“Hannah! Hi! I’m so glad you made it. Greg said I could count on you. Come on, let’s go choose a wedding dress.”
Shoot me, somebody just shoot me now, I think silently as she links our arms and tows me inside. I shoot a fulminating glare at the street, only to see that he’s gone without so much as a hello for his fiancée.
“Good morning, welcome to Blushing Brides. How may I serve you today?”
I look up to see a greedy-eyed saleswoman coming our way, and I thank God when her approach allows me to step back, breaking the arm link.
“Hi! We’re here for a dress. Oh, and bridesmaids dresses. Hannah is in charge of the color scheme, so she’s choosing most of it.”
What?
“Er, no, I, um, this is your wedding. Wouldn’t it be best if you choose your own color schemes? And…I really don’t think—”
Jesus, this is so goddamned awkward. I can’t believe he’s done this.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Hannah. Your input is vital!”
By the time I’ve selected an off-the-shoulder, lavender, cocktail-style dress for the bridesmaids, I’m ready to pull a runner.
“Now the wedding dress. Oh, Lord, I am so excited. Can you just see Greg’s face when this dress comes walking toward him?” she asks, holding up something my nana wouldn’t wear to her own funeral.
“Hmmm.”
Be tactful, Han. Remember that not everyone has taste.
“No?” she asks, giving the dress a more thorough inspection.
“It’s a little…” I pause and grimace. “Too traditional?”
More like ugly, with enough lace to cover a Victorian lady’s bed, and the off-white — oh sorry, champagne — is not the color I’d go for either. It reminds me of something the YaYa Sisterhood would wear.
“No?” she asks.
“No.”
“Well, then what? Why is this so hard?” she cries, flopping down on the sofa by the dressing room, her shoulders drooping dejectedly. “Greg will be so disappointed if I can’t do this.”
When she says that scumsucker’s name, something inside me snaps, and I start ripping dresses from the rack to hurl them at her.
“We have the same build, and I can tell you now, burying yourself beneath a boatload of lace won’t work. My nana made me a dress for my sweet sixteen that will haunt me forever, so I’m telling you, lace is totally out. Here, try the off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline. Yo, lady,” I yell, whistling the saleswoman over.
“Ma’am?” she asks fearfully, and I almost grin at her trepidation.
“Get this woman a glass of champagne, will ya? And I want everything without lace in a size six,” I order, pulling Selena to her feet. “Try that one on and let me see.”
It takes less than an hour for us both to agree on a strapless snow-white sheath that hugs her from breast to knee and flares out subtly to fall in a soft whoosh to her feet.
“You’ll need to get that fitted across the bust.”
She looks down at her boobs and then looks at mine.
“You’re so lucky you have boobs.”
I snort and consider my just C’s. I wouldn’t call them great, but they’re a sight larger than her A’s —something I feel spitefully great, yet guilty, about.
“All right then,” I sigh. “Anything else before I skedaddle back to the salt mines?”
She stops and considers me, her head tilted at an angle.
“Flowers?”
Is this chick not a socialite? I thought they were born and bred to do this shit.
“Roses. Weddings and roses go together like Forest and Jenny. Definitely roses. Maybe white?”
She nods, and I find myself outside on the sidewalk a few minutes later, waving at her retreating back as I wait for Gregory to roll around.
This is most definitely one for the history books. Mistress helps bride choose wedding dress.
Have I lost what little is left of my mind?
When he stops beside me, I get in and buckle up, studiously ignoring his questioning glances.
“I’ve arranged a helper to come by this afternoon.”
I ignore him and purse my lips.
“For Nana,” he clarifies.
I want to gasp in shock and lay into him at the temerity, but I don’t, knowing he’s trying and currently failing to get a rise out of me.
“Han.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Have you stopped sulking yet?”
I keep my face expressionless and pick at the non-existent lint on the knee of my jeans. I’d kept all communications strictly business for the rest of the work day, going so far as to blatantly ignore his lunch invitation and his request for coffee.
At this point I hope he fires me and lets me leave. Before I slap him into a goddamned coma. It doesn’t bug me much that I actually enjoyed my morning of ‘shopping’ with Selena, after I’d let go of every scruple I own and pretended I am not a raging liar.