Big Summer(56)

“Listen,” I said, my voice quiet, but, thank God, steady. “I was very happy Drue asked me to be in her wedding. I was happy she still cared enough about me to want me to be part of her big day. I was happy to be here. I had no reason to want to hurt her.”

McMichaels gave me a look that seemed to last a week. I held my breath, waiting for him to tell me to start the story again, the way he’d done twice before. Instead, he stood up, turned, and reached onto the shelf behind him, the one that held the Cuisinart and extra stacks of plates. He pulled down a sheaf of papers and handed them to me.

“What’s this?” he asked.

I stared at the first page, at a mock-up in the style of a wedding invitation. You are cordially invited to (sponsor) the wedding of Drue Cavanaugh and Stuart Lowe, it read, in an ornate, scrolling font. There was a photograph of Drue and Stuart, one that I recognized from Drue’s Instagram. The happy couple stood in front of the Eiffel Tower. Drue’s hand was extended to show off her engagement ring, and Stuart’s arms were wrapped around her as he held her against his chest. Only the picture had been edited, so that, extending from her back and his back were blank price tags, reading YOUR BRAND HERE. At the bottom, the invitation said, Say yes to the dress (or the flight, or the hotel, or the wedding favors, or the wine). Please RSVP for this once-in-a-lifetime brand synergy opportunity.

I turned the page and saw a mock-up of the bed that had been set up on the beach the previous night, and a picture of a generic bride and a groom on a bluff over the ocean, exchanging vows at sunset. YOUR HASHTAG HERE, the text invited, with more blank price tags and arrows pointing to the bed, the rugs, her dress, his watch.

“It’s a pitch deck,” I told the detective.

“A what now?”

“A pitch deck.” I adjusted my posture, pressing my legs together, trying to think. “A solicitation for businesses to advertise on Drue and Stuart’s social media.” I paged through the document. It was four pages long, and it made its case clearly: two hot young influencers, each with hundreds of thousands of fans and followers, were getting married; and brands, from airlines to hotels to fashion retailers to home goods purveyors, were invited to get a piece of the action. Pony up, the copy said, and you will see your brand featured and mentioned in conjunction with THE SOCIETY WEDDING OF THE YEAR. On a beautiful private beach in exclusive Cape Cod, Massachusetts, Drue Lathrop Cavanaugh of the Cavanaugh Corporation will say “I Do” to Stuart Edward Lowe of All the Single Ladies fame, I read. Millions of desirable millennials will follow their feeds to see photographs and videos of the ceremony, the party, the afterparty, featuring Holland-based DJ 7en, and the happy couple enjoying the honeymoon of a lifetime. There will be guaranteed glamour, celebrity sightings, and maybe a surprise or two! Make sure those consumers see your brand when they watch!

“So what does this mean?” the detective asked.

I felt breathless, like I’d fallen from a great height and landed hard. “Drue and Stuart were trying to get sponsors for their wedding.”

Detective McMichaels frowned. “Sponsors?”

“Right. Businesses that would pay to be featured on Drue and Stuart’s social media.”

I flipped to the third page, where there was a schedule of events, with Twitter handles and hashtags for the winery, the caterer, and the disc jockey, some of whom, I assumed, had swapped their goods and services for the exposure the wedding guaranteed. The last page had Drue’s and Stuart’s biographies, along with the number of Twitter and Facebook and Instagram and Snapchat followers they’d amassed. Other wedding guests were listed beneath them, with more pictures and statistics. This inclusive celebration will feature celebrity facialist Minerva de los Santos, I read, and rising influencer/Afrofuturist Natalie Jonnson. My breath caught when, right below a picture of Natalie in metallic wraparound sunglasses and a flower crown, I saw my own face. Plus-size influencer Daphne Berg will be a featured wedding participant, read the copy. In the shot they’d chosen, from my own Instagram page, I was dressed in one of Leela’s outfits, posing in front of the brick wall that it seemed every influencer in the five boroughs had, at one point or another, used as a backdrop.

I stared at the document, mouth dry, eyes hot. She was using me, I thought, and felt something inside of me crumple. Of course she was. Of course she didn’t want me to be her friend again. Of course she had ulterior motives. She wanted to get the fat girls on board, to make us feel included without actually doing the work of including us. And I was the bait; I was the beard, the flag she could wave in front of my plus-size sisters to convince them that she was on their side.

I cringed, remembering bits and pieces of the party, or things Drue had said, realizing that I should have put this together much, much sooner. I remembered the video crew prowling the beach, Drue holding a signature cocktail and giving an interview that must have been live-streamed to her feed. I remembered noticing the mattress company’s hashtag, on a card next to the bed on the sand, and how Drue had brushed it off. A couple of brands came to us, so we figured, why not?

I must have looked as shocked as I’d felt, because McMichaels’s voice was almost gentle when he asked, “You didn’t know about this?” I shook my head and waited for him to say, Sounds like you didn’t know much, or I’m surprised she could do this without you, or Wow, you were really in the dark, dummy! Instead, he asked, “How much money could Miss Cavanaugh and Mr. Lowe expect to make from something like this?”