Chapter Forty-Three
The grand staircase is garlanded with hundreds of fat, English country roses ranging in colour from cream through a spectrum
of pinks, from the palest pastel to a deep dusky blush. The entire castle seems to be filled with their delicious, sweet scent.
A pink carpet has been laid and secured from the top to the bottom of the steps. At the bottom of the staircase an older gentleman
with a top hat tucked under his arm is sharing a joke with Lord B, I’m guessing the father of the bride.
The huge front doors of the castle have been opened wide, and the pink carpet runs out the door, between the majestic colonnades,
and down the steps where the wedding guests, seated on either side, are waiting for the bride. When I really crane my neck,
I can just about make out the groom standing at the far end of the carpet, nervously pacing under a rose-covered pagoda.
“This is at least a six-figure wedding,” Rani says as we hide behind a huge potted plant, holding its fronds in front of our
faces like fake moustaches. “Mind you, I don’t suppose the kind of people that get married at a castle are your budget types.”
“That’s my Jess, always late,” the father of the bride says, looking at his watch. “Pushing it a bit this time, though. Time is money and all that.”
“Not to worry, Sid,” Lord B tells him. “You’ve got the place for the whole day. No hurry.”
“Tell that to my wife,” Sid says. “You know Lavinia, normally so relaxed. Gentle, mild mannered. She’s been like a Roman military
general going into battle since Jess announced her engagement. Quite exhilarating. And . . . a little bit exciting, if you
know what I mean.”
Sid nudges Lord B in the ribs, and they both guffaw with laughter, before Lord B produces his hip flask.
“Maybe she’s changed her mind,” I whisper to Rani. “Maybe she decided to be pragmatic and sensible instead of giving in to
all this manufactured romance and false ideals about what a person is supposed to do in life.”
“Or maybe she’s decided to run off with some sexy pickpocket she met outside the grounds of the castle instead, because of
true love,” Rani argues back.
“Isn’t that Aladdin?” I ask her.
“The point is,” Rani says, “there is no right answer when it comes to this sort of thing. It’s all complete guesswork.”
“That’s the worst bit of ‘wisdom’ I have ever heard!” I say, appalled. “You are basically telling me that there is no way
to work out a solution using logic and reason. You just have to take a chance and hope for the best!”
“That about sums it up,” Rani says.
“Ah, ladies.” Lady B appears behind us like a ninja would if a ninja were wearing azure blue silk and a hat the size of a
cartwheel.
“Oh God, sorry. We weren’t snooping,” I say.
“Well, we were, but who doesn’t love a wedding?” Rani admits. “Amazing hat, by the way.”
“Actually, I’m really glad you are here. Saves me looking for you,” Lady B says, lowering her voice. “There’s been a bit of
a . . . wardrobe malfunction.”
“How?” Rani asks, eyes wide.
“It seems there was a bit of, how shall I put this, a kerfuffle. Someone inadvertently trod on the train of the bridal gown
and it tore, right down the middle. After which there was something of an . . . altercation and, long story short, now the
gown’s got quite a lot of blood in it right down the French lace beaded bodice. You know how lips bleed. Once they start they
never stop, so . . . here we are.”
“Blood?” I say a bit too loud. Lady B drags us farther into the shadows and out of sight of Sid and Lord B.
“Well, I thought, I bet our resident fashion guru can help. Let’s hope Rani isn’t too far away, and here you are. Right where
I found you.”
“Me?” Rani asks. “But that’s Jessica Caltraine. She’s a proper fashion guru. And I read online that she’s wearing a custom
Cynthia Raven dress. I know that there’s no way Cynthia would let Jessica get married without her being in the room. I mean,
you get Jessica photographed wearing something you’ve designed, then you’re made. Next stop, some royal wedding and the Oscars.”
“Yesss . . . Except that it does rather seem that’s who the blood originated from,” Lady B says. “After the mother of the
bride got a little . . . heated. If you could just look, Rani, we’d be so grateful. I know it’s a lot to ask but . . .”
Rani is already at the top of the stairs.
The bridal suite is truly stunning, even if it does look like the aftermath of a barroom brawl. There’s a woman who, judging
by Lady B’s description, must be this Cynthia Raven, as she’s holding an ice pack to her lip and typing furiously into her
phone. The bridesmaids have all been banished to the hallway outside, where they are quietly whispering amongst themselves.
The only other people in the room are the bride’s mother, who is still wearing a hat that looks like it’s had the feather
torn out of it with brute force, and Jessica herself, who’s standing in front of a full-length mirror scrubbing at her bodice
with a flannel.
“What a fucking shit show. Whose mother takes up boxing on the actual day of her daughter’s wedding.” Jessica looks up as
we enter the room. “Who are these two?”
“That’s Ava Green. She’s a genius. And this is Rani Shah,” Lady B explains. “Rani’s business centres around bringing vintage
pieces back to life. If anyone can solve this issue, it’s Rani.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” Jessica says, clicking her fingers to recall a memory, as Rani takes a look at the dress. “Rani’s
Retros, or something, right?”
“Yes!” Rani says. “Yes, that’s me. Us, I mean me and my staff.”
“I was thinking of reaching out to you for my next premiere.”
“Oh well,” Rani says. “Make sure you give me plenty of notice. I am in demand.”
“Well, get closer,” Jessica instructs her. “What’s the verdict?”
Crouching down, Rani examines the long tear in the gauze train, frowning deeply. Getting up, she peers at the still spreading
red stain on the bodice.
“I’m going to level with you,” she tells Jess.
“This can be fixed, but not today. The train needs a completely new panel and that”—she gestures at the stain—“that needs a couple of days of treatment to lift it without ruining the material. The best person to take care of it would be”—Rani looks towards Cynthia—“well, Cynthia, if you’re still talking. ”
“Are we still talking, Cynth?” Jess asks.
“’Course we are, darling,” Cynthia says through a thick lip. “Not so sure how I feel about your mother.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” Jessica tells Rani. “Well, it’s not like I’ve got a shortage of clothes. I’ll just have to find
something else to wear. Maybe that dress I bought for the honeymoon.”
“You can’t get married without a wedding dress,” Jess’s mum says. “Not after all this. Not after I colour-matched eight thousand
roses by hand.”
“I can, Mum,” Jessica says, gentle but firm. “I’m marrying Eamon, not this dress. I was never that into a big wedding anyway.
This was all for you. So, if you don’t mind, please just let me marry the man I love and then we can all get drunk.”
“I have a suggestion,” Rani says, putting her hand up like she’s in class.
“Go on.” Jessica nods.
“Well, it will take me about an hour to fetch it. But at my store I have the perfect 1952 Dior wedding gown, and”—she looks
Jess up and down—“it will fit you like a glove, almost as if it were made for you. Here”—she opens her phone and shows Jessica
a photo of the gown on a mannequin—“Ava knows I’ve had this gown for three years. People keep trying to buy it from me and
I have never been able to bring myself to part with it. Never found the person that is worthy of it. Until today, that is.”
Jessica takes the phone and stares at the dress, her face suffusing with delight.
“Jessica, I think maybe you and this gown are a match made in heaven,” Rani says.
“Oh Rani, it’s perfect,” Jessica says. “Classic, but original and vintage is so in.”
“And so much better for the planet,” Rani says.
“I love it and I love you!” Jess hugs Rani. “Yes! Please! Fetch it! I don’t care how much it costs, I adore it.” Jessica beckons
over her mum. “Mum, get me out of this meringue, no offence, Cynth.”
“None taken,” Cynth says.
“Apologise to Cynth for punching her, and then go and tell everyone the ceremony is delayed for two hours, got it? And Rani,
thank you.”
“Oh, just another typical day at Rani’s Retro,” Rani says.
“Cynthia, tell the magazine photographer we need a new set of pre-ceremony photos,” Jessica says, “and make sure Rani and
her friend are in all of them. You will both come to the wedding, won’t you?”
“We’d be so honoured,” Rani says.
“There’s just one thing.” Jessica looks at me. “Would you mind changing out of that Care Bear T-shirt?”