I’m once again caught up in reverie. Somehow, I could see the Moreau Brothers’ sophistication emanating from the woodwork that hailed from the railing of the walkway. We step on a red carpet as we walk onto the boat, entering from the rear. The off-white panels compliment the smooth finishing of freshly polished wood. It smells of rich pine from the start of the airy foyer of the deck. It’s filled with men, breaking down furniture just ahead of the built in Jacuzzi. The deck is huge, the size of a modest sized ballroom.
“The crew here is transitioning this main deck from a pool-side lounge area to your chapel. They should be done in an hour or so,” Tessie informs before being interrupted by someone asking for her signature on a clipboard. “Thanks,” she says as she passes it back. “Let’s get out of their way and take you to your bridal salon on the lower deck. I’ll take your duffle bag,” she offers while removing it from my rigid shoulder. I can’t believe the prestige this place holds.
My tongue skids nervously over my suddenly parched lips. I don’t know where the angst has erupted from; typical wedding day jitters or feeling intimidated by all the cachet I’m surrounded by. We do an about-face and the oil painting hanging on the wall of a man who had to have been from a time that I learned about in history class in high school catches my eye. The squaring of his narrow shoulders and the lifting of his chin tells me that a girl from a New Jersey projects isn’t whom he’d bequeathed this boat for.
We head to a room below that I can tell has been strategically changed into station glam squad. Tessie informs that Adrian will be here, along with Chantal, who I’m now learning will be doing my makeup again. But here, waiting for me, are the assistants of Reba, the stylist Azmir had contracted for me for the Mauve signing. We had good chemistry, so I decided to take her on for the wedding. The other set of folks here are two that I don’t recognize, but I’m told by Tessie they’ll be doing my waxing, manicure, and pedicure.
The pine wood-laden room with a low ceiling is sectioned off. One portion is for hair and makeup. Another is for my waxing, mani, and pedi and the last, which is nearly half, is for costume. Tessie informs that I’ll start with being sized—as though I wasn’t just fitted for my gown two days before—waxing, mani, and pedi, followed by a full body massage, a facial, two-hour nap, cocktail, hair, makeup, and then suiting of my gown. It’s just after six in the morning and these people are dutifully waiting for me. Butterflies evade my belly again.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it. I have to check on a few things in the kitchen…which reminds me.” Tessie’s finger lifts in the air. “Your concierge will be here shortly. I’m at your beck and call…and here is your Motorola radio.” She hands me a walkie talkie. “Your channel is set already. Please make him aware of any needs you may have. There is a continental breakfast on the table over there, but if you want something else, Pierre will get it for you. Anything,” she emphasizes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have loads to do before Mr. Jacobs’ arrival.”
“Ummm…Tessie, where is Mr. Jacobs and when can I expect him?” I muster all the casualness I can to belie my embarrassment of not knowing where the man that I’ll be marrying in a matter of hours is or when he will arrive.
“He’s set to arrive at zero nine hundred hours. The ceremony will begin promptly at two p.m., I am sure of that.” She ends on a wink.
“And paparazzi?” I ask tentatively.
The only request that I had for the planning of this is no uninvited outside forces into our bubble of a wedding day. Just in months, Azmir’s popularity seems to have tripled, and that’s saying a lot for the man who’s been a mogul for relatively four years. Going out to dinner on a Saturday night has become the hugest feat since his feature in Vibe and other publications. It’s as if someone has turned on a switch to fame overnight. I now have Google alerts set up for my husband-to-be, and the notifications are increasing by the day. I can match the accuracy of Azmir’s schedule by the candid shots found almost daily on popular blogs. I don’t want to share this day with many, and certainly not with the legions of new followers Azmir has recently accumulated.
“Mr. Jacobs has made it crystal clear that you don’t want unauthorized pictures circulated,” Tessie assures. Actually, I want no pictures circulated, but that’s not an option, Azmir relayed to me regrettably. “I’ve been in contact with the team over at Bacote & Taylor regarding the monitoring of what information is out there, up to the moment, about today’s event. All guests are aware of the no pictures policy and have been given the information as to how they will receive photographs of the event at a later date,” Tessie informs and then goes to typing her perfect shade of red nails on her iPad as though to confirm something. “And Ms. Taylor will be here later to check on the activities herself,” she ends.
Dawn?
“She’s not a guest for this event,” flies out of my mouth harsher than intend.
“No, she isn’t,” Tessie agrees. “The nature of her visit here is to verify the last guest list provided and to scout the facilities for paparazzi. She will only be on the yacht for less than ten minutes, but on the premises until we sail.”