“I know.” She had not yet turned her phone back on. She asked what time it was.
“11:30 p.m.,” the woman said. “One hour ahead of New York.”
Orla thanked her and touched her key to the door. Back in the city, she thought, Floss and Aston would be going to sleep. Their wedding was scheduled for nine in the morning, with a brunch reception to follow. Getting married first thing on a Friday, and they couldn’t have been happier. Floss had been flushed with pleasure when she told Orla the news at her ultrasound: a cable network had agreed to air the wedding live. Flosston was back on camera.
* * *
The drapes in the villa were blackout, and Orla was never not tired now. She might have slept right through the wedding if not for a calf muscle spasm. She looked at the clock on the nightstand, heaving, as the pain started to fade, and saw that the wedding was due to begin in exactly seven minutes.
The gummy bears in the villa’s minibar were eleven dollars, but she figured she was celebrating. She grabbed them and sat down on the bed in her bra, resting the bag on her planetary middle. Her skin was stretched so taut it was translucent. It seemed there were a thousand veins just beneath its surface. The only thing more unbelievable than a life growing large inside her, Orla thought, was the idea of it sliding out of her body, leaving her one person again.
She turned on the television, one of those low-definition models that only hotels still seemed to have, and found the channel. Two anchors, the male and female version of each other—thin, tanned, tawny highlights, teeth so white they were almost blue—sat in high canvas chairs at the back of a tall, open space. Behind them, people in black bustled by, looking frantic, while people in furs and glitter ambled toward their seats, pretending not to realize when they sashayed into frame.
The first thing that told Orla something was wrong was the straw. There were bales of hay stacked everywhere. She couldn’t locate the ornate curves of the Plaza ballroom Floss had shown her weeks before. “My theme is retro holiday chic,” Floss had declared, circling her mouse over the massive chandelier. “Red and green and gold and crystal and brocade. Very Jackie Kennedy holiday White House party. The dress is super Jackie, don’t you think?” Floss’s dress had a bodice so sheer, she had to have her stomach waxed. There was a time when Orla would have pointed this out, but instead she had only nodded. She was never not tired.
A minute later, the anchors identified themselves—Gianna and Chip—and trilled that they were “broadcasting live from The Foundry in Long Island City, New York.” Orla stopped chewing the stale green bear between her teeth and checked her phone. There was no word from Floss or Aston, but something must have gone wrong—a paparazzi invasion at the Plaza, perhaps, or a burst pipe at the last minute.
On-screen, Gianna’s eyes were watery and red. “We understand that this wedding will coincide with a major announcement from the couple.” She sniffed, then added, “My apologies to all of you at home—I’m allergic to hay. We didn’t know there would be hay.”
“Indeed we didn’t, Gianna,” Chip chortled. “What are we thinking here, about this theme? Farmhouse chic?”
“I guess probably yes, Chip,” Gianna said, wheezing.
The show cut to commercial. Orla texted Floss: Just saw you’re at The Foundry. Hope everything’s OK. She paused—she wanted to add a warm wish of some sort, but what was the thing to say to someone whose wedding was mostly being watched by stay-at-home moms on their second coffee? Break a leg and enjoy every second, she wrote, feeling generic and distant. The dialogue told her the message had been read, but Floss did not respond.
Orla peed, and decided while washing her hands that she had to pee again. By the time she came out, the network was playing a pretaped package about “Flosston’s high-drama road to forever.” Then the montage faded and was replaced by a live shot of the empty altar: a crude wooden structure, also filled with straw.
“We’re interrupting our package,” said Gianna with the air of a war reporter, “because there’s something happening here at The Foundry, where the wedding of Aston Clipp and Floss Natuzzi is just about to begin.” She paused. “A small horse—a pony—”
“I believe it’s a donkey,” Chip shrieked. “Donkey!”
“A donkey is being led