Save the Date with Belletrist Book Club

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Save the date. Rent a gown. Buy a tasteful gift. When that big night rolls around, some people find all that activity to be a lot of fun. But what about the rest of us who'd rather eat popcorn and play Whirtle on the couch in our pajamas? I'm Meg Wallitzer and on this Selected Shorts, something for social butterflies and introverts alike. Don't go anywhere. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Save the date. Three little words arriving most often in your email inbox or physical mailbox on a 4x6 piece of semi-gloss card stock. That's it. Save the date. Plan ahead, make some space, because someone you know and love is getting married, celebrating an anniversary, or hosting another sort of unmissable happening, invitation to follow. Simple. Of course, that postcard and those three little words can inspire very different reactions, depending on the recipient. Many of us receive them with joy and delight. We send our tuxes to the cleaners and begin plotting how we might coerce the DJ to play Purple Rain for the final song of the night. Others, well, not so much. More on this in a minute. Now, we at Selected Shorts recently hosted an event, a Save the Date kind of occasion, that left us with the afterglow that comes after a successful soiree. Each year, we bring our show from New York to the beautiful Getty Center in Los Angeles. Already amazing. Our most recent visit, however, was even more exciting as we worked with a new partner, the Bellatrist Book Club. For those who don't know it, well, first, Bellatrist is a French word for a writer whose work is beautiful or artistic rather than, say, academic. The Bellatrist Book Club is the vibrant online community built by two longtime friends, actor Emma Roberts and producer Cara Price. As bookworms, they regularly shared recommendations and wanted to expand their circle as they passed their favorite new reads back and forth. As big admirers of the Bellatrist community and their incredible author picks, we asked Roberts and Price to help us curate and host two shows at the Getty, and they said yes. Today's show, the stories and the actors you'll hear, are a direct result of our collaboration with Bellatrist. Here are Bellatrist co-founders Emma Roberts and Cara Price introducing themselves at the Getty Center. Hi. Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Selected Shorts. Thank you for schlepping up to the Getty. That's Cara Price, my BFF. And I'm Emma Roberts, and we are your hosts for tonight. You guys know me primarily as an actor. You might not know me at all, but you will now. We started the online literary community Bellatrist in 2017, in part because we lived on different coasts. I live in New York, and we were constantly recommending books to one another, and we kind of had this de facto book club. And we had an idea to open our friendship book club to a larger, entirely online community of readers on Instagram. And beyond. And since then, we've recommended over 75 books. We've led countless conversations with authors. We are here tonight because the good folks at Selected Shorts, who saw a Venn diagram between Shorts and Bellatrist, asked us to come co-host this with them, and we're so grateful. They've chosen authors that we've chosen for our book club, Carmen Maria Machado, Britt Bennett, Jennifer Egan, Tiari Jones, the list goes on. And given our backgrounds, the theatrical nature of Shorts, collaborating made perfect sense. That was Emma Roberts and Cara Price, co-founders of the Bellatrist book club, from the stage at the Getty Center in Los Angeles. So back to those save the date cards. While extroverts among us probably enjoy getting these announcements, others surely feel something akin to dread. For these folks standing around with strangers or derves in hand for five minutes of small talk about what they do for a living probably feels like five years. If you've ever read an essay by the funny, a Serbic writer, Samantha Erby, you might think you know how she feels about parties. She's the author of collections including Quietly Hostile, Wow No Thank You, and We Are Never Meeting in Real Life. But the tone of Erby's playful piece, Please Invite Me to Your Party, may surprise you. It was read by the actor Richa Morjani. She's best known for her roles in Mindy Kaling's Netflix series, Never Have I Ever, as well as the fifth season of FX's Fargo. And here's Morjani exploring social graces with Samantha Erby's, Please Invite Me to Your Party. Please Invite Me to Your Party. I'm a great guest. I will appreciate all of your deep cleaning. The bassboards you scrubbed, the silverware you polished to a high gleam, the corners you awkwardly maneuvered the swiffer into to sweep the last of the crumbs and cat hair out of sight. I too have stood panting in the middle of a room. No one coming to my house is even supposed to enter. Worried what someone who stumbles in mistakenly looking for the bathroom is going to think because there's dust on the back of the TV. Speaking of bathroom, I will notice that you wiped all the toothpaste flex off the mirror, ran a wet washcloth across the scale you hide under the radiator, and I'll appreciate that your toothbrushes are standing up straight in the new toothbrush cup you ran out to Target to get three hours before your first guest arrived. I will see your anthropology shower curtain and think, damn, she's fancy enough to get her shower curtains at anthropology? Your ace up hand soap won't be lost on me either, and I know you really want me to peek at your unpronounceable shampoo brand, so rest assured I will do that. I'm so fun. I'll talk to everybody. I'll charm your mom telling her that she looks hot and fuchsia and joke with her that she should adopt me because you're such an asshole. And when your dad corners me aggressively into talking about sports, I will gently remind him that I'm not exactly that kind of lesbian. But also, I've seen enough Skip Bayless to fake my way through a convincingly knowledgeable conversation about Ezekiel Elliott's rushing guards last season, and that will win him over. He will suggest that we go to a football game together and invitation I will dodge until one of us dies. I'm going to try all your weird party foods without spitting any of them out or hiding them in your plans, even the stuff that looks homemade which goes against one of my primary guiding principles. I'm going to sample that gritty breadstick-looking thing, and even though I know before I touch it, it's going to shatter into particles of sharp dust down the front of my nice party shirt the second my teeth make contact. The aesthetic uniformity of carrot sticks is appealing to me, and I find them to be an excellent vehicle for delivering ranch dressing to my mouth, even though doing so will cause me to horrify anyone who attempts to talk to me. If you take even one bite of a raw carrot, you will have carrot flecks in your mouth for at least a week afterward. I will eat them for you so it doesn't look like you don't know what people want to eat. The hot dip? I'm trying that. The guacamole that's gone great? I'll have some of that too. I will take just enough of each proffered food item that you don't feel like you wasted $400 on people who just want to clean out all your booze. And I will bring good shit. I have a serious lack of confidence, and I'm always trying to prove that I have good taste and like nice things especially at a celebration. I'm going to go to the boutique grocery and stuff my humiliation in my back pocket long enough to ask the person behind the counter to recommend something in the $30 range. Then I'm going to slide over to the cheese counter and get one of those logs of goat cheese that has blueberry goo in it because that looks fancy to me. I'll make my way to the crackers section and get a couple pricey boxes of sturdy looking health crackers covered in nuts and seeds that I would never ever buy for myself, and I'm mostly convinced that you don't want either, but they are going to look so nice and expensive in your cheese trade that it makes it worth it to me. If you'd prefer a dessert, I could certainly pick up a tort of some kind on my way over. I think I would never purchase for myself because if I'm getting a cake, I am getting a slab of moist chocolate children's birthday cake slathered with an inch of thick tooth disintegrating grocery store buttercream. But that's a weird thing to show up with unless the guest of honor is a seven year old. I have so many good stories. I won't say weird off-putting or challenging shit to casual acquaintances of yours threatening to make your future relationships with them awkward as hell. I have a deep reservoir of jokes and funny anecdotes that'll thaw even the chilliest of the coworkers you invited just to be nice. And I know how to land a fucking punchline. You also don't have to worry about me posting all your business online. That's right. You're never going to log on to be confronted by the 10 worst pictures of you or your apartment you've ever seen in your whole fucking life posted by me, not even with a decency to put a flattering filter on your mismatched furniture and trash. If my phone is out, it's because I'm trying to find a meme to show someone. So I won't be that person trying to explain a visual medium to a person who is already bored. Not because I'm taking shadowy pictures of all your stuff that I plan to post at three in the morning when I know you're not going to see it for at least 12 hours, by which point everyone you know will have seen that you, one, had a party and didn't invite them, and two, should probably run a dustwag over your coffee table. That's rude. I can also keep your cat company if you need me to. I mean, if Pickles is going to get stressed out in the darkened bedroom you stashed her in with only an empty tuna can for company, I would not at all mind creeping in there and petting her for many hours until the party is over and you forget I'm even in there, which sounds awkward in theory, but will come in very handy when you find out that I don't mind helping clean up. I love party aftermath. I love seeing who congregated where and how many drinks they had and speculating about who kissed what and who went home with whom, even if it means collecting stacks of little plates covered in globs of unidentifiable cream-based goo and half-eaten cellaries with their little unruly celery hairs sticking up. So you'll invite me, right? You're going to text me the address and favorite brand of tequila, right? I need to be invited more than anything I've ever needed in my life because trust me, I really am great at a party. Seriously, though, invite me. I'm the greatest party guest there is, especially since I won't come. I'm Meg Wallitzer. Herbie is so charming here you'd be forgiven for thinking she meant everything she said right up to the end. I think what makes this piece work is the confident amiability of the narrator. What she observes is what we've observed, but she says it better than we can, or better than I can, anyway. And frankly, she's hinting at the secret truth about parties, which is that most of them aren't all that good. So you know those video feeds that allow you to see all the action going on, say, in a bird's nest? I guess they call it a nest cam? I want to invent a party cam. Every party would have one, so before you leave your house, you could see what the party looks like. Who's there? Is the food good? Is the liquor flowing? Or is the whole thing a dud with people standing around in awkward silence? And you could decide whether to go or just stay blissfully home. Time for me to contact the Patent Office. Next, a story about another noteworthy occasion, a wedding anniversary. Despite the title, this story is not really about the married couple it features. It was written by Victoria Lancelotta. Her titles include the novel Far and the Collection's Ways to Disappear and Here in the World. Performing the story is Judy Greer, an actor much loved for roles on series including arrested development and films such as Ant-Man. And if you recognize her voice, well, she's also done a lot of animated voiceovers, including for the Spice Spoof Archer. And now, Judy Greer performs The Anniversary Trip by Victoria Lancelotta. The Anniversary Trip. They are sitting in a cafe on the boulevard Sant Germain. Not far from the Odeon Metro stop, three of them sitting, the wife with her husband, the husband with his mother. Not inside the cafe, but at one of the tables on the sidewalk, where the prices are exorbitant, but the view of the passing crowd is almost enough to counter this. It is November, and Paris should be cold, damp, the sky a low gray sheet, but instead it has been sunny and too warm for the cashmere and corduroy they packed. Their collapsible umbrellas have been useless. The wife, Monica, is damp with an unpleasant sweat most of the time, wet skin, cooling at the small of her back and between her breasts every time she stops moving. It is close to four in the afternoon, and they are drinking. Red wine, Vien Rouge, Monica thinks, corrects herself for Elizabeth, the mother. Unexpress for her son, Martin. She herself is sipping an avian, though what she really wants is a bourbon and soda. Jack Daniels, please. But she is in no way brave enough to order such a thing, such a crass American drink at one of these cafes in the presence of her husband's mother, Elizabeth. The older woman finishes her wine and lights a cigarette. Gestures to the waiter, encore, she says, smiling, lifting her empty glass for him. He takes it and rushes off. Elizabeth is angular, her cheekbones jutting her mouth, wide lips glossy, red and thin. She wears her silver hair in a neat bob, pulls it up, and off her face, her cheekbones with enameled combs. She is more beautiful now in her 60s than her son's wife has ever been, will ever be. Monica recognizes this and accepts it. Her husband does not notice or noticing does not comment, or at least has not commented, not in the five years they've been married or the five on again, off again, dating before that. Monica has never quite been able to think of Elizabeth as a mother-in-law, as someone for whom birthday greeting cards are designed with stamped gilded roses and anxious sentiments in pastel script. I should have ordered a half carafe instead, Elizabeth says, as the waiter returns with another small glass and a new ticket he slides under her ashtray. You would have had a glass, Martin? He shrugs, eyes his wife's bottle of Avion. Are you sure you don't want anything else? He says, and she shakes her head. Maybe I'll stop on the way back to the hotel for some wine to keep in the room, he says to his mother. Darling, she says, do whatever you like. If you'd rather drink in the room than go down to the lounge, that's perfectly fine with me. She pulls at the cigarette. How is her skin still so lovely? Monica wonders and tilts her head back to exhale against the awning above them. You can drink from those awful bathroom glasses and Monica and I will go down for aperitifs and pâté. She reaches for her daughter-in-law's hand and squeezes her firm grip. It's very firm and cool. Don't you think, my dear? They are on this trip to celebrate an anniversary of sorts. It has been just over a year since Martin's father died of pancreatic cancer, six months from diagnosis to death, the perfect length of time. Elizabeth pointed out at the reception after the funeral. Long enough for the two of them to say their goodbyes, but short enough that there was no protracted decline, no months or even years of false hopes and setbacks, no extended physical humiliation or dementia. He was an efficient man and he was efficient in his dying. He had been a professor of acoustics, retired, but for the occasional dissertation advice for a particularly promising doctoral student. His son, Martin, has a beautiful singing voice and ease and grace with stringed instruments. Monica herself is tone deaf, as unmusical as it is possible to be. When she confessed this at one of her first dinners with Martin's family, his mother had laughed in delight. Finally, someone like me, she said and raised her glass to Monica. My dear, you have no idea how happy I am to hear that. Even now it is hard for Monica to imagine how two women could be less similar than she and Elizabeth. So they are in Paris for two weeks on a trip that Elizabeth planned and booked and paid for, a trip that Martin and Monica would not quite have been able to afford on their own. Their hotel is small but elegant, close to the Seine and Musée d'Orsay. Their budget is not unforgiving, but it does not have room for extended or luxurious travel. I don't want an argument about this, Elizabeth said, after a dinner of grilled shrimp and salad one hot night in August when she handed them their tickets and itineraries. This is something I promised your father I would do, she told Martin, her voice free of unsteadiness or sentiment. We had planned to go to Paris for our 40th anniversary, she explained to Monica, which was obviously impossible under the circumstances. So I told him I would go anyway, but I don't relish the idea of traveling alone at this point. I don't know what to say, Monica said, and looked at Martin, whose face was impassive, his eyes focused out beyond the hedges in his mother's backyard. I think I'll be having apparteeves with you, she says to Elizabeth now. They have all finished their drinks and Elizabeth tucks bills under the ash tray, stows her cigarettes in her bag and arranges her shawl over her shoulders. It is a lovely piece of fabric, purple and brown paisley shot through with gold, rich and exotic. No one guesses she is American until she speaks and even then her imperfect French charms waiters and taxi drivers. Dinner is at nine tonight, she says, I have a few shops I want to browse in the meantime, but you two go along, take some time alone. She smiles at her son, a smile Monica recognizes, distant, chill. Find something spectacular for your wife, Martin. She slips through the narrow space between tables, the fabric of her slim black trousers whispering, Abiento, she calls to the waiter who salutes as he rushes past. Abiento, Monica will remember this. I wouldn't mind just heading back to the hotel for a nap, Martin says, watching his mother as she crosses the street. You don't have to come with me, he says, you can do whatever. Monica waits for him to finish his sentence, whatever you want, whatever you feel like, but he does not. To find the right words would fatigue him as many such efforts have since his father died, since long before that, as many efforts always have. She looks for their waiter but cannot find him. She imagines him pouring wine and uncapping bottles of Stella Artois somewhere in the dark interior of the cafe. Martin kisses her cheek and moves off in the direction of their hotel, his head down. She stands on the corner, out of the way of the waves of people moving past and tries to decide what to do. The sun is dipping behind rooftops and she finds herself in sudden shadow, though the light ahead of her is still gold and long. She will walk to the river, stroll back to their hotel along the quay. She wants to be sure these two weeks of seeing the sun at every time of day and every available light. She'd known before she came that Paris was beautiful but she had not been prepared for how merciless the beauty was, how overwhelming. She'd been struck by the lack of what she understood as charm. It was not a charming city because it did not need to be. She chooses a street she has not walked before and starts toward the river and falls into a peaceful, near absence of thought, a calm she associates with childhood. She does not know when exactly she became unable to love her husband. She knows only that she woke one night and looked at him, at his face, lovely as his mother's, but grave even in sleep and thought, I am finished. I am empty. I have nothing left for you. She reaches the quay and draws her coat more tightly around her. At this time of day, she cannot tell which looks deeper, the sun or the sky. Monica's own mother was not beautiful. The most Monica can say honestly about her looking through old photo albums and clumsily framed snapshots is that at one time she was pretty enough. She lives alone in a ranch house with a finished basement that she paid for outright with her settlement from the divorce. Monica sees her once a year or every other. She has been in Elizabeth's presence only a handful of times, and each time Monica is tense, alert, watching for the signs that her mother has had one beer, too many. The incessant brushing of imaginary crumbs from her lap, the damp sounding exhale of breath somewhere between a sob and a sigh. On these occasions, Elizabeth has smiled and sipped at her wine and smoked many more cigarettes than as usual, while Monica's mother has eaten peanuts from a glazed ceramic bowl, a wedding gift from one of Elizabeth's friends. These are really good peanuts. Monica's mother has said, aren't peanuts just so good with cold beer? She pauses at the window of a narrow shop along the quay. Crowded in the doorway are spinning wire racks of postcards and flimsy chiffon scarves, magnets on easels and tote bags stamped on their sides with disproportionately squat images of the Eiffel Tower. All of these items are helpfully priced in both euros and dollars. She can hear nothing but American accents coming from the shop and is moving away from the door embarrassed when she sees that some of the magnets are in the shape of pretty little baguettes, webbed sauces on and surprisingly realistic cheeses, and she smiles in spite of herself. She loves her mother, and her mother would love one of these magnets probably more than she would love to actually be here eating food that Monica is certain she will never have the opportunity to eat. She waits until the group of Americans has left before slipping inside the shop. She will be sure to say a biento when she leaves. Martin dresses for dinner in neat gray trousers and a jewel blue shirt. You look handsome, Monica says. It has become easier to compliment him with every day that passes with every day closer to her leaving. I bought a few little souvenirs for my mother today, she says. She sees that he did buy wine. There are four bottles lined up neatly on the desk. She has been using as a vanity, her leaving to wear. She has not allowed herself to think of this yet. Have you bought anything for yourself yet? You should pick something out, you know better what you like than I do. She has not, but she has wrapped in fragile tissue and tied with black silk cord, a package tucked into the corner of her suitcase, a pair of jade and sterling cufflinks she bought for him the day they arrived. They struck her as exactly the sort of gift Elizabeth would have chosen for her own husband, striking in their anachronism, what Monica's mother would call a conversation piece. The elderly shop owner had complimented Monica on her taste as he wrapped them, his English as archaic as his merchandise, and for a moment she was proud of herself, of finding the shop, going in alone, of counting out euros. She has no idea when she will give them to Martin and only after she got them back to the hotel and hidden them away did she become convinced that he would be disgusted with her, that he would think she meant them as some sort of awful consolation prize. Are you coming down for drinks with us? She says. She is dressed carefully in a simple black dress and red shoes. The shoes bought as a surprise by Elizabeth earlier in the week. No woman should go through life without a spectacular pair of red shoes. She said handing the bag across the table where they'd met for lunch. If they don't fit we can exchange them. She said. But when Monica tried them on in the hotel later the fit was perfect. In a bit I might have a glass of wine here first, Martin says, and gestures towards a pile of academic journals on the nightstand. There's an article I've been waiting to finish. Monica nods and takes up her satin purse. Then we'll just be down in the lounge. We should get our cab by around a quarter tail. She knows better than to try to coax him out. She knows enough to leave him to whatever abstract imperative he has decided upon. And the hallway by the elevator is a narrow mirror. Monica stands in front of it and waits. She is 34 years old. Since high school she has always looked her age or older. Her mother is 52. When Monica was in her 20s they were often mistaken for sisters. Her mother was delighted by this. After her divorce she went out every Friday night and every Friday night she asked Monica to join her. The elevator arrives and she tucks herself into the tiny space. Her mother was divorced at 40. Free as a bird she liked to say. Monica imagines she herself will be able to say the same by 35. My son won't be gracing us with his presence, Elizabeth asks. A cigarette is burning in a crystal ash tray and she lifts it to her lips, inhales once and stubs it out. He wanted to get some reading done. Monica settles on the sofa, chase lounge, next to her and crosses her legs so that one pretty shoe is visible. Elizabeth lays a warm hand on the ankle. Lovely, she says. Really? They suit you. You shouldn't be shy about wearing beautiful things, my dear, she says. She fishes in her purse and draws out a tiny vial of perfume, presses it into Monica's hand. And this I think will suit you as well. A sample from a little perfumery I found today. If you like it, we'll go back and buy some tomorrow. She finishes the drink in front of her and the waiter appears immediately. Her hair is loose tonight, spun silver, amethyst, drops sparkle at her neck. Why would a man want to read when he could be sipping champagne with his wife? I'm leaving him, Monica says. And once she speaks she is amazed, ashamed by how delicious the words taste to her, exotic and heady like the truffle shavings on her galette at dinner last night. I'm leaving him. As soon as I can, he doesn't know yet, she says. She is racing to get the words out before Martin appears. She feels as though she is running for a train she cannot afford to miss. I need you to help me, she says to her husband's mother, though she has no idea what kind of help there could possibly be. Monica was 25 when she met Martin, a serious student, a quiet man, educated, intelligent, everything about him exotic to her, seductive, so dedicated, not yet 30 and a doctoral student in the philosophy department where she worked as a receptionist. He smiled infrequently and she thought him intense, reflective. She had been smiled at all her life by friendly neighbors in the town where she'd grown up, by school teachers and shopkeepers, by her reckless father and barely grown mother. She had had her fill of smiles. She was the one to initiate. She was the one to stay at her desk until his Thursday seminar broke at 5.15 to pretend to sort through phone messages and enter departmental mail until he zipped his coat and shouldered his bag and nodded at her on his way past the desk. Martin, she said, and he turned surprised. So then, drinks late that Friday afternoon, informal, noncommittal. He was reticent. He talked with comfort about only his research, but he reciprocated the invitation and she was surprised. A foreign film matinee the following Sunday, then drinks again, then lunch weeks of quiet meetings, dates. She was never quite sure for an hour or three. And then, then finally, a Friday night, that bled into Saturday morning and Saturday afternoon, his apartment dark, shades drawn throughout his bedroom small and kempt and severe, his body also small and kempt and severe, his mouth unyielding, his skin so too somehow. He was nothing like the boys and men she'd known growing up, affable and their baseball caps and worn jeans, their coolers of beer and soda on the porch or in the truck bed, ready for anyone who might happen along. They were expansive. They were as undemanding as a soft May sky. When Martin kissed her, she felt a weight of gravity she had not felt before. When he touched her, she felt somehow solemnified. The question she finally asked herself was not, do you love him? But can you love him? Will you love him? Yes, I will be able to do that. So then, there are some promises, Elizabeth says, still holding her glass aloft, that will ruin you if you keep them past the point of she stops searching and Monica can see the echo of her son in the upward glance of an eye, the slight tension of the jaw as she thinks. I don't know. She finally says, laughing if you keep them past their own point, I suppose, past their point of usefulness. I tried. Monica says, desperate, close to tears. I can't even tell you how long. But Elizabeth shakes her head, silver hair and amethyst earrings, swinging and holds up a hand to stop her. A toast, she says to my son, who was your husband for longer than I expected him to be. She touches her glass to Monica's and sips, sets the glass down and leads forward to rest her hands on Monica's knees. I know, Martin, she says, and I believe you did the best you could. Drink, my dear. And Monica does. The lounge is filling, couples dressed for an evening out in a few single men, narrow dark suits, but Martin is not among them, not yet. It's difficult to imagine now, Elizabeth says, but this is not a tragedy, not for you, certainly, but not for Martin either. She smiles. And I think you know this, don't you? Monica nods. She is still watching the staircase for Martin for the lovely peacock blue of his shirt. She will give the cufflinks to Elizabeth to give to him as her own gift. They are beautiful enough that Martin will not doubt his mother chose them. And she allows herself a moment of pride in this. Then I want to ask you something, Elizabeth says, a favor. And although Monica cannot imagine what she could possibly do for a woman like Elizabeth, she does not hesitate before saying, of course I will. I want you to wait if you can, Elizabeth says. She touches Monica's cheek with a soft, fragrant hand. And Monica imagines for one moment that the two of them are in this city alone, that they found each other independently of Martin, of anyone, that there is all the time in the world for Elizabeth to teach her how to be someone completely different from who she is. Wait until we get home to tell him. Think of the rest of this week as a gift to me. Can you do that, my dear? And Monica nods, lays her hand over Elizabeth's clothes, is her eyes, and thinks I would wait as long as you asked me to, so please ask for longer. And when she opens her eyes, she sees Martin on the staircase, sees her husband, his face pale and solemn above that lovely shirt as he walks toward them. He never pretended to be anything he wasn't. I did. I am guilty of that. Elizabeth stands to greet her son, and Monica does as well. He kisses both of them on the cheek and accepts a glass of champagne from the waiter before they all sit again and touch glasses to happiness. Elizabeth says, and they drink. And Elizabeth speaks easily, casually, of an exhibit she is interested in seeing. The room is warm and candlelit, and it seems right to take her husband's hands to slip her fingers through his. He neither resists nor responds. She remembers that first night with him, how cool the tips of his fingers were against her collarbone, how light their touch, as though he was somehow surprised to have found her there naked and breathing in front of him. The last man Monica dated before Martin was an old acquaintance, someone she'd known vaguely in high school and met again not long before taking the job at Martin's university. His name was James, but call me Jimmy, he'd said. And he had a girlfriend and a three-year-old daughter by a woman he no longer dated, but whom he still counted as a friend. He told Monica one day a few weeks after their first meeting that he'd stopped seeing his girlfriend that he wanted to ask her out. She said yes. And at the end of that first date, after a steak dinner and a stop for ice cream, he asked her out again before he'd even gotten her back to her house. She still shared with her mother. James was a man who understood exactly what was possible for him and was happy with that. A man who had no need of exceeding his reach. And later that year, when Monica told him she was moving for a new job, he was genuinely puzzled. But why would you leave? You belong here, he said, gesturing as if to take in the entirety of that town where he lived, where everyone he knew lived, smiling, happy, and Monica could not disagree. That is the reason why, exactly. When eventually Monica talks to her mother about Paris, she will not even realize how completely it has slipped away from her. Has become, again, what it was before she saw it herself, the images hazy and lucid, all at once in the way of any vivid dream. She will sit in her mother's kitchen drinking coffee and describing the soft facades of buildings, white and gray and taupe, the faded red awnings of cafes, the boulevards and gardens and cathedrals, everything warm and inviting and unreal. She will mention Martin only offhandedly and Elizabeth not at all. And when her mother finally tires of feigning interest, she will be secretly glad, relieved that the time is passing, that Paris is again becoming nothing more than a word she might see on the cover of a glossy magazine or here on a cable travel channel, certainly not a place where she once spent a few breaths of her life. And she will hardly remember the way the sun sliced the city in half a radiant, curving knife, merciless and perfect. That was Judy Greer performing the anniversary trip by Victoria Lancelotta. Did you hear how Lancelotta leans into the relationship between Monica and Elizabeth? Many writers would probably go for the obvious drama, a woman quietly falling out of love with her husband and its loud repercussions. And we'd see some painful dinner scene between them, but by focusing on Monica's infatuation with Elizabeth and Elizabeth's unusual response to Monica's news, Lancelotta makes this a story we've never heard before. When we return, achieving that perfect bridal body, even if it means jail time. I'm Meg Wallitzer, you're listening to Selected Shorts, recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Keep the cuddles and lose the mess with Advantage Chewable. Just one tasty tablet kills fleas and ticks for a whole month. No mess, no stress. Just one tasty chew. Advantage Chewable, flea and tick protection made easy. Find out more at AdvantageChewable.co.uk. Easy to love, easy to protect. Advantage Chewable. I'm in the kitchen with Charlie Bigham. So what have we got here, Charlie? My brand new pan-fried pad thai noodles. Noodles? But you're Mr Fish Pie Guy. Guilty. And while ovens rule at roasting, the pan is king of noodling. Whether it's pad thai, yaki sabre or laxer, finding that perfect texture is a bottomless noodle rabbit hole. But all I have to do is stir it in the pan for six minutes, right? Bingo! Try the new Charlie Bigham's Asian Pan-Fried Noodles range, handmade in my kitchen. Pan-fried in yours. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction. One short story at a time. I'm Meg Wallitzer. This week on the show, we're listening to stories about special occasions in a show that was curated with Bellatrist Book Club. Once again, here are Bellatrist co-founders Cara Price and Emma Roberts to present our final story, Bridal Body, which deals with that most indelible of Save the Dates, the wedding, and more specifically, how women are trained to approach their wedding days. Next is something from a very funny writer named Jen Spira. She's written for The Onion, The New Yorker, and the late show is Stephen Colbert. And this piece is from her first short story collection, which is called Big Time. You know, Emma actually initially loved the story so much that she almost read it herself, but she chose something else. But we are very, very happy with who we've gotten instead. Yes, reading it is an actor who brings her big and playful presence to series like Children's Hospital and the Goldbergs and in films including Bill and Ted Face the Music. She's also providing voices for the upcoming animated series Grimsburg alongside John Ham. And now performing Bridal Body, please welcome Erin Hayes. Bridal Body. I wanted to look and feel my best at my wedding. What bride doesn't. So three months before the big day, I stripped naked, stepped in front of the mirror, and took stock of my goals. I had work to do, no doubt about it. My hips have always been my biggest problem area. I definitely needed to do something about them. Same with my stomach and of course my neck tattoo, which says property of chainsaw. It traced my fingers over the faded script, sighing and disgust. I don't care how good a kisser your ninth grade boyfriend is, never get a tattoo of his name outside the Bikini area. Now these problems weren't going to magically fix themselves. So I decided to join a gym and booked a session with a personal trainer named Diego. After we'd introduced ourselves, Diego asked me about my fitness goals and I told him that my wedding was in three months and I wanted toned arms, a flat stomach and sculpted legs. He told me he'd like a nine-inch cock that prints money. I thought that was harsh. But I had to respect like his tough love approach and I realized it might be just the ticket. Diego walked me over to the machines and instructed me to jog on a treadmill while he tracked my time by playing Grand Theft Auto 4 on his phone. I logged 30 minutes and then we set up a schedule where we'd meet twice a week. He also suggested I clean up my diet by drinking more water and prioritizing lean protein. I recognized that I had a long ride ahead but I left the gym feeling pretty good about my plan. As I was walking down the street towards 7-eleven, mentally listing the reasons why a Monterey Jack Tiquito and Sour Patch Kids counted as lean protein, an unfamiliar voice called out to me. I turned and saw a fit 40-something woman with spiky hair leaning against a brick wall. Hey, are you serious about getting that bridal body? I'm like, hell yes I was but how did this lady know my deal? She answered before I could even ask. I saw you talking with Diego. She said, eyeing me up and down. They give him cases like yours. A hip centric? Five alarm shitfires. I nodded as she was plain spoken like Diego. But I liked her candor. I gestured to my body like, what should I do? She took out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it. Meet me at the docks at 1 a.m. and bring this in cash. I looked down at the paper. This is a receipt from Pika Bagel on the back. The mysterious stranger had written down a huge sum of money. Enough money to straight up buy a new life and almost as much as what I'd been quoted to have a scientist graft my face onto a really hot person's body. I pocketed the paper and told the spiky-haired lady I'd have to think it over. And that night as my fiance Matt slept peacefully beside me, I did. I thought back to our first date in Central Park. It was a sunny afternoon and early autumn and we lost track of time walking around the reservoir talking and laughing. As I cast my mind back to that golden day I reached out and touched his hair. Overcome with love for him. I just completely lucked out with Matt. He was sweet and funny and what's more like he made me feel sexy as hell. But our chemistry went so much farther than our deep physical connection. We electrified and nourished each other on a deep soul level. I'm not a religious person but in Matt I had found a kind of cosmic connection, completion, a reason to exist, a reason for anything to exist. So at the end of the day I had to admit that he deserved a bright old body that was hot as freaking hell. I slipped out of bed, made a few phone calls, emptied our savings account and kissed Matt goodbye as he slept. When I got to the docks the spiky-haired woman seemed startled to see me. I wasn't sure you had it in you. You're damn right it's in me I said, tossing the bag of money with a swagger. Spiky hair checked to make sure it was all there. Then Rose knocked me out with a single quick punch. When I came to I was blindfolded in the back of a truck. My head throbbing and my hands tied behind my back. I could hear low guttural voices but he didn't recognize their language. My mouth felt like it hadn't touched water for days. Finally the truck came to a stop and my captors dragged me out. Spiky hair ripped the blindfold from my eyes and the light was blinding and all I could smell was mud. March she commanded and I did. Later when my eyes adjusted I saw that we were trekking through a barren gorge. Two grueling hours later we reached the opening of a cave but by this point I had had just about enough. I was starving, sunburned and wheezing from the repeated blows meted by Spiky and to be honest with you I was also waffling over whether I had made the right decision. I realized that I needed a snack and a breather. Just to check in with myself and kind of see where I was at. I stopped and asked Spiky if she had a helpful treat like such as a cliff bar in the carrot cake flavor. She turned and looked at me like I was nuts. I know I said it's not white chocolate macadamia nut but like you have to save those bullets for when you really need them right. Spiky grabbed me by the front of my fleece and flung me down into the mouth of the cave. My head bounced off the hard packed dirt floor. As I lay there spitting up dirt in a shard of a bloody tooth she kicked me in the ribs hard and it was at that moment that I mentally disinvited her from my bridal shower. Staggering into the cave I squinted my eyes and struggled to make out the dark shapes that loomed before me. Slowly my vision began to focus. There were about 40 women training in a cement studio, rock hard abs, chiseled triceps and hollowed out clavicles for miles. A bare fluorescent bulb hung from the dripping ceiling. Spiky strode past me and blew a whistle. The women froze. Brides, we have a new recruit. She dragged me forward and pushed me toward the group. I felt the daggers of 40 pairs of eyes on my broken body. Spiky continued, you're here because you have the desire to succeed but do you have the will to endure? She swept her hand around the room, look around you, only half will survive. I looked to the woman to my left. She was cute and blonde with adorable freckles and pearl studs in her ears. I guess she was in her mid-20s. She was wearing a tank top that said the misses in glitter and her ankles were wrapped snugly in pink one-pound weights and I was just about to ask her where she found her adorable fitness accessories when she snapped her head forward, knocking her skull into my forehead with a sickening thwack. My journey had begun. I was assigned a straw mat on the floor of a long tunnel and I kept to myself. My only possessions were my Fitbit, my Slot Pale and my picture of Matt. I drew it from memory on a scrap of Batwing. Every night after Zumba and our vicious nude wrestling matches, I would kiss it. Two weeks after I started the program, I looked better than I'd ever dared to dream. I had lost five pounds and I could actually see some definition in my arms. I went to my room, I packed my bags and thanked my trainer for all her help. When I awoke from the beating she gave me, my trainer informed me that I wasn't even five percent of the way through the program. For starters, I needed to drop my BMI by 40 percent, add 11 pounds of muscle and six pounds of titty fat. And even if I did achieve those stats, I wouldn't decide when I was done. I would be told. I couldn't believe it. I was gonna look so amazing on my wedding day. Later that night as I rubbed a numbing poultice into my wounds, a troubling thought crept into my mind. When I was through with the program, I was gonna be really hot. In fact, I would probably be so hot that I didn't really know if Matt and I would make sense anymore. I mentally scrolled through the men who would be left in my league and all I could come up with was like Tom Hiddleston, 90s era Denzel, and Shang from Mulan. I sat for a moment, I pondered the absurdity of my situation, training for a wedding that would render obsolete by my very training. But I decided I had to see where this journey would take me. So I blew out my lantern, laid down on my mat, and went to sleep. Seven winters passed. One morning, I almost lost it all. I was doing my daily training of rolling boulders up and down the ravine on an empty stomach. By now, my arms were hard brown pythons, and I got giddy of how perfect they'd look in the chantilly sleeve of the lace bolero I planned to wear when I eloped with Emmanuel Macron. My trainer, Ashley, monitored my progress from the watch tower, shouting death threats to keep me motivated. Every time you rolled the boulder down into the ravine, you had about a four second window at the bottom where you were completely out of sight of the tower. That day, with my body crying out from fatigue and hunger, I decided to roll the dice. I had hidden a meal pellet for exactly this type of opportunity. Flattening my body against the limestone, I devoured it, luxuriating in its foodie crunchiness. Then I grabbed the boulder and hurried back up the side of the ravine. Ashley was waiting for me there. What were you doing in the ravine? My thoughts raced wildly, searching for any excuse the punishment for disobedience was death. I was doing extra calf raises. She smirked at me. Let's see what leader thinks of that. Ashley turned and started back for the compound. I knew I had no choice. It was her or me. I lunged for her legs and at that close range, oh their definition made my eyes missed with respect. She was quick and grabbed for her dagger. We wrestled on the frozen ground, grunting and growling as we tore at each other like wolves. Finally, I grabbed a nearby boulder and slammed it into her skull. When I looked up, my face dripping with blood and brains, I realized we were surrounded. Leader and the other brides began to clap. You are ready. Leader said, you have completed the program. There is no satisfaction like revealing your bridal body to your groom after seven years of hard training. Even though I was going to start my new life with an AI hybrid of Timothy Chalamet and the rock, I figured, I mean Matt at least deserved a look at my bridal body. So I decided to pay him a visit. When I got to his house, I was surprised to see that Matt wore contacts now and his hair was a little thinner and he had a wife and two sons. I thought you were dead. He screamed, but I was prepared for this moment. The program taught me that reactions to my bridal body would be extreme. Where have you been? His voice cracked. You disappeared. You fucking disappeared three months before our wedding. Matt's face was splotchy the way it got when he was really upset. A cute kid who looked to be around four peeked out from behind his thigh. He looked just like a mini Matt with the same sleepy blue eyes and wavy hair. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and looked up at me as he sucked. And I had to admit it being almost a full day since my last food pellet, they looked pretty tasty. Matt ran his fingers through his hair the way he always did when he was overwhelmed. We had a celebration of life ceremony for you last year. I unveiled a headstone. You're legally dead. A blonde woman walked up beside him. She had kind eyes and underdeveloped delts. Oh my god, she murmured, staring is her. She squeezed Matt's hand, pulling him in close. And it was at that point that I noticed she was wearing an old apron I'd bought Matt as a joke in Key West. It said, may I suggest the sausage with a cartoon hand pointing downward. As annoyed as I was that Matt had chosen a blonde woman for his wife, it was actually pretty funny for a lady to wear it. Maybe this blonde chick was cool. I was actually starting to feel a connection with her and I was thinking about asking if she'd ever want to get together sometime, roll boulders up a ravine or something. When Matt doubled over and started to retch, the blonde woman wrapped her arms around him, cooing into his hair as he sobbed, get out of here. Matt said, not looking at me. The truth is, I was anxious to leave anyway. Bright all bodies only have 12 hours before they begin to atrophy. And I still, I still had to find and wed Duane Athei, the Chalamet Johnson. By piecing together visual clues from Timothy's Instagram, I was able to locate his apartment. But as I was shimmying up a storm drain to greet him, I heard the growing wail of police sirens. Later at the precinct, the cop who arrested me said, I could make one call. I couldn't believe it had come to this. I had worked so hard for this day and here I was, locked away in a cell, watching it all fall apart before my eyes. There was only one person I could turn to. I winced as I dialed the number, doubting that it would still work. And even if he did, why would he pick up after everything I'd put him through? I did a series of lunge jumps as I waited, now a nervous tick from my years of training. To my relief, he took the call. He even sounded worried, said he'd be there as soon as he could. As I walked back to my cell, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window and gasped. My body had sagged fully back into its pre-bridal form. The average arms, the mediocre abs. I hung my head in shame. Twenty minutes later, the guard announced that I had a visitor. I looked up as Chainsaw walked through the door. He'd put on weight since I'd last seen him and he was shorter than I remembered. But he was still wearing his leather jacket, the one he hilariously stole from a homeless woman on our first date. You look fucking hot. He said, grabbing me and lifting me up in his arms. I wrapped my legs around him and looked at his face, taking it all in. The familiar scars, the new wrinkles, the controversial eyelid piercing that 20 years later did not appeal to have healed correctly. I'm busting your ass out of here. I smiled and looking into his eyes, in the presence of God, the police chief, and the hooker sharing my cell, I took his hand to my lips and kissed it. I do. Thank you. That was Erin Hayes performing bridal body by Jen Spira. I really enjoyed this story, maybe because I was someone who had the opposite kind of experience. Before I got married, I ate whatever I wanted, continued my exercise regimen of a brisk walk into the next room of my apartment and back, and I wore my hair loose and flowing like Carol King. For me back then, a blowout was merely something that could happen to a tire on your car. So just as I enjoy hearing stories about people who go bungee jumping, I also enjoy hearing about women going to extreme lengths before a wedding. Better them than me is my motto in life. Now listen, I know our stories today about a party avoidant introvert, a future divorcee, and a psychopathic bride-to-be probably don't make you want to run out and plan your next costume gala or neighborhood bake-off. I get it. But that said, I think even those of us who really get anxious at parties can see them as a potential force for good. Parties bring us together with loved ones and strangers alike. They can defy expectations if we give them a chance. And quite often, as the past hour illustrated, they give us incredible stories that can inspire great fiction. I'm Meg Wallitzer, our thanks to Bellatrix for their help with the show, and thanks to all of you for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs presented at the Getty Center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plourd. Our theme music is David Peterson's That's the Deal, performed by the Deer Dorf Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dunn Gannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hockel and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. Keep the cuddles and lose the mess with Advantage Chewable. Just one tasty tablet kills fleas and ticks for a whole month. No mess, no stress. Just one tasty tune. Advantage Chewable. Flee and tick protection made easy. Find out more at AdvantageChewable.co.uk. Easy to love, easy to protect. I'm in the kitchen with Charlie Bigum. So what have we got here, Charlie? My brand new pan-fried pad thai noodles. Noodles? But you're Mr Fish Pie Guy. Guilty. And what? Ovens rule at roasting. The pan is king of noodling. Whether it's pad thai, yakisoba or laxer, finding that perfect texture is a bottomless noodle rabbit hole. But all I have to do is stir it in the pan for six minutes, right? Bingo! Try the new Charlie Bigum's Asian Pan-Fried Noodle Range, handmade in my kitchen. Pan-fried in yours.