Though I did try, it turned out that I was bound to be a beauty school dropout. Most of the girls in my class were really focused and had talent for the field. They were destined to do hair. Thankfully, I had another sweet destiny waiting for me, because I certainly would never be crowned queen of finger waves.
I could have never imagined just a few years after my five hundred hours with the Guidettes, I’d be at the altar with one of the most powerful men in the music industry—an Italian, no less. I hadn’t been looking for anyone romantically. I certainly wasn’t looking for a husband. And I most definitely wasn’t looking to marry Tommy, but it happened anyway. And what a happening it was. Once I said yes to the marriage, I thought, Hey, we might as well make it an event—an EXTRAVAGANZA! As with any project or production I’m involved with, I wanted to bring as much optimism and festiveness to it as possible. Tommy was also enthusiastic about the potential pomp and circumstance we could create. He focused on curating the most influential and impressive audience—I mean, guest list—he could.
Clearly, there was no family or mother of the bride running the show here. Lord knows this task was way beyond anything my mother could ever comprehend. Besides, this wedding was designed to be an entertainment-industry spectacle; even a capable mother or sister couldn’t manage the production we were going to put on. The wife of one of Tommy’s colleagues, who was a socially well-connected middle-aged woman, was given the role of production coordinator. She helped me with all the major details, such as the dress.
That dress was an event unto itself. My coordinator was friends with one of the most prominent female fashion designers of the era, whose specialty was bridal. It seemed like I spent as much time in her showroom for fittings as I did in the studio for an entire album. There were at least ten fittings—crazy for a girl who, not so long before, had only had three shirts in rotation.
Of course, I was inspired by Princess Diana. Who wasn’t? She was an inspiring figure! I loved that wedding, and really it was my only reference point for how a wedding should look. I didn’t grow up looking at bridal magazines, and besides, the royals know how to throw a good wedding—obviously. In the end, nearly every princess element or symbol imaginable could be found in that dress. The crème silk fabric was so fine, it seemed to glow. The sweetheart neckline swooped gracefully off the shoulder before blooming into exaggerated poof sleeves. The structured bodice was intricately encrusted with crystals and beads exploding into an enormous ball gown skirt, kept afloat by layers upon layers of crinolines. But the most notable feature was the ultra-dramatic twenty-seven-foot train, which required its own team of handlers. Affixed to a diamond tiara was an equally long veil. Syd Curry twirled my curls to tumble down like Rapunzel’s, and Billy B did my face, serving up both glamorous ingenue and Belle of the Ball. I had come a long way from Cinderella of the Shack. The bouquet was unforgettable: a cascade of roses and orchids, studded with various all-white blossoms romantically tangled with vines of ivy. A small troupe of little girls threw white petals at my feet.
Tommy did not disappoint on his assignment either—the casting was impressive. The guest list included heavy hitters from Barbra Streisand to Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley—even Ozzy Osbourne and Dick Clark! To top it all off, his best man was Robert De Niro! Though my bridesmaids included my longtime and trusted friends Josefin and Clarissa, they brought me no comfort. No one could. I was deathly afraid.
I hardly remember the ceremony at the majestic Saint Thomas Church (we needed a venue that could accommodate the drama of the dress, after all).
I remember our song was “You and I (We Can Conquer the World)” by Stevie Wonder, because I chose it, of course. I recall my face shaking involuntarily at the altar. But the moment those church doors opened up onto Fifth Avenue, I heard the roar of screams and saw the hordes of fans flooding every inch of sidewalk as far as the eye could see, camera flashes popping like fireworks. I walked down the stairs and smiled at them. For me, my wedding wasn’t for all those rich and famous people I barely knew. It wasn’t for my distant, dysfunctional family (though I do fondly remember my grandfather, by then in the grips of dementia, lovingly yelling my name like he was on the block: “Mariah! Mariah!”) To me, the wedding spectacle was mostly for the fans, and we gave them the fabulous moment they deserved.
There was a star-studded reception at the Metropolitan Club (I liked the venue because it had “MC” monogrammed everywhere, but we didn’t mention that to TM) that I barely remember. I was exhausted. It had taken so much energy just to plan the thing and then get through it.
The night before I’d had a girls-only sleepover at the Mark Hotel. I was clearly conflicted. My friends knew I didn’t even really believe in the institution of marriage, and yet here I was about to put on this major show with a man who was already showing dangerous signs, professionally and personally. He would become my next of kin; the stifling hot mess of a relationship that I was already in with him would only become more foul and imbalanced.
“You don’t have to do this,” they all said. But I truly believed I had to. I saw no way out. I didn’t know
