Hooking Trout - 13. Terms of Engagement

All things considered, everything seemed to be going remarkably well.

It's Saturday evening, and our apartment is stuffed to bursting with over sixty guests because every morning, Amanda remembered a few more friends or family members and their offspring who ‘we-can't-possibly-not-invite'. Many of these people I don’t even know, so I’ve no idea if they’re even at the right party. If the other thirty-something turn up, we might have to commandeer the roof.

At one end of the apartment, the boys are caged up in the open kitchen, with only Tommy prowling the rooms on the half-hour to sniff out any potential mates.

Amanda's girlfriends, Gina and the large one whose name turns out to be Natalie congregate beneath the artwork with June and Marisse, arguing about the difference between feminism and lesbianism. It's amusing to watch Amanda's family members, recognizing her friends and approaching to make small talk, but once within earshot, veering away as though bouncing off a force field.

Clara, Amanda's cousin and her husband, Steve, who I had been looking forward to seeing and relying upon to help guide me through the family minefield, had to bail. She is ten days away from popping the poppet, and after a couple of late-night false alarms, Steve wisely suggested they stay home, within driving distance of the hospital.

My stepmother, for whom, after her involvement in my father's affairs, I hold newfound respect, is her usual antisocial self, comfortably tucked away in a space between the drinks cabinet and a bookcase.

Donald and Bryan, in designer suits, appear to have patched up their differences and are uncharacteristically cheerful, shaking hands and chatting like unwelcome Republican candidates with people they don't know and will probably never meet again.

More importantly, and for the first time, Amanda and I have been working as a team. She is looking after crowd control, leading people out of doorways and corridors, while I work the room, making polite conversation with her friends and relatives, the way she taught me. It's proving much harder than I'd imagined.

Amanda had the difficult task of deciding whether to only invite her mother, or her father and stepmother—or worse case scenario, both and face the consequences. Fortunately, when she broached the topic first with her mother, the woman had to cry off, citing a bout of prolonged influenza.

Her father and the new wife, both in pastel-colored casuals, look ready for a game of golf. They are up from Palm Beach, where they finally settled. Her father, George, who I recognize from high school, is almost entirely bald now and sports a rather expensive looking gut, corseted by a pastel blue waistcoat with stretch marks. Her stepmother, Doris, in pastel pink and resolutely by her husbands' side, seems elsewhere and says nothing unless prompted by George. During our conversation, I sense her father trying to place me. Eventually he stops halfway through a sentence.

"You're the fullback, ain't you?" he says, impressed.

He's referring to one of Amanda's old boyfriends, but my brief turn on the field in junior high gives me enough cause to smile self-deprecatingly before excusing myself to check on other guests.

Her Aunt Emma, Clara's mother, is someone I warm to immediately, even though she's as nervous as a squirrel. Her husband, Sydney, at least fifteen years her senior, is already trying to get some of the bemused younger guests to dance.

"I limit him to one alcoholic drink," she confides, "otherwise, with his medication, he gets unmanageable in the worst possible kind of way. Thank goodness you've got fruit punch. He loves that."

Sensing my stress, she gives me the lowdown on their family members while we head towards an untidy couple slumped on the sofa staring at the coffee table. She tells me about her life before Sydney when she used to be a tour guide at the Surry Nuclear Power Plant. Even now, with three young grandkids from Clara's sister, she breaks out in a cold sweat whenever one of them waves a remote at her and asks, 'Grandma, what happens if I press this button?'

While Aunt Emma chatters away, I have an out-of-body experience, observing my fiancée across the room. She presses a fresh bottle of beer into Bill's hand, leads a leery sophomore jock away from my stepmom, and an equally lecherous Tommy back to the kitchen away from Donald and Bryan, before dragging her friends away from the main room to appraise her freshly decorated bedroom.

Is this whole fake set-up really so bad?

Satisfied that everything's looking good, I tear myself away from Aunt Emma and decide to go and chat with my stepmother.

"So. How did everything go, Helen?"

"What?" she asks, an unlit cigarette dangling between her fingers, the woman who slapped me across the back of the head as a teenager if I ever answered with that single word: 'Don't say what, say pardon!'

"Oh, that!" she says, cottoning on. "Everyone's happy. Some rich bitch got something she'll probably only use once. And your father made a stack of cash."

"I assume he's not coming?"

"What do you think?" she mugs and changes the subject.

"By the way, your 'fiancée,'" when she mimics the air quotes, I have to work hard to suppress a smile, "said I couldn't smoke in this apartment. This apartment that belongs to your father. Is that correct?"

This time I can't help grinning, not just about her parodying the air quotes but about bringing up the fact that Dad owns this place and lets me stay rent-free.

"'Fraid so, Mom. House rules."

"My, my. A little soon to be raising the white flag, isn't it, dear?" she scowls. "And June tells me you agreed to a prenup. Is that right?"

Marisse brought along the prenuptial agreement for us to look over. Naturally, the infidelity clause is included, because I am the only person Amanda has told about her either being a few weeks late or pregnant. Praying for the former, I agreed anyway. What the hell else could I do? We’ve both decided to sign a couple of weeks before the actual wedding.

"I'll get you more wine," I reply, plucking the empty bottle from under Helen’s arm. "Have you seen grandma?"

She frowns and waves her cigarette dismissively towards the opposite end of the room.

One key objective of the evening is to put flesh to my imaginary fiancée. I had already primed Amanda. After chatting briefly with the older woman, Amanda seems satisfied they had a connection. June, for her part, finally convinced Grandma Beth that Wendy is my pet name for Amanda, hence the mix-up. She seems to have bought it, but you can never be entirely sure with my grandmother.

I find the old dowager alone, supporting herself by a hand planted firmly on the back of a leather armchair and frowning up at the artwork on the wall. She appears frailer than ever but touches my face and smiles warmly when she sees me.

"Hi, grandma. So, what do you think of Amanda?"

Her eyebrows raise for a second before she turns to grimace back up at the picture again.

"Your grandpa had a sister called Amanda. Didn't much care for her." With a shaky finger, she points at the painting. "What happened to that nice family portrait? The one with the white cat?"

"Amanda's not a fan. This is more her thing," I pat her skeletal hand and lie. "I'm sort of getting used to it."

"Well, getting hitched is surely about give and take, I suppose," she sighs. "Lord knows your grandpappy had some peculiar ideas when it came to art. Just make sure you don't do all the giving, huh?"

"Of course." I sigh and nod, feeling a twinge of irritation as echoes of a recent conversation with my father ripple back.

As if reading my mind, she carries on.

"Is he going to be here tonight, your father?"

"He said he'd try."

"Did he, now?" she snorts and looks around the room. "Not much of a family showing, is it? Only young Darren and me. And Helen, if you count her, which I don't. I know your Uncle Bobby's out of town and Mark's away in Iraq, but you'd think Garrison and his wife would've had the decency to show. I'm sorry, son."

"Don't be. You're here, and so is June. And, yeah, it would have been nice to see dad, but as far as I'm concerned, that's all the family I need." I say, with a shrug and a smile. I daren't tell her we didn't invite Garrison. Even Amanda hesitated when she wrote out the invites. In case of emergency, we decided we'd use a mistyped address as the excuse.

"Well, anyway, I'm not gonna stay much longer, but I wanted to give you these." She dips into her handbag and fishes out a set of keys. "For Cedarwood. Figured you ought to check your wedding present over. Why not take June and a few friends down for the weekend? Next month, after the swimming pool has been cleaned."

For some reason, the mere mention of the place, the original cause of what began this whole charade, fills me with guilt. "You know what, grandma, you don't have to..."

She presses her hand on top of mine. "Son, at my age and with my money, I don't have to do anything I don't want. But when I heard you talking at my party about marrying, I knew this was the right thing. So humor your old grandma, huh? And get me another cup of that minty punch."

Minty punch?

From across the room, I see Tommy, Bill, and Doug arguing animatedly in the open kitchen, which is doubling as a bar. As I approach, they turn and stop abruptly, a sure sign the topic of conversation has been me. Tommy's been tetchy of late, probably because of our intention to repossess the sofa bed while Aunt Emma and Uncle Sydney stay.

I glance over at the remains of a bowl of peach punch, which now has a greenish tinge.

"Has someone been spiking the punch?"

"That was some bland shit, man," drools Bill, slumping against the fridge. "I spiced it up with a little Smirnoff, Tequila, Gin and—"

"Why is it green?"

"—Listermint. The magic ingredient."

"You put mouthwash in the punch?"

"Ain't heard nobody complaining. And it's nearly all gone. I got another batch made up under the sink."

"They may wake with one mother of a hangover," laughs Doug, "but at least their breath won't stink."

I'm not so sure. "Shit, guys. Just don't let Amanda know."

"Geez. 'Just don't let Amanda know.' Where’re your balls, man?" asks Tommy, who believes they're still in her purse. All I can think is, not this again.

"Have you mentioned the prenup yet?" says Doug. "You gotta take charge now, buddy."

Discrete as ever, my best buddy shares this piece of private information with everyone in earshot. I am about to tell him that Amanda has already agreed to sign the thing when Tommy joins the rant.

"He does it every freakin' time. Remember the Sri Lankan guy with the massage thing, what's it called?" says Tommy, leering at the others.

"Ashiatsu." I remind him.

Ravie, a hunk who was also a trained masseur, worked his ass off to master the specialist massage art, where gentle pressure is applied along points of the back using the soles of the masseur's feet. When we were together, I acted as his very willing client. After a four weeks dating, though, he left me for a yoga instructor in Thailand a couple of years back.

"Whatever," says Tommy, "but you let him walk all over you, man."

Bill sprays a mouthful of beer into the air. Doug and I laugh aloud, while Tommy, a hurt expression settling on his face, says in quiet defense.

"He did."

Doug is the first to recover. "The point Tommy's trying to make, honey doll, is you're still letting her get the upper hand. She's telling people you was up half the night baking pie and putting fillings into goddamn vol-au-vents."

"I enjoy cooking. So sue me." At the moment, she also feels like barfing every time she gets near food, but I'm not about to share that little nugget with Mr. Indiscretion.

"What'd I say?" Tommy turns to Bill now, wounded.

Bill ignores him, wipes his mouth with a sleeve, and nods to me. "Like I told ya, pretty boy, hammer out your rules before you get hitched. You got more beer?" Without waiting for an answer, he yanks open the fridge door and reaches deep inside to help himself.

"Huh?" Tommy's gapes pathetically at me now, unable to let it go.

"Nothing, Tommy," I say curtly, feeling myself prickling. "This is bullshit. You know what? I'm happy the way things are going, so just back off. I'm gonna do the rounds."

As I push past them, I shove a cup into Doug's hand. "And get my grandma another punch. Without the hooch."

"Why'd everyone laugh then?" asks Tommy, arms folded now.

I excuse myself, recognizing with a glow of satisfaction Marisse reaching her boiling point in a heated discussion with Natalie, but not before I overhear Bill explaining to Tommy that Ashiatsu is a breed of Chinese dog.

"Huh?" says Tommy, a wrinkled frown melted slowly by a soft, self-congratulatory chuckle. "Oh, yeah. I get it. Cool."

* * *

Later, as she's holding court, Amanda summons me over to stand next to her and flashes the engagement ring to her gaggle of girlfriends.

Natalie is the only one unimpressed and blurts out, "So you finally managed to get him to put his hand in his pocket, then?"

Neither of us has told anyone that the ring is the one Greenwell gave her.

"I chose the ring," says Amanda, with a tilt of her head. "Of course."

However, she hasn't finished yet; once the polite giggling subsides, she puts her arm in mine and smiles up at me sweetly.

"We were talking about strong women in politics, dear. Everyone cites Hillary and Nancy Pelosi these days, but I liked Condoleezza Rice," she explains, patting my arm for the benefit of the girls and giving me her poor-little-man smile. "And in case you were wondering, she used to be Secretary of State in the Bush administration." And then, for the benefit of the girls, she adds. "He thought it was a Mexican appetizer."

While the air fills with a sound like a duck pond emptying, I lean back and grab a platter from the countertop.

She is leaning forward into the girls. "Can you believe two days ago he was messing around down in Mexico, sorting out some kind of," she performs her annoying air quotes routine again, "'business' with his father? Left me to get this whole party organized by myself. Do you know what I mean?"

While she is talking, I placed a tray of devilled eggs under her nose, and I watch with pleasure as she turns back, looks down, and recoils. I smile sweetly and give her an expression of mock self-reprimand.

"Sorry, darling. I forgot you don't like eggs."

This time, when she catches my eye, a sweet smile spreads across her face.

I am fast learning the rules of engagement.

* * *

Parties are like pizzas. The base is the beginning when the place is empty, and you've done everything you can, and now it's down to hoping at least half the people you invited rock up. The filling is the guests, and the quality of the personalities who turn up, and what you're hoping for is something in the colorful Supreme range, not just a plain old Margherita. Finally, the lumps of leftover crust represent the dregs at the end.

We were well into the leftover crust. An hour before, Stew dragged a reluctant Doug away with a threat of paying dogsitter overtime; Grandma, with the assistance of her driver, helped Helen to a ride home; most of Amanda's family from out of town, including her parents, retired to various local hotels and guest houses.

One moment things were going pretty well, and then, it was as though somebody pissed in the pizza box.

"Darling, can you get the door. It's probably a cab for Natalie."

As I go to the intercom, Aunt Emma passes by and taps me on the shoulder. She is looking a little anxious.

"Thought I ought to let you know," she whispers, "someone is holed up in your bathroom, and there's a queue of people building up outside."

"Okay, Aunt Em. Let me get this, and I'll be right there."

Turning back to the intercom, I find Gina leaning unsteadily against the doorframe, a familiar smile within her flushed cheeks.

"Hi, you," she slurs.

"Ah, hi, Gina. How are you doing?" The buzzer rings again.

"You know, okay. Look, I just wanted to apologize for the way I behaved last time I stayed. I completely respect the rules."

"Good, that's good. What rules?"

"What the French believe, you know? Single men, sometimes; engaged men, never; married men, always. So you're officially off-limits for now, and Mandy's a lucky girl." She pecks me on the cheek as the buzzer rings impatiently again. Despite relief, I am a little bemused. The few gay Frenchmen—and some straight—I've ever known would fall into the 'always' category, whether single, married, or engaged.

I reach for the entry button, but she stays my hand. "But tell me. Who is that gorgeous creature over there in the Chanel suit?"

I follow her gaze and see Bryan flirting with one of Amanda's teenage nephews.

"Friend of Amanda's. He's not your type."

As she flounces unsteadily off, her gaze set, she says, "We'll see about that."

I finally get to the intercom. The voice at the other end is male but barely discernible and sounds like Derek somebody. I always have a moment of hesitation before pressing the entry button. You never know if you're letting a serial killer into your apartment. Satisfied the voice sounds friendly enough, I leave the front door ajar and head off to sort out the toilet situation.

Just as Aunt Em said, four women are leaning uncomfortably against the wall looking more than a little irritated. One of them is Natalie. When she sees me, she lunges out.

"What the hell is going on in there? I've been banging on the door for the past twenty minutes! I am absolutely desperate."

I'm about to confirm her final assertion, but instead, shelve sarcasm and decide to remain friendly and professional.

"Give me a minute, please."

I rap on the door and call out. "Hello. Is someone in there?"

"Of course someone's in there. Why do you think we're all out here?"

I turn back to Natalie, determined not to bristle.

"Just give me a minute, okay? Someone may be sick or passed out in there." I knock again and this time put my ear to the door. "Hello? There's a queue of people out here."

"I've tried that already." Natalie, her arms crossed, is beginning to irritate me, but I hear someone moving urgently around inside.

"I think I heard something. Just hang on for a moment."

"Hang on? What do you think we've been doing, for God's sake? We're all bursting here. What the hell are we supposed to do?"

Despite sobriety and rigorous training by my fiancée, I can't help myself.

"If you're that desperate, go pee off the fire escape!"

Just then, the door to the bathroom opens a crack, and without looking at me or offering a word of explanation, Bill slips out and heads back to the party.

"Thank you!" shouts Natalie to his departing back. "Inconsiderate pig!" She is about to march in when the door swings wide, and Donald exits, darting a quick apologetic smile at me.

"Sorry about that. Nature calls, and all," he says, grinning wanly, before heading back to the living room.

Barely missing my fingers, the bathroom door slams shut, and I turn to see the three remaining women, twisting rings and shuffling, other priorities overriding what we had all just witnessed.

When I return to the living room, there is a definite shift in mood.

Gina is smothering someone on the sofa, her mouth clamped leech-like to the unfortunate victim, who, judging by where his hands delve, is enjoying the assault. Uncle Sydney, red and sweaty, is the only one still dancing, punk-style, to what sounds like a Nirvana classic. Donald and Bryan are together, Bryan whispering conspiratorially in Donald's ear and eyeing writhing Gina. Donald smiles obligingly but glances intermittently at Bill, who is back in the kitchen, oblivious to everything and chatting with, what appears to be, our new guest.

I head straight for the kitchen to tackle Bill first.

"Bill, what the hell—?"

"Hey dude, look what the cat dragged in? Keep him company while I go get more beers from your bedroom to put in the fridge. "

The man that turns around is from the past, but instantly familiar.

"Oh, my God. Eric DeMonterey?"

Eric—El—is my crush from high school. We messed around plenty, but being a permanent fixture on the school football team, he chose to remain firmly in the closet. He kind of broke my heart when he went to the prom with Priscilla Brownlow.

"Hey, Trout. I hear congratulations are in order." He has put on a little weight, and the blond hair's thinned out some, but he still looks good enough to eat. I hold out my hand to shake, but he pulls me into a bear hug. It's sweet, leveling, but no longer holds the same potency. Sensing the same, he lets go.

"I get it, dude. I really do. You and Amanda. Getting hitched is the right thing."

"Yeah. If you say so, El."

My eyes follow as he pulls at an earlobe. I have a flashback to a time when I was allowed to stick my tongue in that ear and the sounds he used to make. I take a deep, bracing breath before shaking the old thoughts away.

"Didn't even know we'd invited you, El. What you been up to?"

So it appears Eric did decide to tread the straight and narrow. Married soon after college to a girl called Janie, he's now a regional sales manager for a leading Biochemical company. They live in Wilmington and already have two girls. And, he drops in, Janie's father is the chairman of the company.

"Sounds like you got it made."

"Yeah, well. It's good. I'm—you know—it is what it is."

Isn't it just. Things he wanted us to do together flash past my eyes as though I'm about to die. Is this what selling out feels like? Diversion tactics are quickly engaged.

"Has Amanda seen you yet? She would absolutely love to say hello.” If I remember, she also had a crush on him. I scan the room, but she's nowhere to be seen. "Where the hell is she?"

"Seen her already. She let us in. Roger’s chatting to her in the bedroom."

“Roger?”

“Roger Greenwell? You know him, don't you? I came with him. He's putting me up for a couple of days while I attend a conference in town."

"Yeah?" I reply, losing track of the conversation. "Can you excuse me for a moment?"

With detached fascination, I stand outside her bedroom door and observe my fiancée and her ex. While Roger talks, Amanda, her back to the wardrobe, bounces her butt gently against the slatted door. It creaks back in response. Blushed and doe-eyed, her attention is focused solely on him, except for a brief moment when she leads his gaze down and gently strokes her stomach.

"Amanda?" I hear myself breathe.

Although she looks over at me completely unfazed, at least he has the decency to spin around in surprise.

"Trout, look who showed up," she coos happily, either oblivious or uncaring of the suspicious vibe emanating from me, "and he's going to let us have his vintage Bentley free of charge for our wedding. The Bentley, d'you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I know what you mean. Bentley. A member of the Rolls Royce family."

"Like to do my bit," says Roger, a wan smile settling on his punchable mouth.

"Thanks for the offer. We'll keep it in mind."

At this, she pushes away and joins me, putting an arm around my waist.

"We have to, darling. A vintage Bentley. It's my perfect wedding dream."

"Gina said your perfect wedding dream was a white horse and buggy?"

"Everyone's doing it in buggies these days. I want to do it in Roger's Bentley."

The way she was stroking her stomach, I'm wondering if she already has.

"We'll talk later." Ending the appeal, I fish around in my jacket pocket for a carrot to dangle. "Oh, and Grandma Beth gave me the keys to Cedarwood. Says we should go and stay the weekend after next. Maybe take a few friends?"

Her eyes are suddenly wide. "Oh, Trout!" she turns back and stares at Roger. "Can Roger come, too?"

Her request catches me completely unaware.

"I—I'm sure Roger has other things to do—“

"No, no. I'd love to come," he replies, smiling even though I am giving him a glare I usually reserve for doorstep canvassers or Jehovah's Witness recruiters.

"It'll be wonderful. You can bring Trixie," she laughs, still looking over at him.

"Who's Trixie," I ask, priming myself to cite an allergy to pets. She turns back to me, eyes still wide.

"His fiancée," she coos again. "Isn't it fabulous? Roger's getting married a month after us."

"Fabulous, yes."

"Yes," says Roger, turning to me. "I've had to fork out for two engagement rings in very short succession. Glad you're putting this one to good use."

Before I have a chance to respond, June is in the doorway, a mischievous look on her face.

"Brother, you have to come and look at this."

* * *

Back in the living room, three unkempt teenagers, with clothes so baggy they look like 'after' models from a youth Jenny Craig video, are standing over Uncle Sydney, their heads tilted and arms folded in judgment. Who they belong to is anybody’s guess.

"Wow, where does that dude get his energy?" says the first punk.

"Medicine cabinet," says the second.

"Dem moves is oozy-kajoozi, man," says punk number three.

On the floor, Sydney is arching his back and shaking violently. He's also turned a somewhat unnatural shade of purple. Before I can say anything, Emma is down on the floor by his side.

"Oh, my God, Sydney!" she shouts, beginning CPR while screaming at the room, "Somebody call an ambulance! 911! He's having a seizure."

By the time the medical crew leaves, the party has just about fizzled out. Amanda and I stand together as Emma approaches. She looks anxious and exhausted.

"He's stable now, but they're going to keep him in overnight for observation. I'll stay with him. I guess he overdid the dancing. Strange, the only thing that might set it off is too much alcohol, and I've only let him have the fruit punch."

"Well, you needn't worry there, I made it myself with peach juice and lemonade," reassures Amanda while I stare at my feet.

"We'll call you in the morning," calls Aunt Em from the door, following the stretcher.

After the final guests have gone, I stand next to Amanda just inside the living room and survey the carnage of the evening.

"What a night," she sighs, bending to scratch trodden egg mayonnaise from the oriental rug.

"You can say that again," I pull her up by the arm. "But I'm shattered. Let's leave the tidying until the morning."

Just as we're about to switch off the lights, there's a sound of movement in the room. When we look over to the sofa, Gina is still lying there, sound asleep. With some effort, accompanied by soft rustling, the familiar face of Tommy peers out from beneath her ample breast.

"Hey guys," he murmurs. "Any problem if I carry on using the sofa bed, now your uncle's got other accommodation?"