The Pact (2 page)

P
erhaps the only thing worse than getting drunk by accident is not being able to get drunk on purpose. I’d switched from champagne to vodka tonics during the second course, but I still felt as clearheaded as the valedictorian at an AA graduation. And somehow calling for tequila shots seemed unseemly in these staid country club surroundings. Instead, I asked the waiter for another vodka tonic, meeting his raised eyebrows with an innocent smile and a request to go easy on the tonic.

The Fates were conspiring against me this evening, I all too soberly reflected. Here I was at my best friend’s rehearsal dinner, and rather than overflowing with joy I wanted to put my head down on the crisp linen tablecloth and weep. And not because of the bridesmaid’s dress I was scheduled to wear the following evening at half past six. (Although I was still curious as to how Emma, who I sincerely believed had only honorable intentions towards us all, had managed to find a style and color that didn’t flatter even one of her four bridesmaids.)

No, the dress and the prospect of wearing it were just fanning the flames of my distress. And while I dreaded the toast I would shortly have to make, it was merely fuel for the fire.

The horror, I thought. The horror.

If I turned my head to the right and counted over three seats, I could see the reason for my silent anguish in the flesh, smugly resplendent in a custom-made charcoal pinstriped suit and vivid Hermés tie, his black hair slicked neatly back from a widow’s peak.

Richard.

He was talking to a client who’d stopped by the table to say hello. He suddenly looked my way, as if he could feel the weight of my eyes upon him. He met my gaze with a smarmy wink and returned to his conversation.

I didn’t know then that a smarmy wink from Richard should have been the least of my worries compared to everything else the weekend held in store. I stifled a shudder and took a big gulp of my fresh drink, trying to ignore how much it tasted like insect repellent and fighting off yet another pang of anxiety. The clock was ticking, moving inexorably toward disaster; the ceremony that would bind Emma to Richard was to take place in less than twenty-four hours.

I sent a desperate glance around the table for moral support, a reassuring word of some sort. The seat directly to my right was empty, reserved for the best man, whose flight from the West Coast had been delayed. Not that I expected any friend of Richard’s to be remotely comforting in this situation. Emma, sitting next to Richard, had turned in her seat to greet one of the many well-wishers who’d come by to speak to her. She’d been so busy with the stream of visitors that she’d barely touched the food on her plate, and the shy smile on her face was starting to look more than a little forced.

To my left sat Matthew, the sort of guy you could always count on to help you out of a difficult spot. Tonight, however, he’d be the least appropriate person to turn to. He hated Richard as much, if not more, than any of us. With good reason. Matthew was the one Emma should be marrying. Unfortunately, this was glaringly obvious to everyone except Emma. I felt indignant on Matthew’s behalf but more than a bit frustrated by his seemingly calm acceptance of the situation. If only he’d made Emma realize how right they were for each other, had taken action years ago, then everything would be different. But the patience and sensitivity that made him such a good doctor seemed to have rendered him tragically unassertive in his personal affairs. And if he was upset tonight he was hiding it well, slicing into his apple tart with surgical precision and chatting good-naturedly with Jane, who sat on his other side.

A cousin of Emma’s sat between Jane and Hilary, and Hilary was trying her best to flirt with him, although his attempts at risqué banter were painfully bland. Still, Hilary felt it was important to practice even on the most unpromising of males. The flush that had stained his cheeks from the first glimpse she’d offered him of her cleavage had yet to subside. I almost felt sorry for him.

Hilary and her cleavage were flanked by Jane’s husband, Sean, who was flanked in turn by Luisa. From the stoic set of Sean’s usually relaxed features, I assumed that he had chivalrously assured Luisa that her cigarette wouldn’t bother him at all. They were swathed in a blue halo of Gauloises-scented smoke. A colleague of Richard’s who was serving as a groomsman the next day occupied the remaining seat at the table. I’d spoken to him during the cocktail hour and ascertained that he was entirely harmless but equally dull. He was listening to Sean and Luisa with a glazed look.

Everyone was deep in conversation with somebody else. Except, of course, me. Alas. I belatedly remembered that I’d promised myself the last time I went dateless to a wedding weekend that I would never do it again. There was nothing more depressing, nothing that could make me feel more like a total freak of nature, than to be hopelessly alone at an event that celebrated coupledom, however mismatched this particular couple was. It was fine for Hilary—she was fiercely protective of her single independence; it would never occur to her to wallow in self-pity just because she didn’t have a boyfriend by her side. Luisa had Isobel, her partner of nearly three years, waiting for her when she returned to South America. All she had to worry about was fighting off her parents’ pressure to marry and procreate. Jane and Sean had celebrated their tenth anniversary in June, just another in what would certainly be a long line of anniversaries commemorating their happy pairing. And I could hardly take comfort in the knowledge that while Emma had Richard, she was embarking on the biggest mistake of her life.

I sighed and flipped through my notes one more time, praying for a sudden natural disaster that could save me from making the toast. An earthquake was more than I could hope for in this part of the country, but perhaps I could bribe a waiter to pull the fire alarm? Not my waiter, of course. He made it clear from the way he set down my most recent drink that he wasn’t doing me any more favors tonight, no matter how sweetly I smiled up at him. If it weren’t so noisy I would have sworn he clucked his tongue as he moved on to the next table.

Resigned, I turned my attention back to the careful outline I’d made. I wasn’t afraid of public speaking, not by a long shot. In my line of work, the ability to comfortably address large groups was almost a prerequisite. My colleagues in Mergers and Acquisitions at Winslow, Brown, as well as the board members of assorted clients, hostile dissenters at shareholder meetings—even full auditoriums of Harvard Business School students, eager to learn more about how to gain entrée to a top-tier investment banking firm—I’d stood before them all and delivered talks ranging from detailed slide presentations to improvised monologues. I was skilled at laying out the facts about a merger or joint venture in a professional and persuasive manner and in beating back questions that were designed to embarrass with logic, composure, and eloquence. Yet none of that was enough to prepare me for toasting the imminent merger of my best friend with Satan.

I was pushing away a mental image of the shrieking mouth in Munch’s
The Scream
when Emma’s mother caught my eye from her seat at the next table and discreetly tapped her watch. It was customary, I knew, for the maid of honor to give the first toast at the rehearsal dinner, and Lily Furlong was a stickler for tradition. There was no escaping it—the time had come.

I sighed again and drained the last of my vodka tonic for one final drop of liquid courage. Slowly, I scraped my chair back and stood, champagne glass in hand. My knife rapping against its crystal made a sharp, pinging noise that echoed in the cavernous room, and the hum of voices from the tables around me faded into an expectant hush.

Richard had spared no expense this evening, I noted, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he was planning to write the entire affair off as a business expenditure. This rehearsal dinner was by no means a small gathering for the family and wedding party. Rather, Richard had been sure to invite everybody who was anybody among both his friends and those of the Furlongs, which was likely a far more fruitful hunting ground. None of Richard’s family was present, although I secretly wondered if he even had one. It was entirely possible that Richard had crawled out from under a rock somewhere, already fully formed. Meanwhile, half the Social Register was in attendance, not to mention the leading lights of the New York arts and literary scene, seated at round tables covered with starched white linens and graced with extravagant floral arrangements. Perhaps the even greater surprise was that so many of them had made the long drive up to this remote corner of the Adirondacks, committing themselves to a weekend at one of the handful of motels and overly cutesy bed-and-breakfasts the area had to offer, not to mention battling rush-hour traffic on a Friday afternoon in August to make it here in time for cocktails and dinner. This was surely more of a tribute to their great esteem for the Furlongs and Emma than any warmth of feeling for a swine like Richard Mallory.

I cleared my throat once more, deliberately stalling to make sure that any natural disaster had ample time to strike. But none was forthcoming. I plastered a brave smile on my face, took a deep breath, and reluctantly launched into my toast.

“I’m Rachel Benjamin, and I have the honor of serving as Emma’s maid of honor tomorrow afternoon.” This simple declaration was met by friendly applause.

“I first met Emma our freshman year at Harvard. Actually, we met the very first day. We were assigned to the same dorm room, and we were each eager to establish ourselves as the most considerate roommate. Neither of us wanted to confess whether we preferred the top or bottom bunk, the left side of the closet or the right side of the closet, the desk by the window or the desk by the door, for fear that we would offend the other.” An appreciative chuckle bubbled up from the audience. It was an easy crowd, I sensed, despite the impressive pedigrees scattered throughout the large dining room of the country club.

“We resorted to that most scientific of methods, one that you would expect to be used at only the most elite institutions of higher learning, to figure out who should take which bunk, which side of the closet, and which desk.

“I’m referring, of course, to the sophisticated discipline known colloquially as Rock, Paper, Scissors.” Much merriment from the audience at this. I briefly debated ditching my cushy corporate career on Wall Street and my steady, sizable paycheck to take my act on the road.

“I don’t mean to embarrass Emma in front of you all—she did her best. But she was no match for me. I handily beat her, two out of three. And, trying to endear myself to the woman with whom I’d be sharing those less-than-spacious quarters, I tried to choose the options that she seemed to want least.

“She’d mentioned that she was a painter—I assumed that she’d want to be able to gaze out the window, so I took the desk by the door. I also chose the left side of the closet, the side farthest from the mirror and the bathroom.

“And then came the most important decision of all—should I take the top or bottom bunk?

“My noble intentions warred with my most base desires. As a small child, I begged for a bunk bed. Nothing seemed more glamorous than to sleep high above the floor in a top bunk. Tantrums, hunger strikes—even being nice to my brothers—none of my efforts could melt my parents’ stony resistance. My pleas fell on deaf ears, and I had to make do with a beruffled canopy until well into my teens.” Hilary emitted a mock moan of sympathy. I paused to glare at her before continuing.

“Here I was with this tempting opportunity—away from home for the first time, the world my oyster, and the top bunk beckoning me upward. I was torn, but I made the right choice, the selfless choice, and opted for the bottom bunk—I gave the top bunk to Emma. In fact, I insisted that she have it, despite her protests. And her protests were quite vehement. But I could see through her words, and I held firm to my generous choice.

“For the entire year, Emma climbed up to the top bunk while I tried to suppress the envy that threatened to overwhelm me. When she offered to switch midyear, I swallowed my impulses and told her that wouldn’t be necessary. After all, there would be other dorm rooms in the coming years. But the next year we moved into a large suite with Luisa and Hilary and Jane—we all had single beds. Ditto the next two years. My one opportunity for a top bunk—selflessly sacrificed to the cause of friendship.

“The summer after we graduated from college, Emma and I traveled to France. On a sunny June day, we found ourselves at the Eiffel Tower. There was a long line of tourists, but I wanted to see the view from the top. Emma waited patiently next to me for nearly two hours before our turn came. We squished into the elevator with our fellow sightseers and waited until the doors opened onto the top deck of the monument. I rushed to the railing, excited to see Paris spread out below us. But after a few minutes, I realized that Emma wasn’t beside me.

“Instead, she was standing with her back against the wall, as far from the railing as she could be, her eyes screwed shut and her complexion a decidedly unbecoming shade of green.

“It was only then that she admitted to me that she was terrified of heights. ‘But what about freshman year?’ I asked. ‘You loved having the top bunk.’

“‘No,’ she confessed. ‘It’s just that I thought you wanted the bottom bunk.’” The room erupted in laughter. They couldn’t understand how Emma’s absurd need to please had manifested itself in so many other, less humorous ways. I waited for the laughter to subside before I went on.

“I tell this story for a couple of reasons. First, I wanted to make it clear that trying to beat me at Rock, Paper, Scissors is a waste of time. I always, always win.” More laughter. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the mushy part.