Excerpt: THE ARRANGEMENT

Chapter One

Gemma

I AM IN VEGAS for my bachelorette weekend. This should be a dream come true, but the truth is, I would rather be anywhere else. I’m supposed to marry a man I have never met. You’d think arranged marriages would be a thing of the past, but no, my father, who never wanted a daughter in the first place, managed to manipulate me into this farce. Today is Wednesday. The marriage is supposed to be on Saturday, so I’ve got three days to figure a way out.

After freshening up from the plane ride from Houston to Vegas, I take one last look in the mirror. Long blond hair waving pulled over one shoulder, check, makeup, check, white designer shirt and jeans, check, designer watch, check, designer flats, check, designer handbag, check. I’m ready. 

Lucy is more avant-garde in black wide legged pants and a black sleeveless vest, revealing the red dragon tattoo on her right shoulder and the ring in her belly button. 

She and I step into the grandiose luxury of the Midas Touch casino.

As she walks beside me, Lucy gathers her curly hair into a ponytail and begins reading from a hastily scribbled list. “We’re photographing the watch, the shoes, and the handbag, right?”

Lucy has already posted to social media that we are here in Vegas. I’m an influencer, and my followers want to know it all–the fashions I wear, what makeup brands I use, where I go, and who I date. 

The where I go part of that means that I never go out in public just for fun. It’s always a production with fans posting they’ve seen me, what I was doing, who I was with. If I’m with a guy, there will be questions. Is it serious? Is marriage in the cards? Are we sleeping together? Will he be proposing? If I’m out with a girlfriend, the rampant speculation is still there. Am I gay? Is there a relationship? Is it serious? My sponsors love it. The more speculation, the more traffic on social media. I’m used to being recognized and having strangers come up and say, “Hi, Carrie!”

I live my life in the public eye, or at least my public persona, Carrie Scott, does. The real me, Gemma Howard is a far more private person, a carefully guarded secret, who lives a much simpler life. 

“Yes,” I tell her. “The watch, the sneakers, and the handbag.” I find myself wishing we were vacationing just for us, no social media, no posing for the public. We could go to the spa here at The Midas Touch, take in a few shows, visit Fremont Street. Maybe meet a guy who doesn’t recognize me.

Lucy interrupts my aimless musings. “This place is a photographer’s dream,” she says. “Anywhere you stand is a custom background.”

“Well, let’s try for something more dramatic than a hallway.” I start down the hall. “The pool, then the shops, then the casino?” 

“Do you want to get tickets for a show tonight?”

“Why not? Dad is paying. He said to live it up.” My voice turns bitter as I add, “After all, this is my bachelorette party.” Lucy gives me a funny look, but I don’t elaborate.

As we walk, she asks, “I know I’m the maid of honor, but it’s hard to believe you’re really getting married”

“Apparently.” I do not want to talk about it. I bite my lip which causes Lucy to say, “Stop that, you’ll have to fix your lipstick before we shoot any pictures.”

She immediately moves on. “Gemma, seriously, I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

I resign myself to lipstick repair and suck my lower lip between my teeth. I have to repress the urge to take out the picture of my fiancé my dad gave me. Even though I’ve never met him, looking at his picture, tall (I think, although is it is hard to tell from a photo), dark hair, and a face that says, “You’d better take me seriously,” makes me feel calm, something that has been at a premium for the past week since dad sprang this arranged marriage thing on me. “I’m not,” I mutter and continue walking. She catches my arm, stopping me. “What do you mean, you aren’t dating anyone? How can you be getting married and not be dating anyone? Is he already here?”

“Lucy, it’s a long story. Can we just get these photos taken?”

“Girl, we can take pictures anytime. This I need to hear!”

“Okay, okay. We’ll do it your way. Let’s find a restaurant.”

 “I vote for a bar. I think this calls for a drink.”

 I hesitate. Despite pictures on social media of me holding a drink, I rarely touch alcohol, but she’s right, this story requires something stronger than iced tea. “We were on an early flight, and it’s not yet noon. We can have wine with lunch.”

Lucy grins. “Now I’m getting into party mode. You know what? Let’s have our hair and makeup done. We’ll look outrageous tonight! Not to mention how amazing you’ll be in photos later!”

It sounds good to me. I’m not hungry anyway, Lucy will get her wine at the spa, and I can avoid talking about this stupid wedding.

#

Getting our hair and makeup done was the right choice, super relaxing, which was probably due to the wine they kept serving us. (Yes, I had a glass–liquid courage.) 

Lucy emerged with her exotic features highlighted and her wild curls tamed and clipped at the nape. I decided to go extreme and cut my long locks, so the new style is short at the back and sides with bangs swept to the side. Gone is the thirties sultry look. Bonus, they use the makeup I advertise, which will work well when the pics we have planned for later are posted. Lucy clicks a couple of impromptu shots of me exiting the spa.

The spa appointment took several hours, and I’m now hungry and looking for the first available eatery. When I spot the Neon Oasis, I decide bar food will do. 

Bright, colorful neon signs and accents in electric blue, neon pink, lime green, and deep purple outline the bar counter and walls. Beyond the neon, the general lighting is dim, making the bar seem moody. Neon outlines of cacti, camels, and palm trees cover the walls.

It’s late enough the stools at the bar are full, but the small dance floor is empty. We sit at a table, and no one recognizes me which is a relief. I guess the drastic change of hairstyle is an effective disguise, at least until Lucy posts the latest shots. For the moment I can relax and be Gemma.

When a waitress comes by, we order chicken fingers, nachos, and a strawberry daiquiri for Lucy, along with glasses of water. As soon as she leaves, Lucy pounces.

“All right, girlfriend, spill. how are you getting married on Saturday when you aren’t dating anyone? And where? Here in Vegas?”

I want to talk about this about as much as I want to go to the dentist, but I’m pretty sure Lucy won’t be brushed off with suggestions of which show we should go to tonight. I remind myself not to ruin my lipstick. “The deal is my father believes everything he sees on social media about me-the Carrie Scott me. He thinks I need to clean up my act, get married, and produce the next generation of Howards. Like I would ever get married after surviving being a pawn in his and my mom’s divorce.

“My father got together with a golf buddy, whose son is apparently living a profligate lifestyle. They decided since their kids were showing no inclination to settle down, they would go old-school and arrange a wedding. I don’t understand how putting a daughter whose father thinks is running amok, together with a guy who seems to be a total wastrel, equals settling down, but there you have it.” 

“So where is this wedding taking place?”

“The dads left it up to us. We’re in wedding central. I guess we’ll let Midas Touch deal with the details, or maybe we’ll drop into a wedding chapel and say our I-dos in front of Elvis.”

I suddenly have a panicky thought. “Oh, I haven’t given a thought to wedding dresses. By the time I decide yea or nay on the wedding, there probably won’t be time to shop.” 

“Don’t worry about the dress for either one of us, The good news is one of our sponsors has a line of wedding dresses and bridesmaids dresses.”

“But we don’t have time for them to ship us anything!”

“Calm down. They are overnighting them to us here at Midas.”

“Lucy, you are a wonder! Thank you,”

“No problem. It’s why you pay me the big bucks.” She laughs then adds, “So do you have a picture of your groom?”

I pull it out of my giant handbag and hand it to her. “His name is Jeffrey Hazelton. He works for Hazelton Investments.”

“I’ve heard of them. Big Time.” She gives the photo her consideration. “Hmm, good looking, All that dark hair, and a great build. Photographs well. Shots of the two of you together will look great on social media.”

“Good to know.” I smile. “He’s got money, and a disreputable lifestyle to match. Lots of women and wild parties.”

“He sounds like the perfect guy for Carrie. Not so much for you. Why would you agree to marry someone like him?”

Why indeed? “I gave up on dating awhile back. The guys I dated couldn’t manage to separate Carrie Scott from Gemma Howard. They thought I would jump into bed at the first opportunity, not that Carrie ever does that, but that’s the perception.” 

“You do have a strong public persona. When we built it, I never envisioned this problem.”

“Neither did I. It’s pathetic, but I’m afflicted with this please-daddy thing. I spent my growing up making myself into the daughter he wanted, holding my breath, waiting for some sign of approval that never came. The truth is he never wanted a daughter in the first place. It just took me a while to realize that.” 

Lucy knows this; she and I have been best friends since the third grade in Mrs. Robinson’s class. But for some reason, I need to say it tonight. “Carrie Scott, influencer, was my shot at getting out from under his thumb financially. It worked, but it turns out in spite of the money she makes, Carrie Scott isn’t someone he approves of any more than he approves of Gemma Howard.

“He has been carping at me for the last couple of years, telling me to clean up my act and stop this embarrassing behavior. Find a good man who’ll keep me on the straight and narrow. Pay attention to the things a woman should pay attention to. Finally, last Saturday, he gave me an ultimatum. Get married or else. I’m not dependent on him financially, a fact he hates, but I’m faced with the choice of writing off my only family or agreeing to this stupid wedding. If there’s one thing I know, no happily after ever started with a wedding.”

“You know this is stupid, right? You are twenty-eight years old. Tell your dad to take a hike. You’re his only family too. He won’t disown you.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”