London Is the Best City in America

In the early 1930s—during the heart of the Great Depression, the country in absolute financial ruin—almost all of the major construction in New York City came to a total halt. Only two buildings that were supposed to go up during this time kept being built as planned. One of these was the Essex House. And everything about it seemed like a testimony to prove that. The entire building was a standing example to its own largeness, its inability to fall. When you walked in the lobby, even today, you were greeted by old-school mahogany pillars and chandeliers, jewelry cases full of silverware and intricate china every few steps. The floor shiny and marbleized. I’m not saying it was ugly, but everything was so severe, so intentional and heavy, that it felt, at the least, like something you were supposed to brace yourself against. What I noticed first, stumbling in with my garment bag and full arms, was that there was nothing alive to look at: no vases of fresh flowers, no large green plants. No fishbowl of fishes. It was the exact opposite of a place I’d envision for myself to get married in, the opposite of outside.

The man behind the reception desk was very unhappy about letting me upstairs, even after Meryl confirmed that I could come. I wasn’t exactly sure why this was, but when he gave me a dirty look, I tried to give him one back. Really, I just ended up looking at myself in the mirror behind him: my hair toppled on top of my head, my tank top a little ripped around the edges. Too-long jeans.

How could I even blame him for thinking badly of me? Nothing about me said I belonged in this place. Nothing about me, I was starting to worry—on top of everything else I was managing to worry about—really said I belonged anywhere.

“Miss Mitchelson is in Suite 2401,” the man said, pointing me toward the right bank of elevators. “Do you think you can remember that, or would you like me to write it down?”

“I can try,” I said, and headed that way. But by the time I actually knocked on Meryl’s door, it was after eleven. My knock nudged the door open, revealing that Meryl’s pre-wedding beauty day suite wasn’t a suite at all. It was more like an entire floor: twelve-foot balcony windows looking out over Central Park, three separate living rooms, shiny old paintings covering the walls.

I found Meryl in living room 2. She was sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor, three large fans swimming around her. There was a long wooden table, which I was assuming she’d pushed off to the side, fully covered with silver teakettle sets and bottles of champagne and platinum fresh fruit platters. Little bowls of small chocolate hearts.

“You just missed the manicurist,” she said, holding up shiny white fingernails as proof. “And the psychic.”

I walked over to her, slowly. The only makeup she’d had done besides her nails were her eyes, which—in contrast to her pale skin, her tightly pulled back hair—were so dark and sharp they were spiderlike. Even like this, she was absolutely more graceful than I could ever hope to be.

“Don’t worry. I asked the manicurist to come back later,” she said. “I figured you didn’t need the psychic giving you any good news. Though he is quite famous, apparently. A regular fixture among the celebrity set, out in Hollywood.”

I sat down across from her, the fans blowing me back. “The only psychic I’ve ever met came into the tackle shop right around Christmas last year. She told me I was going to fall in love four more times before I met the person I was supposed to be with,” I said. “And she also said our eel was basically no good for catching any fish of substance.”

“See? Who needs news like that?” Meryl said, smiling at me, and starting to look around the room. “I guess my mother wanted me to be enjoying this,” she said. “With the whole bridal party. She forgot I wasn’t having one. Changes things, huh?”

“Changes things,” I said, and crawled over toward the table, reached up for one of the low-riding platters of fruit.

“The nice thing about your mom,” she said as I crawled back toward her, “is that she’s going to want to just keep you all for herself when you get married. It will end up being just you and her on a private boat, or in New Jersey somewhere. You won’t have to deal with any of this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s really something to look forward to.”

She laughed. “So did you have a chance to see Josh this morning before you left?”

“No, he went running.”

“Oh.”

“No, I mean he literally went running, right before I left. I don’t know what they were thinking in this heat. But he was with Berringer. That was what they were doing together.”

She nodded as though she hadn’t needed the additional reassurance. And why would she have, really? There wasn’t any reason: no clues about Elizabeth lying around, about where we’d been heading this time yesterday. It wasn’t written on my head or anything. So I was only saying it for another reason, if I wanted to be honest. I was just saying it for myself.

I offered her a cantaloupe ball.

“No, thanks,” she said.

“You sure?” I said. “They’re good for you.”

“Positive,” she said.

I put one in my mouth and started to chew. “So what did this famous psychic tell you anyway? Anything good?”

“Well.” She looked up toward the ceiling, thinking about it. “F

irst he said I was destined for a lifetime of happiness. And one of incredible love. Then he said that he thought today was going to mark the new beginning of finding that love. As long as I could let myself see it that way.”

I popped in another ball.

“I’m guessing that’s supposed to be the tricky part of it, wouldn’t you think?” she said.

I covered my mouth. “Definitely,” I said.

And this was when she started to cry.