Chapter 20
“Hey, Honey, did you see the news?”
I groan, wishing there was a way to not see the news. “Yes, Mom. Archie made sure that I got a full-on replay of it in stereo as soon as I got to work this morning.”
Maybe it’s the phone connection, maybe it’s just Mom’s excitement, but she doesn’t hear the frustration in my voice.
Instead, I wince as she squeals like she did at her first Marky Mark concert way back in the day, which she demonstrates every time his songs come on the radio, much to the displeasure of my ears and any surrounding dogs’ hearing.
“My baby’s having a dream wedding! Like the princess I always knew you were. ”
I don’t bother correcting her that I’m so far from a princess, it’s comical. We grew up struggling, and even now that we’re all comfortable financially, I’m not a fussy, prissy type. Nope, not a princess, Mom.
But she’s still talking as I’m having a mental dissection of Princess vs.
Violet. I don’t compare to Diana, Caroline, Kate, Cinderella .
. . wait, that last one’s not real. “I’m so happy for you, and I gotta say, the triplets are furiously practicing their asses off.
They know this’ll be huge exposure for them! ”
“Mom, about that. With the orchestra and all—”
“Oh, don’t worry, honey. Vanessa called the orchestra this morning,” Mom says gleefully.
“She explained it all to them, and get this . . . the director’s really big into cross-genre stuff.
His comment to ‘Nessa was that if Guns N’ Roses, Queen, and Toni Braxton can do songs with symphonies, then why not do the same for your wedding?
The girls are already over there talking songs and arrangements. It’s going to be great!”
Shit . . . what next, pyro and laser lights?
I pinch myself as punishment for even thinking that, not wanting to tempt the universe into delivering that level of craziness.
I hear a commotion outside the office, and I look out to see a small group of paparazzi surrounding a man who’s marching with a purpose as he pushes a rack of garment bags. Seems my next dress appointment is here.
I open the door and yell out, “Please leave him alone.” Thankfully, I managed to hold the phone away from my ear so I didn’t deafen my mother with my shout.
The paps turn toward my voice and I think, for one second, that they’re going to comply. Instead, their cameras all point at me and start clicking away as they call out questions.
“Where are you going for the honeymoon?”
“Are you marrying Ross for his money?”
“When’s the baby due?”
“How’d you snag the city’s hottest bachelor?”
“You still haven’t found a dress?”
“Ugh, no comment. No comment,” I tell the vultures. To the stone-faced bridal assistant, I wave a hand, hurrying him. “Come on before they eat you alive.” He tosses a withering look over his shoulder like there might actually be zombie monsters coming after him but that he’d gladly take them on.
Putting the phone back to my ear, I say, “Mom, you there? This is crazy. I’ve worked with clients who have paparazzi following them everywhere, but it’s never been me. How do celebrities do this? I just want to be left alone.”
“Oh, hush!” Mom crows, giggling. “Just sit back and take it all in. Use it to your advantage.”
That might be wise advice if I had any idea how to do that. As it is, I just feel like the increased visibility is going to come back and bite me in the ass because there’s no way we can pull off a fake wedding with their constant scrutiny and sneaking around.
“I’ll try, Mom. I need to go, though. I’ve got dress trying-on to do.”
We hang up and I turn to the bridal assistant who’s been waiting patiently.
He sticks out his hand. “Weston Worthington, Ms. Russo. Considering our timeline, are you ready to get to it?” I like him instantly, all business and professional, not a word said or a care given about the circus outside my office.
“Yes, that’d be perfect.”
“If you’re comfortable, perhaps you can change into your foundational garments and let me evaluate your shape. I find that to be most efficient so that we can focus on gowns that will flatter you personally.”
I know an order when I hear one, so I turn to head back into my office, which we’ve been using as a makeshift dressing room. “Certainly. If you wouldn’t mind, could you close the curtains? They’re one-way visibility, but I don’t want to risk anyone getting a shot of me in my underwear.”
I swear I see Weston’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh. See? Obviously, not a princess, and barely fit for polite company with this sassy mouth.
I strip and wiggle into the bodysuit I’ve been using as my mainstay for the wedding gowns. It’s nothing crazy like the Spanx that almost killed me under my red gala dress. This set is more smoothing than compression, so it’s comfortable and all one piece, which makes it easy.
I open the door slowly, making sure the front room is fluorescent-lit only before coming out in what equates to a flesh-toned colored swimsuit.
Archie’s droll voice greets me. “That one. You should absolutely wear that and nothing else.” He points my way, making a spinning motion, which I answer with a middle finger.
I know he’s exhausted with doing all the dress shopping and wedding stuff on top of our full schedule of actual work.
He’s been a saint, doing so much at Mrs. Montgomery’s while we both keep all the juggling balls in the air.
I did at least get Ross’s couch ordered yesterday, making the most of our ‘lazy’ Sunday by working diligently on my laptop all afternoon.
Abi interjects, apparently having arrived with Archie while I was changing. “Okay, let’s get to work. Snap, snap, people.”
She’s in boss mode, which makes me worry she’s got too much on her plate with all she’s doing to help with the wedding, but then she smiles at me and I can see the joy she’s taking in planning this. I know she loves working with flowers, but I think she really loves weddings.
Weston walks a full circle around me, then holds my arms out wide in a T-shape and eyes my chest, waist, and hips critically.
He doesn’t seem deterred by my rather curvy figure but rather seems to be visually measuring me.
I’d bet he’d be able to get with a quarter-inch if he guessed my measurements.
“Okay, let’s begin,” he says, letting my arms go and turning to his rack of bagged garments.
Like a magician, he opens one and pulls out a white fluff of fabric.
“This one will highlight your small waist and give adequate support for your breasts. The bottom is a full ballgown silhouette, perfect for the grandeur of the church.”
It looks like a stunningly bedazzled cupcake, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything.
Weston helps me into the gown, and I turn, facing the large mirror leaning against the wall. It is beautiful and dramatic, but it doesn’t feel right. Weston can see it on my face and quickly suggests that we move on.
I like that he’s not offended by my lack of gushing because I know he’s worked hard to hand-select these gowns for me. He just pulls out the next, and then another. And then one more.
None of them are it.
“If you’d not been so picky before, we wouldn’t be dealing with this now,” Archie mutters, but he smiles when I look at him. “I’m sure you’ll find something.” His tone implies that’s not remotely true at all, and we both know it.
Weston opens a bag, shoving it aside, but something catches my eye. “Oh, my God, that’s it!” I exclaim.
Three sets of eyes follow my pointing finger.
Weston hums. “If you’d like to try it on, ma’am, then of course. However, I will caution you that it’s a silhouette designed for a willowier body type.” He eyes my full breasts with concern.
I clap and say definitively, “I want to try it.”
He pulls it out of the bag with a flourish.
It’s beautiful, with a flared crystal-encrusted skirt and a pinched waist, but best of all, lace shoulders and sleeves that will let me look both sexy and classy.
“It’s called The Fairy Tale, an inspired blend of Kate Middleton’s dress and Grace Kelly’s iconic gown.
” Weston’s voice is wistful, as if this gown is his favorite too.
Hesitantly, he helps me step into the gown and then slowly, he pulls it up my thighs. I slip my arms into the delicate sleeves and he fastens the tiny buttons at my back.
I turn to look in the mirror. It’s . . . not perfect, I think with a sigh. But I so wanted it to be. My face falls.
“I thought this was it, but I look like a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. And my boobs are flatter than pancakes.” I can feel the tears hot in my eyes.
I haven’t cried in so long, it seems, not truly.
Not since Papa’s last spell, but this dress not fitting me the way I want it to has done me in.
Weston hops to my side, biting his lip. “Perhaps something could be done?” He looks me up and down.
“Your foundational garments are not compression. They make significantly more powerful pieces that could help because you are not that far off from it fitting properly. But unfortunately, there’s no room in the seams to get added inches.
” He’s being kind by saying I’m not far off, but it’s a good size, maybe more, too small.
Archie snorts. “Compression? I think you need ratchet straps.” I glare at him.
“I could do that, I guess,” I say about the hated spandex of death, nodding even as I remember being stuck in them before. “They almost killed me when I tried them for the gala, but for this dress, I’ll do it.”
Weston lowers his voice as if he’s imparting secret wisdom, “If you’d rather not, have you heard of the keto egg fast?
It’s hardcore, at least six eggs per day, plus a little cheese or butter, coffee and water, but that’s it.
Definitely not sustainable, but you should read up on it and see if it might be a very short-term fix. ”