Meanwhile, Alistair has been walking slow circuits around the perimeter of the space, hands in his pockets, head tilted, as if he is appraising a painting he suspects is a forgery.
He stops. He sniffs the air.
"You know what this smells like?" he says, to no one in particular. "It smells like a gallery in Düsseldorf where I spent a veryconfusing weekend in 1986. A conceptual artist named Klaus insisted we eat dinner in total darkness to 'interrogate our relationship with sustenance'. We sat in a room just like this. Concrete. No windows. No chairs. Klaus served us foam." He looks pointedly at Catherine. "Just foam. Flavoured air. On a slate."
"The foam wasart, Alistair," Catherine says tightly.
"The foam was a cry for help," Alistair replies. "Klaus is selling insurance in Hamburg now. The point is," he continues, raising his voice to address the room at large, "I have stood in this room before. Metaphorically. And I left hungry, spiritually confused, and with a lower back complaint that lasted until 1991." He turns to Stefan, the venue manager, who has been slowly pressing himself against the concrete wall. "What's the minimum guest count?"
"Fifty," Stefan squeaks.
"And the heating?"
"We recommend guests wear layers."
Alistair stares at him for a long moment.
"We are not asking three hundred people to wear layers to a wedding," Alistair says, with the calm finality of a man closing a meeting. "My wife will be wearing couture. My son will be wearing bespoke. If I tell Rosa Ortiz to wear layers, she will remove a layer of myskin." He turns to Catherine. "Veto. And burn Klaus's number from your contacts while you're at it."
"Hey, I'm just thanking God we managed to get the list down to three hundred to begin with," Jax interjects, offering my father a wry smile. "If we were still at twelve hundred guests, we'd have to issue thermal exhaustion warnings with the invitations."
I adjust my glasses, highly satisfied that Jax recognizes the tactical victory of my seating chart reductions.
"You have no vision, all of you,” Mother snaps, slamming her notebook shut. "You want pedestrian? Fine. I will show you nature. I will show youopulence."
"I’m scared," Jax whispers to me. "What does she mean by nature?"
“Knowing my mother,” I say. “It’s something carnivorous."
Venue 3: The Conservatory
Location: The New York Botanical Garden
We arrive at the final venue. It is a massive Victorian glasshouse, steamy and verdant.
"The Orchidarium," Mother announces, throwing open the doors.
We are hit by a wall of heat. The air is thick, humid, and smells aggressively of pollen and potting soil. Inside, thousands of rare, black orchids hang from the ceiling like sleeping bats. There is a waterfall. There is a koi pond. There is a humidity level of ninety-nine percent.
"We have imported five thousand 'Dracula' orchids," Mother says, inhaling deeply. "The humidity is maintained at a tropical level to preserve the blooms."
"It’s a sauna," Jax says, instantly sweating through his shirt. "Max, I can’t breathe. The air is soup. Why is the air soup?"
"My hair," Rosa says. She touches her perfectly coiffed bob. "Catherine. Look at me. I have spent forty dollars on this blowout. In five minutes, I will look like a poodle. Do you hate hair? Is that it?"
"It is atmospheric," Mother says, ignoring the fact that Preston is currently fanning himself with his pocket square, looking faint. "We will serve tropical cocktails. We will release butterflies at the 'I do'."
"Butterflies?" I ask, alarmed. "Insects? At a sterile event? They are vectors for disease. And they will land on the cake."
"They are imported Monarchs!" Mother shouts, losing her cool. "They are majestic!"
"They are bugs!" Rosa shouts back. "Catherine, this is a swamp! The guests will sweat through their silk. The makeup will melt. You will have a room full of wet, angry people swatting at moths!"
"They are not moths!" Mother shrieks. "They areLepidoptera!"
Alistair is not where anyone left him. He has wandered to the far end of the Orchidarium and is standing ankle-deep in the koi pond, shoes removed, trousers rolled to the knee, examining a hanging cluster of black Dracula orchids with his reading glasses perched on his nose.
Everyone stares.
