“I do,” the camera guy said. He nodded toward the other men. “They don’t.”
“How long have you—” Liz began, but she didn’t finish the question because Caroline Bingley was climbing into the limo. In those first few seconds of their seeing each other, Liz could have sworn Caroline’s nostrils flared with distaste. “Hello, Liz,” she said in a cool tone.
“Hi, Caroline.” Liz was highly conscious of both the camera crew and her mic pack; she could feel the pack between her back and the seat. She said, “I guess none of us would have found ourselves here if you hadn’t nominated Chip to be on Eligible way back when, huh?”
“Your family must be thrilled,” Caroline said, and Liz tried to infuse her voice with extra friendliness as she replied, “And yours even more so.”
Liz’s acting experience had begun and ended with a chorus role in a Seven Hills Middle School production of Oliver! And yet as the evening proceeded, Liz had the odd sense of once again participating in a play, of being obliged above all not to break character, with her character in this case the kind and supportive sister of the bride. Caroline and Liz were next joined by Mary, then Kitty and Lydia appeared together, then Chip’s older sister, Brooke, whose existence Liz had been unaware of until the moment she entered the limousine. (She was the eldest of the three siblings, apparently, the married mother of an eight-year-old and a ten-year-old, all of whom lived near Mr. and Mrs. Bingley in the suburbs of Philadelphia.) At last Jane materialized, to applause that at least on Liz’s part was heartfelt. As the limousine pulled away from the lodge, the tinted window separating the driver from the passengers descended, and Anne Lee grinned and held up two bottles of champagne. (Of course Anne Lee was there, and of course she was holding up two bottles of champagne.) “Who’s ready for the best bachelorette party ever?” she called out.
THEY ATE DINNER in the private room of a restaurant, where at first the conversation was highly stilted; when Liz went to use the restroom, Anne Lee, who’d been standing behind a camera, intercepted her and asked in her untrustworthily normal way, “How do you think it’s going?”
“Fine,” Liz said.
“You don’t feel like things are awkward?”
“We don’t know Chip’s sisters that well,” Liz said. “I just met Brooke tonight.”
“And there’s that tension between you and Caroline.” Anne’s expression was one of eminent sympathy. “Maybe it’s better to speak your mind to her before the wedding. Like, clear the air and come out closer, you know?”
Liz had decided in advance that she’d consume no more than two drinks; after champagne in the limo, a vodka cocktail upon arrival at the restaurant, and a glass of wine with the meal, she’d already exceeded this limit. But she still found Anne far from convincing. She smiled with her mouth closed. “I told you I have no problem with Caroline.”
It was shortly after the entrées had been cleared that a knock sounded on the door of the private room; Liz guessed it would be Chip, but when the door opened, it was a cop and a firefighter, or, as Liz soon discerned through her fourth drink, male strippers wearing cop and firefighter uniforms. Liz wouldn’t soon forget the sight of them gyrating around pregnant, sober Jane—she was the only one not drinking—their oiled pecs displayed as they removed their clothing, save for a pair of briefs each plus, in the firefighter’s case, a helmet, suspenders, and boots, and in the cop’s case, a peaked blue cap and handcuffs that dangled from one wrist. The strippers proceeded to dance with some of the other women to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”: Lydia and Kitty swiveled their hips and wiggled their bottoms with particular enthusiasm, Liz shimmied around enough to seem (she hoped) like a good sport, and even Brooke took a turn grinding the firefighter, which made Liz like her significantly more; but both Mary and Caroline watched with disdain and shook their heads when beckoned to join.