My Best Friend's Wedding Page #13

DIGGER:

You've been working on this, huh?

JULIANNE:

... and having "done the right

thing" will only really be

comforting, oh, maybe, five,

six times.

She sets her jaw.

JULIANNE:

This is my whole life's happiness.

I have to be ruthless.

DIGGER:

(quietly)

And you believe that.

JULIANNE:

(unconvincing)

Sure.

His eyes are gentle and merciless at once. No way she gets off

this hook.

JULIANNE:

He was in love with me every day

for nine years. I can make him

happier than she can.

DIGGER:

It's not his happiness you're

feeling guilty about...

JULIANNE:

(proudly)

I don't know the meaning of the

word guilt!

DIGGER:

Impressive.

JULIANNE:

I am breaking her heart in the short

run, but doing her a gigantic favor!

She would be miserable tagging

along after this insensitive doofus!

DIGGER:

The man you love.

JULIANNE:

Beyond reason. The feminist

warrior will rise up in this kid,

and she'll be standing over his

sleeping form with a butcher

knife, selecting from a short

list of body parts!

DIGGER:

Someday she'll thank you.

JULIANNE:

Let's not get carried away.

And the defenses drain from her clay-ravaged features. The real

Julianne is glimpsed.

JULIANNE:

I'd settle for. Someday, I'll

forgive myself.

For...?

JULIANNE:

For doing this terrible thing.

Her eyes tear up.

JULIANNE:

Which, by the way, I can't

figure out how to do.

As the tears fall, he wipes at them, discovering...

DIGGER:

Jesus. You're supposed to take

your make-up off before you

apply the m...

JULIANNE:

I KNOW THAT! I WAS DISTRACTED BY

GRIEF!

Oh.

JULIANNE:

Guess what I brushed my teeth

with last night?

He thinks about this. Following her eyes to the toiletries kit, he

browses for a moment...

DIGGER:

Zit cream?

JULIANNE:

I wish.

DIGGER:

Neosporin?

JULIANNE:

Try less appropriate.

DIGGER:

Ben Gay.

JULIANNE:

That was Thursday.

He stops on that note.

DIGGER:

Elmer's Glue?

JULIANNE:

DON'T BE RIDICULOUS, WE'RE HAVING

A SERIOUS CONVERSATION!

She's hysterical.

DIGGER:

I give.

JULIANNE:

I can't even say it.

Now. He's curious.

JULIANNE:

A hint. The first word is

"Preparation." Then comes a

letter of the alphabet,

perilously close to G.

She reaches to test her curling iron, BURNS her finger, SH*T!

KNOCKING the appliance into the half-filled sink. She LUNGES for

it, and a terrified Digger GRASPS her arm...

DIGGER:

Considering the circumstances,

I'm not wholly against suicide...

Huh?

DIGGER:

Just not by electrocution in

front of me!

Oh.

DIGGER:

I've got this noon flight.

He reaches to pull the plug from the wall, and now she LUNGES to

grab his arm, slipping, her face falling forward, stopping an inch

above the sink.

JULIANNE:

How do you know you can touch

that plug? Are you a licensed

contractor?

DIGGER:

What do you suggest?

She looks from the plug down the cord, to the submerged curling

iron. And back.

JULIANNE:

Maybe they just seal off this

room. They have others.

He's staring at her. Sweet, but intense.

DIGGER:

I didn't mean about that.

Oh. Again.

JULIANNE:

If I hear the words "tell the

truth," or any paraphrase thereof,

I dive into the sink and pull you

with me.

Looking at her. Looking at her.

DIGGER:

Let's go meet Michael. I'll

wait downstairs.

INT. ARMANI - MORNING

Julianne has cleaned up pretty good. She sits with Digger on a

fashion-fabric sofa. They are side-by-side, studying something

with equal concentration. And slight concern.

DIGGER:

I suppose it's too late to

start over.

JULIANNE:

It's too late to start over.

PULL BACK to reveal Michael in his wedding tux, submitting to a

final fitting from a stylish fitter.

MICHAEL:

You guys are heartless, my

bride picked this out.

JULIANNE:

Like I said, dazzling.

DIGGER:

Is she going to dress you

every day?

Michael smiles over. Digger smiles back. They live each other.

MICHAEL:

Yeah, it's in the contract.

DIGGER:

(softly)

Well, then, I'll take it up

with her.

Michael motions, okay, c'mon over. Digger rises, goes to Michael,

the fitter steps back as Digger shows him...

DIGGER:

The cut here, here... this

line...

Fingers lightly traveling over the lapel, the side-stitching, the

cloth straight down the spine...

DIGGER:

... trouser width, this is all

classic. Which means safe,

something I'd wear.

MICHAEL:

I should look different.

DIGGER:

You should look like you

dressed yourself.

Yes? Michael's grin is back. Playful and friendly.

MICHAEL:

And I'm supposed to respect

your fashion tips, because

you're what, a New Yorker?

DIGGER:

(quiet smile)

Something like that.

Julianne loves that the boy are getting on.

MICHAEL:

(means this)

Long trip. Pretty nice of you

to come.

DIGGER:

Well, I'm close to her. I wanted

to meet the one that got away.

Said so naturally. That embarrasses Michael, who looks down, his

smile suddenly awkward.

DIGGER:

What?

MICHAEL:

I'm just glad someone finally put

this thing in its proper perspective.

Steals a glance at Julianne. She rolls her eyes. What a goofball,

my outrageous friend.

MICHAEL:

(to Digger)

Stay, huh?

DIGGER:

I honestly wish I could...

MICHAEL:

I'll call George's parents.

Tell them I need a best man who

actually looks after me.

Julianne comes over.

JULIANNE:

(softly)

They'd say that's my job.

She runs her hands over his jacket, smoothing it everywhere. With

tenderness that approaches transparency. Glances back at Digger...

JULIANNE:

I'll take it home from here.

Pinches Michael's ear. Looks in his eyes.

DIGGER:

Two words.

JULIANNE:

Major. Dish.

DIGGER:

Manicure...

She looks down. Michael's nails are unclipped, with layers of

impacted dirt. She touches his fingertips, a little more softly

than she may have intended.

DIGGER:

Fly.

Everyone looks down. She ZIPS Michael up.

MICHAEL:

(to Digger)

You don't miss much.

DIGGER:

Part of being a New Yorker.

INT. HAIR SALON - MORNING

Cutting edge salon. Loud, PULSING MUSIC. Digger and Michael in

adjacent chairs, heads back, each smoking impressive cigars as

their hair is styled. Digger's stylist is a hot trashy female.

Michael's is a tall, flamboyant male in a day-glo vest.

Each man has one hand soaking, the other being worked on by a

manicurist, so Julianne goes from one to the other, removing their

cigars so they can exhale. A seraglio feel to the way she does

this.

Now she's arguing with Michael's stork-like stylist. We can't hear

over the music, but she keeps tugging on Michael's hair, pretty

passionate about her point of view. Suddenly, she GRABS the

scissors to do it herself, and Michael...

Rate this script:5.0 / 2 votes