Page 10 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

“Wait until you hear what she did on set today.”

“What? Again?”

“Hush, you two, we’re going to be late.”

I link arms with both of them, and we walk to Shutters. It’s a white-and-gray shingled building with shutter-clad windows located next to the boardwalk. There are restaurants on the first two floors and a five-star hotel above. A clutch of palm trees with white lights strung around their trunks light the path to the main entrance. There’s a red carpet, and a small line of people dressed in finery waiting to get in.

We give our names to the large man in a tight black T-shirtwho’s manning the list.16We’re on it, though I have a moment of panic that we won’t be because imposter syndrome, and then we’re whisked into the party.

It’s on the second floor in the formal dining room. Two sets of French doors give out onto a balcony, which is a great place for a cocktail and a view of the sunset. Easy jazz is playing—why is italwaysKenny G at events like these?—and there are soft pink tablecloths with gorgeous flower arrangements made up of slightly darker peonies. There’s a copy ofWhen in Romeon every table and strings of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling.

The air smells great, too, pungent with the hors d’oeuvres being passed around by young, hot waiters in blue aprons—things wrapped in phyllo, glistening olives, avocado, and salmon roe. The drink of the evening is an Aperol spritz.17

It looks like the whole cast and crew are here—over two hundred people—and there’s a hierarchy to the party just like there is on set.

#1 and #2 on the call sheet18—Fred and Emma—are at the apex on the balcony. A group of people is swirling around them, coming in for air-kisses and declarations of fabulousness. Emma’s wearing a white off-the-shoulder number that shows her fantastic collarbones—you’d, well,diefor them—and Fred’s in a blue chambray linen shirt with black slacks. He’s got just enough buttons open to show off his toned chest and...no. I’m not going there.

Anyway, they’re at the center of it all, and they deserve to bebecause they’re the stars of the show, but also, it’s their engagement party.

You got that from the Prologue, right? That the wedding where someone is going to die is Emma and Fred’s?

Yep, that’s right. Soon after their relationship went public, Fred popped the question.

I thought it was fast.

Emma said it was romantic.

I pointed out that he had a reputation as a player.

She told me he’d sown his wild oats and was ready to settle down.

I showed her a calendar and said that getting engaged that fast was how half of Hollywood ended up with second and third marriages.

Then she said I couldn’t take credit for their relationship if I didn’t want them to get married, and also, did I want to be her maid of honor or what?

I shut my mouth after that because she was right. I mean,Iwas right, itwastoo fast, but I’ve noticed that people don’t listen to that kind of advice. And, okay, Ididwant the credit. And to be her maid of honor. We’d planned that out since we were little girls. There was no way I was letting that job go to whoever her second choice was.

So, I arranged a quick bachelorette for her in Napa and even invited Simone—though she barely talked to me all weekend—and thanked my lucky stars that my maid of honor dress was from Vera Wang rather than the hideous monstrosity she threatened me with as punishment for not being 100 percent pro her getting engaged in less time than it takes to make a movie.

“Earth to Eleanor,” Oliver says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You in there?”

“Present.”

“You going to tell me who everyone is?”

I lean on him gently. “Who don’t you know? Emma you’ve met. And Fred.”

“I have,” he says.

He likes Emma, and we all spent time together when he and I dated the first time.

He was a little starstruck when he met Fred. Or maybe his reaction was because Fred looks anawful lotlike Connor Smith. More than once on set I’d gotten the two of them confused, especially from behind. They have the same broad shoulders, blue eyes, and a smirk that’s made scores of women tumble into bed even though they knew it was a bad idea.

“Who else do you want to know?”

“Who’s that?” Oliver points to Simone. She’s wearing something other than her coveralls, for once, though itisin the jumpsuit family. The burnt orange color was made for her, and her dark brown hair is down and curled. She’s wearing a delicate gold necklace that pops against her clavicles, and her skin is a couple of shades darker than when we started filming from being out in the sun all day. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s stunning.

“That’s the director.”

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