"Marcus!"
"You don't have to tell anyone anything," Marcus said, rolling over toward me. "It's nobody's business."
"Of course I have to tell them. They think I'm getting married on Saturday. Some of them are invited."
I admired Marcus's laid-back approach to life, but this was a perfect example of him underestimating the requisite effort something would take. It might even prove to be problematic later, if he underestimated my desire to have nice things on my birthday, Christmas, Valentine's, and randomly throughout the year. Dex knew the drill: flowers arrived like clockwork every other month, which meant a standing order rather than a rush of emotion, but that was fine with me. Attention was attention. Nice things were nice things.
But Marcus could be trained, I was sure of it. Every man can be trained. I welcomed the challenge of molding my new boyfriend into a responsible—but still sexy and spontaneous—husband and father. For now, I had to make him understand that breaking the news to my colleagues was going to be a huge, emotional ordeal and that I would need his support—i.e., phone calls and e-mails during my trying day. Maybe even a luxury good waiting for me upon my return to his apartment. I imagined him coming through the door with an orange Hermes box and a doting smile.
"I know you have to tell the people you invited," Marcus said. "I just think it's unnecessary to explain the whole thing in detail. Just send a mass e-mail and be done with it."
"But they're going to ask what happened," I said, thinking that I'd be disappointed if they didn't. "People want details."
"I know you would, you little information hound, but not everyone is like you."
"Everyone is like me in the world of public relations. Trust me. It's our business to gather, hoard, and disperse juicy details. And this is big-time juicy."
"Well, I'm just sayin' that it's your prerogative to tell people to mind their own fuckin' business," Marcus said.
I told him that wasn't my style. Then I got up quickly, resisting the urge to have sex. After all, I had a lot to accomplish in a day. I showered, put on my makeup, and then checked Marcus's closet, which was full of my clothes that I had brought over the night before. I opted for an Escada pencil skirt, a green Versace V-neck, and a pair of Ferragamo slingbacks. Then, I leaned into the bathroom to say goodbye to Marcus, who was singing "Purple Rain" at the top of his lungs, and, impressively, in tune.
"See you tonight, hon!" I called into the bathroom.
He stopped singing and poked his head around the shower curtain. "Sounds good… C'mere and give me a quick kiss."
"Can't. The steam will ruin my hair," I said, blowing him a kiss from the doorway. Then I maneuvered through the busy city streets to the subway as I considered my strategy for how to break the news. I could tell Claire, coworker and new best friend effective immediately, that she was free to spread the word. Then I remembered that she had an out-of-office meeting with a potential new client this morning, and I couldn't stand the thought of waiting for her return. So I would send a mass e-mail as Marcus suggested, adopting just the right tone.
I got to my office, I settled into my chair in front of my computer and quickly typed out my breaking news:
Good morning, everyone. I just wanted to let you all know that my wedding will not be taking place this Saturday. It was a difficult decision, but I think I'm doing the right thing. I know it's a bit odd to send out a group e-mail regarding such a personal matter, but I thought this was the easiest way.
Perfect. It was strong but emotional. And most important, it clearly signaled that I had done the dumping. I reread it, thinking that something was missing. I added an ellipsis at the end. Yes. Perfect touch. Those three little dots would conjure the sound of my voice trailing away mysteriously. Now for a subject line. Should it say "Wedding" or "Canceled" or "News"? None seemed right, so I kept the subject line blank. Then, as I selected my personal e-mail group and prepared to send the shocking nugget via cyberspace, my phone rang.
"Darcy," my boss, Cal, said in his breathy, effeminate voice. "How are ya?"
"Not so good, Cal," I said in my "I can't deal with taking instructions" voice. One that he knew well. It was the beauty of working for Cal. He was a complete pushover.
"Well, may I please see you in Conference Room C?"
"For what?"
"We need to talk about the Celebrity Golf Challenge."
"Right now?"
"Yes, if you could. Please?"