the Wedding (2000) Read online

  How long will you be here? he asked her again.

  Till Friday, unless I get everything done before that. But I think it might be a good idea for me to be here while we work this out. I'm sure we're going to be getting some answers on this deal by Wednesday, at the latest.

  He nodded agreement with her, and then jotted down an address for her on a piece of paper from an Hermes scratch pad. Everything around him was of the finest quality. He was a man who liked the best of everything, even clients.

  My wife and I are having a little party tonight. One of my clients has an important new book, we think it could win a literary prize. But in any case, it's a good excuse for a small reception. I doubt if Jason will be there, but several of our clients will, and you might enjoy it. He handed the paper to her with an address on Fifth Avenue, and his home phone number, and he told her to come anytime between six and nine o'clock that evening. They would love to have her.

  That's very kind of you, she said. She'd enjoyed the time she spent with him that afternoon, and she liked the way he did business. He was sharp and precise, and beyond the polish and the European charm was a brilliant businessman who knew exactly what he was doing and stood for no nonsense. And Allegra liked that about him. She had always heard good things about him, and she had always had successful dealings with his clients.

  Try and come, you might get a taste of New York literary life, which could amuse you.

  She thanked him again, and left his office a few minutes later. It had been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon. When she got out on the street, the snow had already turned to slush, and she slid slowly to the curb and hailed a cab to take her back to her hotel to make the calls she had to make to California.

  It was five o'clock by the time she'd made all her calls from her hotel room, to begin the negotiations for Haverton's film deal. And an hour later, after she'd made some notes, she still hadn't decided whether to order room service or go to the party at the Weissmans'. It was freezing cold outside and she had brought nothing to wear except business suits and two wool dresses, and the idea of going out in the cold again was extremely unappealing. But on the other hand, meeting some of the local literary types seemed almost worth going out into the cold for. She thought about it for another half hour, as she watched the news, and then she got up hurriedly and went to the closet. She had decided to go to the Weissmans' party. She put on her only black wool dress. It had a high neck and long sleeves, and it was very flattering as it hugged her figure. She put on high heels and brushed her hair, and appraised what she saw in the mirror. Compared to the New York sophisticates, she was afraid she'd look like a bumpkin. The only jewelry she had brought with her was a gold bracelet her mother had given her, and a pair of plain gold earrings. She swept her hair back into a neat French twist, and put on some lipstick, before putting on her heavy coat again. It was an old one she had worn while she was in law school, whenever she went to the theater, but at least it was warm, even if it wasn't pretty.

  She went down to the lobby and the doorman got her a cab, and by seven-thirty she was at Eighty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, right across from the Metropolitan Museum. It was a handsome old apartment building with a doorman and two elevator men, several big, dark red velvet couches, and a Persian-looking rug that kept her high heels from echoing on the marble floor of the lobby. The doorman told her that Weissman was on fourteen, and half a dozen people stepped out of the elevator as she got in it. They all looked like they had just come from the Weissmans' party, and she wondered if she was too late. But Andreas had said up to nine o'clock, and as soon as she got upstairs, she followed the noise. It was still very loud, so at least she knew the party was still going. She rang the bell, and a butler answered. At first glance, she could see that there were well over a hundred people there, and she could hear a piano playing somewhere in the distance.

  She stepped inside and gave up her coat, as she looked around at the hallway of the elegant duplex. But it was the people who caught her eye. They looked totally New York in cocktail dresses and dark gray suits, a few tweeds, and everyone seemed to have excited eyes and looked alive, and as though they had a thousand stories to tell about a million places they'd been to. This was definitely not laid-back California. And for once there were no famous faces she recognized. She knew that the faces she was looking at were probably just as well-known, but in a different world from Hollywood, and they were intriguing to her because she didn't know them. She realized that she probably knew most of their names, and then as she looked around she saw Tom Wolfe and Norman Mailer, Barbara Walters and Dan Rather and Joan Lunden, and an array of illustrious figures sprinkled in among publishers and editors, professors, and writers. And there was a small group who someone said were curators from the Metropolitan Museum. The head of Christie's was there, and a handful of important artists. It was the kind of gathering that never happened in L.A., because there wasn't the available variety of important eclectic figures. In Los Angeles it was all people involved in the industry, as it was called, as though they made automobiles instead of movies. But in New York it was everything from theatrical designers, to actors from off-off-Broadway, to the heads of department stores, and important jewelers, mixed in with editors and writers and playwrights. It was a fascinating mix, and Allegra watched them all as she took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and was relieved to see Andreas Weissman in the distance. She made her way toward him in the library as he stood in front of the view of Central Park, talking to his arch competitor in the literary world, Morton Janklow. They were talking about a mutual friend, who had been one of Weissman's clients, and had recently died. It was a great loss to the literary community, they agreed, just as Andreas spotted Allegra, and came to greet her. In her black dress, and her upswept hair, she looked more serious than she had that afternoon. She looked incredibly beautiful and young, as Andreas Weissman watched her. She had a lovely, graceful way as she moved slowly toward him, holding her glass of champagne. Everything about the way she moved was elegant and fluid, it made him think of the ballet, and Degas paintings. Jason Haverton was right, Andreas Weissman thought with a private smile. He had called late that afternoon to say again that she was not only a good lawyer, but he thought she was exquisite. He had loved having lunch with her, and told Andreas that if it had been only a few years before, things might have been different. He said it in a wistful way that made his agent smile, even now, as he extended a hand toward Allegra. She seemed to inspire fire in men's hearts, even in the depths of winter.

  I'm so glad you could come, Allegra. He carefully put an arm around her shoulders and guided her across the room to where another knot of guests stood. There were more faces she recognized, an important gallery owner she'd read about, a famous model, and a young artist. It was an incredibly mixed group, and exactly what she loved about New York. It was why people in New York never wanted to leave and come West. New York was much too exciting. Andreas introduced her around the room and explained to everyone that she was an entertainment lawyer from L.A., and everyone seemed happy to meet her.

  Andreas disappeared then, and left her with her new friends. An older woman challenged her, and said she moved like a dancer. Allegra admitted to having done eight years of ballet as a child, and someone else asked if she was an actress. Two very handsome young men said they worked with Lehman Brothers on Wall Street. Several more worked at a law firm where she'd interviewed while she was at Yale. And her head was spinning by the time she made her way upstairs to the upper floor to see the spectacular view of the park, and meet more guests, and then came back to the lower floor again at nine o'clock. The party was still going strong, and a fresh group that looked like businessmen had just arrived, accompanied by an equal number of well-dressed women. Some of them had on fur hats, and all of them had perfectly done hair. It was a different look from L.A., with its face-lifts and its youthful look and its blond hair; this was a darker look, a more interesting one, with less artifice and less makeup
, but with expensive clothes, a smattering of jewels, and serious, intense faces. There were a handful of face-lifts too, and bodies so thin they looked like pencils, but for the most part these were people accomplishing things, and affecting the world just because they'd been there. Allegra was fascinated by them, and the things they were saying. They talked about interesting things, and they were in fact interesting people. It's quite something, isn't it? a voice said just behind her, and she turned to see a man watching her, just as she had been scrutinizing the others around the room. He was long and lean, with dark hair, and the aristocratic look of a true New Yorker. And he was wearing the right uniform, a white shirt, dark suit, and conservative Hermes tie in two shades of navy, but something about him didn't match the way he looked. She wasn't sure if it was his tan, the spark in his eye, or the broad smile. In some ways, he looked more California than New York, and yet he didn't fit that description either. She couldn't figure him out, but as he sized her up, he was mystified by her as well. She seemed to fit in, yet there was something about her that made him think she didn't belong here. He liked coming to the Weissmans' he always met the most fascinating people, from ballet dancers to literary agents to venture capitalists to conductors. It was fun just mingling with them, and trying to guess why they had come and who they were. He was doing that now, and getting nowhere. Allegra could have been anything from decorator to doctor. She was trying to guess what he did too, and she was debating between stockbroker and banker. And as she looked at him pensively, he smiled broadly.

  I was just trying to figure out what you do, who you are, and where you come from, he confessed. I love playing that game here, and I always manage to guess wrong. You're probably a dancer, judging by the way you move and stand, but I guessed copywriter at Doyle Dane. How bad am I?

  Pretty bad, she laughed, amused by his game, as he was pushed a little closer to her by the crowd. He looked as though he had a good sense of humor, and he seemed totally relaxed with her as he looked her straight in the eye. Maybe you're not too far off. I am in business, and I do a lot of writing. I'm an attorney, she said, returning his gaze, and he seemed surprised.

  What kind of firm? He pressed on, enjoying their guessing game. He loved figuring out what people did, and in New York, there was such a rich assortment of jobs and people. There was never a simple answer to any question, least of all to what one did. He guessed silently again, and figured corporate law. I guess corporate, or probably something very serious like antitrust law. Am I right? It seemed incongruous to him because she was very feminine and very pretty, and he liked the combination of a beautiful woman involved in serious business.

  She laughed in answer, and he loved watching her. She had a gorgeous smile, incredible hair, and there was an immediate warmth about her. He could tell she liked people, and there was something very intriguing about her eyes. They said a lot to him about who she was and what she thought about. She was a woman of principle, he could tell, and firm beliefs, and probably strong opinions. But she obviously had a sense of humor too. She laughed a lot, and there was something very gentle and feminine about the way she moved her hands. And her mouth looked delicious.

  What makes you think I'm such a serious lawyer? she asked, laughing again. They didn't even know each other's names, but that seemed relatively unimportant. She liked talking to him, and playing his game about what she did, and who she was. Do I look that intense? she asked, curious as to how he would answer, and he considered her for a moment, tilting his head as he looked her over, and then he shook his head. And she couldn't help noticing that he had a great smile. He was very handsome.

  I was wrong. He corrected himself thoughtfully. You're a serious person, but you're not in a serious branch of law. How's that for an odd combination? Maybe you only represent prizefighters or skiers. Am I right? He was teasing her and she laughed.

  Why did you decide that I'm not in corporate or antitrust?

  You're not boring. You're serious and conscientious, but there's a lot of laughter in your eyes. Antitrust guys never laugh. So, was I right? Are you in sports law? ' Oh, Jesus, don't tell me it's P.I. or malpractice. I'd hate to think of you doing work like that. He winced as he set his empty glass down, and she grinned at him. It had been fun for a while, and she felt surprisingly at ease with him as she looked him in the eye.

  I'm in entertainment law, in Los Angeles. I came here to talk to Mr. Weissman about one of his clients, and see some of our other contacts here. I represent people in show business generally, writers, producers, directors, actors.

  Interesting, very interesting, he said, looking her over again, as though trying to decide if the information all fit together. And you're from L.A.? He looked as though he was surprised when she said she was.

  All my life, except for seven years at Yale.

  I went to a rival school, he said, and she held up a hand.

  Wait. It's my turn now. This one's easy. You went to Harvard. You're from the East, probably from New York, or she squinted as she looked at him maybe Connecticut or Boston. And you went to boarding school ' let's see, Exeter, or St. Paul's. He was laughing at the profile she was describing, ultraconservative, ultrapredictable, totally upper-crust New York. He wasn't sure if the dark suit had done it, or the Hermes tie, or maybe a recent haircut.

  You're close. I am from New York. I went to Andover. And I did go to Harvard. I taught at Stanford for a year, and now I'm She interrupted him and held up her hand again, as she looked him over. He didn't look like a professor, unless he taught in the business school, but he seemed too young and good-looking for that. If she'd been in L.A., she would have thought he was an actor, but he also looked too intelligent and not self-centered enough to be an actor.

  It's my turn again, she reminded him. You've already told me too much. You probably teach literature at Columbia. But to be honest, I thought you were a banker when we first met. He looked very Wall Street, and very respectable, except for the mischief in his eyes.

  It's the suit. He smiled, looking a little like her brother. He was almost as tall, and in an odd way, he reminded her of her father too. There was something familiar about his smile. I bought the suit to please my mother. She said I needed something respectable to wear if I was going to come back to New York.

  Have you been away? she asked. He still hadn't told her if he was a banker or a professor, and they were both enjoying the sparring, as the crowd finally began to thin out. There had been almost two hundred people milling around the Weissmans' elegant apartment, and it seemed almost empty now with roughly half that.

  I've been away for six months, working somewhere else, he gave her a clue. I hate to tell you where. He was highly amused by the things they had said about each other, and she was still trying to figure where he had been, and what he'd been doing.

  You've been teaching in Europe? He shook his head. Teaching anywhere? She was looking puzzled now. Maybe the suit had misled her. When she looked at his eyes, she could see that he had imagination, and he obviously liked assembling facts.

  No teaching in a long time. But you're not far off. Shall I tell you?

  I guess so. I give up. It's all your mother's fault. I think the suit confused me, she said lightheartedly, and they both laughed.

  I can see why. It confuses me too. When I looked in the mirror tonight, I had no idea who I was. Actually, I'm a writer you know, torn running shoes, English carpet slippers, old bathrobes, faded jeans, and Harvard sweatshirts with holes everywhere.

  I figured you were that type. He looked great in the suit though, and she suspected that there was more in his wardrobe than torn sweatshirts. He was a terrific-looking guy, and she guessed him to be about thirty-five. He was actually thirty-four, and had sold his first book to the movies the year before. His second book had just come out, and was getting splendid reviews, and selling very well, actually much to his surprise. It was very literary, but it had been something he felt he had to write. Andreas Weissman had been trying to convinc
e him that his real talent lay in commercial fiction, and he was about to begin writing his third book, and trying to broaden his horizons.

  So where have you been for six months? Writing on a beach in the Bahamas somewhere? It seemed very romantic to her, and all he could do was laugh at the suggestion.

  A beach, but not the Bahamas. I've been living in Los Angeles for six months, in Malibu, adapting my first book for a movie. I was crazy enough to agree to write the screenplay and coproduce it, something I probably wouldn't do again, though I'm sure no one will ever ask me. A friend of mine from Harvard is producing it with me, and directing.

  Did you just move back? It seemed so odd that he should be here, and they should meet, after he'd been in L.A. for six months. It was strange that among all the people there that night they had singled each other out. Both of them freshly arrived from California, drawn to each other like magnets.

  I'm here for a week, he explained, to see my agent. I have an idea for a third book, and if I ever finish this damn screenplay I'm working on, I'm going to lock myself up for a year and write it. I've already had an offer to do a screenplay on the second one, but I'm not even sure I want to do it. I'm not sure if I'm cut out for Hollywood, or the film business. I've been trying to decide if I just want to come back to New York and stick to writing books from now on, and forget the movies. I haven't made up my mind yet. For the moment, my life is a little schizophrenic.

  There's no reason why you can't do both. You don't even have to write the screenplays yourself if you don't want to. Sell the books, and let someone else do that, it would give you more time to write your novel. She felt as though she were advising one of her clients, and he smiled at the serious look in her eyes.

  And if they butcher the book? he asked, looking worried, and as she saw the expression in his eyes, she had to laugh.