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Allison has chosen a table in the hotel lounge that overlooks the lobby. She can watch her family arrive from a discreet vantage point that is neither suspiciously hidden nor obvious to those on the ground floor. She’s not hiding. It just gives her a boost of confidence to see without being seen. As a young girl, she imagined that her confidence would peak on her wedding day, but it had been on the decline for a long time.
It’s pre-wedding jitters, Allison supposes, if jitters make you wake up with abdominal cramps every morning for the 2 weeks prior to your wedding. She didn’t feel butterflies when Patrick proposed, but in the absence of butterflies, she felt a sense of accomplishment. 23 and engaged to a well-respected and good-looking actor, and on her way to becoming a household name herself. Butterflies could come later, she told herself. Like now, the day before her wedding, would be a good time for them to start. But her family, Allison steamed. Her anxiety about her family was ruining it all.
Maybe she could have prevented this. Maybe that’s what all this digestive agony is about, her choices. She could have made a point to reach out to one of her siblings ahead of time so that the 24 hours before her wedding wouldn’t be one non-stop family reunion. But in the years since she’d left home— fled home — she’d worked nearly every day, and whenever she wasn’t working she was still ACTING, because to become the kind of person Allison wanted to be, well, that doesn’t just happen. You have to make it happen. And that’s always been Allison’s special talent. But the world that made her and the world she made are colliding.
Reginald appears first, bursting into the hotel’s lobby through the sparkling glass revolving doors without any sign he notices the opulence of the venue. He’s trailed by Grace, cheerfully struggling under the weight of their combined luggage. Just moments later Luther appears, holding open the less grand set of regular doors for a woman with a stroller, and finally Klaus, whose face is nearly completely hidden by hair longer and more unruly than Allison has ever seen it.
Luther has grown up since she left home. He fills out his grey flannel buttondown with unpretentious muscle. It’s the kind of lean-but-strong physique that Patrick has to pay a personal trainer to achieve, and Patrick can only maintain it for short periods before and during movie roles. Allison doubts Luther is even aware of how perfect his body looks as he stands there in a hotel crawling with Los Angeles elites who could assign a dollar value to his body type.
Though she has their arrival times neatly printed in her wedding notebook (Luther and Klaus at 1pm today, Diego on a red-eye tonight, and V mid-day tomorrow), she hasn’t considered until this moment how her siblings are actually managing to attend a cross-country wedding. Of course it makes sense that Luther would travel with Reginald, and of course Klaus never has any money, so it’s accompanying Reginald or nothing.
Allison is certain Klaus’s ridiculously oversized sunglasses are knockoffs inspired by a recent paparazzi photo of Nicole Richie. He is also wearing a fashionably oversized and holey black sweatshirt, his pale torso visible underneath. Next to him, Luther stands stiffly, over-alert, scanning the lobby for signs of Allison and not finding any.
Allison could make Luther’s day by running down the stairs and folding him into a warm but pointedly sisterly embrace. She wants to, or at least she pretends for a second that she wants to. But she remains in her vantage point instead, watching Reginald make a series of terse demands from the receptionist before accepting 3 room keys and distributing them to his children and Grace. With that, the group heads for the elevators. Allison lets go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
***
That evening, Allison stands with Patrick to greet the line of guests arriving to her rehearsal “dinner.” It’s actually an informal cocktail party in the hotel bar with light hors d’oeuvres, because Allison’s wedding planner informed her that most people on her guest list would have neither the desire nor attention span to eat an entire meal.
“Maybe you’d prefer to have an intimate family meal instead?” the wedding planner had suggested. Allison did not.
As Allison spots Reginald 4 or 5 people back in the line of guests, a liquefying feeling in her gut sounds the alarm for the moment she’s been dreading all day. Reginald is about to meet Patrick.
“I need to use the restroom, stall for me,” Allison whispers to Patrick, and before he can protest, she’s making a beeline across the bar. Brandy DeWitt appears out of nowhere, blocking her path. Allison and Brandy have just completed production on a film, costarring as intergalactic private eyes, and despite her intense dislike of the woman, Allison has to maintain a cordial relationship until they finish promoting the film.
“Allie,” Brandy trills. She’s wearing a dress that costs six times what Allison’s cost and was probably altered for her by the designer— Allison saw it on a runway model in the spring fashion issue of Vogue. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Allison says. She hates that nickname, and she hates how Brandy always puts her bony hand to her bony chest when she’s trying to give off the air of sincerity. “I’m sorry to rush away, but I—”
“I just wanted to ask you, is your brother available?”
Reeling from the abruptness of the question, Allison turns her head and spots Klaus at the bar, surrounded by a flock of the young starlets that Allison’s publicist invited on her behalf to drum up press interest in the wedding. He’s cleaned himself up somewhat— his hair has somehow been trimmed since he arrived that afternoon, and he’s wearing a sequined tank top over a pair of extremely tight-fitting leather pants.
“Of course ALL of these old Hollywood hotels are haunted,” he’s saying, pretending to look bored. “You just have to know which rooms to look in.”
Allison rolls her eyes. This hotel was built 8 years ago and hotel was located in the desert, nearly an hour from anything that would be considered “Hollywood.” It had been a strategic choice to make the wedding appear more intimate without inconveniencing the L.A. guests. She looks at Brandy and decides to be frank for once.
“Klaus is kind of a mess, actually.” It hurts Allison to distill Klaus like that, but she doesn’t have time to convince Brandy that a one night stand with an alcoholic former child hero won’t do much for her acting career and will necessitate an STD test.
“Oh I don’t mean Klaus,” Brandy clarifies. She whispers theatrically: “Luther. Numero uno.”
Something heavy drops inside Allison, a small bomb or a large snowball that nearly outstrips the turmoil already building inside of her.
“Oh,” Allison hears herself say lamely. “No, I don’t think he’s seeing anyone.”
But as she says it, she realizes that she has no idea. She hasn’t spoken to her family except to let them know she had gotten engaged. It took 2 days to get Diego on the phone, she’d left a message on V’s machine, and ultimately she’d chickened out of telling Luther herself. Instead she had asked Pogo to pass along the news to Reginald, Klaus, and oh she supposed Luther, too, on her behalf, because she was just so busy these days.
That’s when Allison sees Luther standing near the entrance of the bar, still taking it upon himself to hold open the door for every guest that enters, making a few words of awkward small talk as they pass by him. It’s embarrassing. It’s endearing. Their eyes meet and for one long moment, Allison remembers what it’s like to be around someone that understands her.
Then she spots Reginald talking to Patrick.
“Go for it,” she tells Brandy quickly and rushes over to Patrick, who is offering his hand for Reginald to shake.
“Good to finally meet you, sir,” Patrick is saying with a broad, confident smile. One of Reginald’s eyebrows lifts almost imperceptibly and he does not offer his hand in return.
Allison fumbles for words, finally blurting out, “Dad, this is Patrick, my soon-to-be husband. Patrick, this is Reginald Hargreeves, and this is Grace… uh, Grace Hargreeves.” Grace blinks pleasantly back at Allison.
Patrick’s hand is still hovering in the air. Allison grasps it between her own hands and pulls it to her chest, hoping the gesture comes across as loving and playful.
“You’ve really raised a wonderful woman,” Patrick continues. Allison can see how desperate he is for Reginald to meet him somewhere in the chasm of awkwardness that has opened up between them, and she knows Reginald will not.
“I raised six remarkable children,” Reginald says. “But whether they are remarkable adults remains in question.”
And then he’s gone, parking himself at a table near a window with Grace by his side.
Patrick looks genuinely puzzled, and for the first time today Allison has the urge to rumor him. I heard a rumor you thought my father was an intimidating but respectable man. She fights the urge— she’s vowed to make no more wedding-related rumors, just to prove to herself she has the self-control.
“He might be upset about my brother,” Allison covers weakly. “Klaus has been going through a rough patch.” It wasn’t even a lie, if 10 years could be a rough patch. She looks at Klaus at the bar again— he’s sucking what looks like straight vodka through one of those tiny drink straws, eyes trained on Reginald’s back, as the socialite Mindy Flake relates one of her “charming” personal anecdotes that Allison knows are actually profoundly headache-inducing. She wonders how long it will be before Klaus makes a comment so disturbing that Mindy deserts him. She guesses it will happen at the bottom of his current drink.
“Aw,” Patrick murmurs. “It’s so sweet how worried you are about him. Look at your little frown lines.”
Allison snaps her attention back to Patrick and tries to relax her face, putting a thumb between her eyebrows and trying to dispel the lines she imagines forming there. She thinks about the plastic surgeon’s business card in her desk at home and makes a mental note to research preemptive Botox injections.
“I’m going to grab a drink, do you want anything?” Patrick asks, giving Allison’s elbow a squeeze.
Allison makes a conscious decision at that moment to recenter, to remind herself: This life in L.A. is one she’s been building in her mind for years, on late nights locked in her lonely bedroom with nothing to do but clip out images from magazines and pin them to her walls and dream. A career, her own money, choices, admiration. All of it built upon her own hard work, talent, and aspiration. After marrying Patrick, she’ll finally be able to forge her own family and sever herself completely from her upbringing, and maybe someday forget it completely. Then the picture will be complete.
Brandy has Luther cornered at the other end of the bar. She’s running her hand up and down his arm, cooing about how soft the fabric is. Luther is blushing all the way to his scalp and taking big gulps from his pint glass. He’s trying to ask her about her hobbies, as if interacting with other adults is something he learned about from a book or magazine… with a flutter of guilt, Allison realizes that’s probably true.
Mindy and her crowd have abandoned Klaus at the bar, probably turned off by some creepy thing he’s said. He looks relieved. He’s whispering to himself, his eyes fixed eerily on some spot of air on the stool next to him, working on a newly topped off tumbler of vodka. Allison watches with mild interest as Patrick claps Klaus on the back and introduces himself. He’s such a good guy, Allison thinks, her heart feeling comfortingly full. Who needs butterflies? I know for a fact Patrick will be a great husband.
But then she spots Reginald and Grace. They’ve been patiently letting the ice melt in their drinks this whole time but now Grace is meticulously wiping the condensation from the table top and preparing to bring the drinks back to the bar.
“Dad, no,” Allison rushes over. “You can’t leave yet— the toasts—”
“I’m very busy today, Number Three,” Reginald says, brushing away her hand as if she were a housefly trying to land on his sleeve.
“Call me Allison— please, just for this one weekend,” She’s whispering but she can feel the old whine in her voice. Be a normal person for my wedding. She feels her face becoming hot with anger and embarrassment. She reaches for Reginald’s arm again. He snaps his body away with strength and agility that surprises Allison so much that she steps backward into Grace, sending the glasses in Grace’s hands to the floor. They shatter, splashing the three of them with boozy ice water. A hush falls over the bar.
“There are serious matters to contend with every day, though I no longer expect any of my children to understand that fact.” Reginald says. He hasn’t raised his voice, but everyone is looking at him. He turns neatly and strides out of the bar, leaving Grace behind, crouched near the floor with an armful of broken glass.
Almost in an instant, it’s Luther by her side. Where is Patrick? He’s frozen at the bar with their two drinks in his hands, as if he’s waiting for her to fix things before he can reanimate.
Placing his hands firmly on Allison’s shoulders, Luther maneuvers her away from the broken glass. He’s got napkins in each hand. He begins wiping the spatter of liquid from her shins, dabbing carefully at her shoes, which are wrapped in white silk and certainly ruined. When he stands up, he says, “Let me go talk to Dad. He’ll come back.”
Allison fights back her tears. “You know he won’t.”
Luther looks at the ground. “I know.” This is the most they’ve spoken since she left home. She can almost feel the discouragement rolling off of him in waves. How much he wants to help, how little he can do. It’s so familiar that it’s almost comforting.
Brandy runs up and gleefully attaches herself to Luther’s arm, an overfamiliar gesture that is so characteristic of the outgoing actress that it is nearly meaningless. All the same, it puts Allison over the edge.
“Stay away from my brother,” Allison hisses, pulling one of Brandy’s arms. Warning sirens are screaming in her brain— your perfect wedding your perfect wedding your perfect wedding — but it’s too late. “Can’t you see he’s not interested in you? All my family cares about is saving the world or—” she waves a hand vaguely in Klaus’s direction “— getting wasted.”
She can feel Luther’s heart breaking without even looking at him.
Brandy straightens and fixes Allison with an icy look. She glances around the room as if to confirm that everyone else saw what had happened and that they are on her side, which they probably are. She glances one last time at Luther, retrieves her purse from the table where they’d been sitting, and leaves.
Grace stands up, smiling as though nothing has happened, and places an exquisitely neat pile of broken glass onto the dustpan the bartender is holding. “Thank you for a delightful evening, Allison,” she says brightly, and follows Brandy out the door.
The entire room has gone very quiet. If not for Allison’s heart racing, it would seem as if things are moving in slow motion. But she can see in Luther’s face that an excruciating amount of time has passed as they stand there with everyone staring at them.
“All right,” Klaus is clapping now, walking toward them with a magnanimous smile. Walking isn’t the right word, Allison realizes. He’s careening. “I guess that’s my cue to make a toast, right?”
Oh no, Allison’s heart sinks even lower into her body. As if things couldn’t get any worse…
Klaus holds up his empty glass, raises his eyebrows in shock, and steals the drink of the nearest seated guest. “To Allison and Pippin,” he crows.
“PATRICK,” Allison and Luther hiss at the same time.
“And Patrick, too,” Klaus adds. “And Allison. Happy Birthday, Allison. Have a nice life.” He raises the glass again and takes a long drink. A few guests snicker.
“Okay,” Luther says, clapping an arm around Klaus’s shoulders. “Time for us to go, too.”
Allison’s face is burning. She wants to protest, but Luther’s movements are so decisive that all she can get out is a small croak before his back is to her, pulling Klaus toward the door.
People are shifting in their chairs; there is a collective murmuring, they are making decisions about whether it’s time to leave this disastrous party themselves. No! It can’t end like this! Allison thinks. She could make them all forget this ever happened in a second. She’s phrasing and rephrasing the rumor in her head for maximal impact.
But she swallows that thought. It’s impractical to rumor all of these people at once. She’ll have to live with this reality. Patrick is by her side now, handing her a cocktail and doing that fake laugh she hates, the one he uses to smooth things over.
“Wow, those are my new in-laws!” Patrick guffaws, raising his glass. “To the Hargreeves!”
“To the Hargreeves!” The crowd agrees, and the party carries on.
***
The next morning, her wedding day, Allison wakes from a nightmare at 3:33 and screams in fury when she registers the numbers on the digital clock. Unable to sleep, she checks TMZ and finds a dozen photos from the party: Luther canoodling with Brandy, Allison glaring at Reginald over a sea of broken glass, Allison with a hand gripped around Brandy’s tiny arm, a particularly unflattering angle of Allison shouting at someone out of frame— probably Brandy, and a photo of Luther dragging a very inebriated Klaus from the bar.
The headline reads “SAVING THE WORLD OR GETTING WASTED? Allison Hargreeves makes a fearsome bride-to-be” and the article contains an almost completely accurate recap of the party’s low points, pointedly linking to other articles speculating that Allison has “never liked” her co-star Brandy.
The article goes into some depth about “Allison’s perennially troubled brother Klaus,” wondering if Klaus’s problems are “a canary in the coal mine” that should warn Patrick to keep away from Allison and her kooky family entirely.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Allison moans. Her hotel room has begun to feel claustrophobic, and she puts on her robe to wander the deserted hallways of the hotel for awhile.
Allison is surprised when Diego steps out of the elevator. He’s just arrived on his red-eye flight and is looking for his room. He seems exhausted. He’s dressed like a cat burglar for some reason, and he’s got some visible scars that weren’t there the last time Allison saw him. Allison would ask questions if she weren’t so focused on fixing something, anything. But Diego seems preoccupied with a different problem.
“I can’t afford to get you a wedding gift right now,” he says. She can tell he’s embarrassed, but he shouldn’t be. Their father didn’t teach them any practical skills. She can’t imagine how he’s making a living.
“I don’t need a gift,” Allison replied quickly. Then an idea comes to her. “I just want you to keep an eye on Klaus. I don’t want him to show up drunk or high to my wedding.”
“You got it,” Diego answers without hesitation. He mock punches her in the arm, then apologizes a little too profusely because he shouldn’t do that, “not on your wedding day,”
Diego has some bizarre priorities, but Allison knows he’s trustworthy. If he says he’ll keep Klaus out of trouble, he’ll keep Klaus out of trouble. One less problem to fix.
**
At the end of the evening, when the vows have been said and the catered dinner has been eaten and there’s nothing left to do but dance with her new husband to their favorite songs, Allison will lock eyes with Patrick during a slow song and put her arms around his neck.
“Was today perfect?” she’ll ask.
His expression will be cloudy, the way it always is when she asks him about the wedding, as if the questions rouse the reality buried deep down that he never wanted to marry her. So she will press her face to his neck, turning her head away from the wedding photographer, and whisper,
“I heard a rumor you thought our wedding was perfect.”
And then it will be.