratory, which had been her biggest concern. She’d worried that everyone would gather in a room and it would feel like an office birthday: sheet cake in a conference room. But it was the kind of night people remember, will be the thing they remember when they think of her and Dan. Remember the night before your wedding, we went to that taco place downtown? That was so great!

Sarah didn’t eat much, something every wedding magazine told her would happen. She nibbled on a piece of corn, sodden with cold cheese, but did her duty—to circulate, to hug and kiss the guests who had made the trip in from out of town, her mother’s cousin in from Miami, her father’s sister’s widower and her cousin in from Los Angeles and New Haven. Willa kept bringing Sarah plates of food, but she mostly ignored them.

Sarah had been dreading the toasts, but in the end, they were sort of charming, even heartwarming, and she’d endured them with as much grace as she could muster. She felt like the actresses at the Academy Awards must: It’s hard to manage poise when you’re so conscious of wanting to seem poised. But there were moments the smile, practiced, conscious, slipped into real happiness. She can’t remember much of what was actually said, now, but never mind. Everyone had a great time, which is what matters.

The party was a gift, her gift from Lolo, the best gift, better than the handblown footed glasses, the Conran plates, the Porthault napkins that the people she knows less well than Lauren will give them. Better because she could never have come up with it on her own. Who would have thought of tacos? They didn’t talk much—Huck or Lulu pushing and pulling her into obligatory hellos and kisses and catch-up conversations. She caught sight of Lauren, in red, across the room, nodding at something that Lulu was telling her, then later, when Huck had the floor, expounding upon his theory of love, a speech that was moving, that was persuasive, because that’s what he does for a living. Sarah watched Lauren, who was listening, reach out and put her hand in the crook of one of Rob’s arms, which were crossed against his chest. Leaving, Lauren had leaned in close and whispered into her ear, twice (it was noisy): “That was so fun.”

“Thanks to you,” Sarah had said. It wasn’t clear if Lauren heard.

Lauren smiled. Next to Rob she looked tinier. Her breath was citrusy, from the wedge of lime the waiters had forced on the participating guests of one round of celebratory shots. Her eyes were the way they got when she’d been drinking, bright, a little wild, wider than normal. “See you in the morning,” Lauren said, leaning in for an actual hug then, surreptitiously, gently, placing her hand against Sarah’s stomach.

Sarah doesn’t especially want a boiled egg. “Danielle, would you like to know a secret?”

“Hit me,” she says. The tone of a woman used to being confided in. People love to confide to their hairdressers.

“I’m pregnant.” Sarah pauses. It feels less odd to say it aloud now. It’s a secret but it’s still the truth. “You can’t say anything in front of my mother, though, promise me on a million Bibles.”

Danielle clasps her hands together. “You’re pregnant! Congratulations. You are so lucky. Pregnant women have the most beautiful hair. Your hair will never be better. It’s something hormonal.”

She’s read the exact opposite but doesn’t disagree, only nods, smiling. “I planned it this way so my hair would look amazing.”

“It’s good news, though,” Danielle says. “A big year for you. Married, baby. It’s wonderful. And you must be early, you’re not showing at all. So your secret is safe, I think.”

“I’m not far along, no. This wasn’t exactly the plan, knocked up on the wedding day, if you want to know.” Sarah laughs. “I think I’m just getting in under the wire. I feel like tomorrow I’m going to wake up five hundred pounds heavier. I think she’s waiting, trying to be polite. She doesn’t want to ruin my big day.”

“A girl?” Danielle turns her back, fusses with the accoutrements on the table, but catches Sarah’s eye in the mirror.

“A hunch.”

“Does your fiancé know?”

“He knows. Just me, him, Lauren, and you. Top secret, swear to me.”

“Sworn,” Danielle says, in a tone that makes clear that she’s to be trusted.

That’s not quite true, though: The doctor knows, the seamstress from Bergdorf Goodman knows, and she knows that Lauren must have told Rob. It’s clear they’ve reached the secret-sharing stage in the relationship. She doesn’t mind.

She’d finally laid eyes on Rob a few weeks before. “You should meet Rob,” Lauren had said, calling from the office one afternoon, using that hushed and inexpressive tone she used when she telephoned from the office. “He’s coming to your wedding, after all.”