polka-dot bow tie and Converse with his tuxedo, a wardrobe choice that Claudia had willingly endorsed at the time but now somewhat regretted. During the frenzied months preceding the wedding, Jeremy had joked frequently about “buying their shares in the wedding industrial complex,” and despite her agreement in principle—hadn’t she suggested that they ask for donations to a breast cancer charity rather than crystal from Bloomingdale’s? Hadn’t she nixed the priest in favor of Jeremy’s Universal Life Church–ordained godfather?—the closer they got to the ceremony the more she found that these jabs upset her, as if he wasn’t taking any of this seriously. And so, at the altar, she had bitten her lip, waiting for the tradition-mocking surprise she was sure he had prepared for their vows. Instead, she had been shocked by how serious he had suddenly become, how achingly raw. “You took care of me when I needed it the most,” he told her, his eyes wet, his throat closed with emotion. “I can think of nothing that will make me happier than to spend the rest of my life taking care of you too.”
Now, as Jeremy fiddled with the painting, adjusting its tilt, Claudia flipped on the television. The newscasters on every station were speaking in stiff baritones to inflate the urgency of the anticlimactic news they were conveying. A biggish quake but not catastrophically big, 5.8 on the Richter scale, they said. No deaths reported, no injuries, not even a collapsed building. She scanned the channels, hunting for wreckage or panic in the streets, but the worst the news crews could locate was a wall of old bricks that had fallen off the side of an automotive dealership downtown. Pedestrians were walking around the pile in an orderly fashion, talking on cellphones. Sanity had reigned, despite the game doomsday face of the on-the-street reporter.
She picked up a copy of Entertainment Weekly that had slid off the coffee table to the floor. It was still folded open to the review of her film, and her eye immediately dropped to the summary paragraph, which she’d read so many times today that she nearly had it memorized:
Spare Parts’ disaffected twenty-somethings tackle their relationship malaise with hilariously blunt banter and a few unexpected narrative turns, lifting this refreshing independent film clear of your standard romantic comedy clichés. Claudia Munger’s witty prose and eye for the absurd hint at a gimlet-eyed auteur with a promising future.
Claudia glanced at the wall clock—it was past six. She jumped up. “We’re going to be late to the premiere!”
Jeremy jerked back from the painting, which still listed to one side. “Already? Give me five minutes,” he said, and then paused to examine her. “You’re wearing the dress I gave you for Christmas.”
She looked down at the cocktail dress, a draped purple silk with a daring neckline that had to be held in place with double-stick tape. “Is it overkill?”
“No. You look amazing. I’ll wear my suit,” he said, “so we can match.”
But Claudia had already started to second-guess herself. “Maybe by dressing up too much, I’ll jinx it,” she said. “No one will show up, and then I’ll look ridiculous standing around in a sexy cocktail dress in a movie theater all by myself.”
Jeremy laughed. “Everyone shows up when there’s free booze involved. Stop worrying. You’re going to be huge.”
Claudia ducked her head to hide her smile, letting her ego momentarily pave a thoroughfare over premiere-night jitters. Even at her most self-assured, she didn’t like to speak her hopes out loud; the one, say, where her modest independent film became a blockbuster, leading the way to a bigger film, and then another, a whole career’s worth, until eventually her name actually meant something to audiences and industry alike. Carter, her agent, seemed to think this was already a done deal, and signs so far had been positive—the effusive meetings with studio executives, the deal on the table for her next script, the glowing advance reviews for her film. Up ahead, just within reach, she could see the red carpet at Cannes, the appearance on Charlie Rose, the Oscar nominations, the million-dollar paydays, and the irrevocable personal validation that would come with that coveted gilded seal from Hollywood’s elite. Maybe only a handful of directors could claim this kind of career, but on days like today, she believed she was capable of being one of them.
“There’s a lot riding on this,” she said. “Can you blame me for being jittery?”
“Well, I say it’s your premiere. Wear