Chapter 38
PIP
“Wait! Wait!” Zaza stops me just as I reach for the door of Elegant Bride on Madison Avenue. “I need to chronicle this moment. Let me take a picture of you posing next to the window display with the gowns.”
Piglet, snuggling in the crook of my arm, lets out a tiny yip.
“She’s not a real bride,” Keesha says, plucking Piglet from my arms. “You have to stop reinforcing that, Zaza.”
“That’s enough out of you, Debbie Downer.”
Zaza raises her phone to snap my picture. “Pip’s a real bride until the end of the wedding rehearsal dinner tonight. After that, who knows? Anything can happen.”
I force a smile. Something about those words—it’s all an illusion—itches at the back of my mind.
We step into the salon, and the air changes. The space is bright, pristine, soaked in luxury, from the white leather sofas to the crystal chandeliers overhead.
The boutique smells of fresh roses and expensive fabric. I feel like an imposter walking onto a stage set for someone else’s life.
Near a large floral arrangement, I spot Kit and Clare deep in conversation.
“Pip! Right on time,” Clare says, then falters when she notices my friends trailing behind me.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I say. “My best friends couldn’t resist seeing me try on my wedding dress.”
“Of course.” She recovers quickly, though there's a flicker of hesitation in her perfectly curated smile. “But this isn’t your…” She stops, choosing her words more carefully. “Ah, well, never mind. They’re welcome.”
I catch the unspoken meaning. This isn’t your real wedding.
“As I was saying,” Clare continues, smoothing over the moment. “Your dress is in the fitting room. Kit will take the initial shots of you looking at it on the hanger.
“We've dismissed the media team—too intimate a space—but once you’re in the dress, Kit will photograph you here in the main room.”
“That’s fine.” My voice is steady, but an unease winds its way through me.
It’s all make-believe.
I don’t know why Keesha’s warning about Snickers last night echoes in my head now. But I push it aside and step into the fitting area.
A guide leads me to a spacious dressing room. As soon as I step inside, I gasp.
Hanging on a silk-padded hanger is the most beautiful wedding dress I’ve ever seen.
White satin, a sweetheart neckline, a perfectly tucked waist, and long, elegant sleeves. It practically breathes the name of Norman Hartnell, the legendary 1940s fashion designer.
For the briefest moment, everything falls away. This dress is a dream.
Click.
I turn. Kit is standing by the half-open door, camera raised, capturing my reaction.
“How did you know?” My voice comes out softer than I expect.
“This dress was on the cover of every fashion and movie fan magazine when Carole Landis wore it to her wedding in 1943,” I say, brushing my fingers over the fabric. “Possibly one of the most famous wedding dresses of the era.”
"Snickers said you’d like it," Kit murmurs.
My hand freezes mid-air.
Before, I might have been touched. Before, I might have smiled, imagining what it meant that Snickers somehow knew my taste better than Clare.
But now?
Now, I don’t know.
A cold weight settles in my stomach. Was this a genuine gesture? Or just another carefully orchestrated move to sell the Woodward & Co brand story?
I recall his odd behavior last night. The champagne, the kiss, the heat, and then, his sudden restraint?
Then his decision to keep things 'professional.'
Professional.
The word tastes bitter.
“Why would he?” I manage to say, keeping my voice neutral.
Kit opens her mouth like she might tell me. Then she just shrugs. “You’d have to ask him.”
I won’t.
Not because I don’t want to. But because I can’t trust whatever answer he’d give me.
The attendant steps into the fitting room, helping with the train. She carefully adjusts the length with pins, but otherwise, the dress fits as if it were made for me. A replica of history, immaculate in every way.
Alone for a moment, I turn to the mirror, and there she is—a bride staring back at me.
I should feel swept away. Enchanted.
But instead, I hear Keesha’s words again: It’s all make-believe, Pip.
When I step out into the main salon, Zaza and Keesha both squeal with delight as soon as they see me. Even Piglet lets out an approving yip.
“You do make a beautiful bride,” Clare concedes, watching as Kit captures me as a blushing bride in photo after photo.
But Clare's words ring clinical in my ears. Like she’s commenting on a successful branding decision rather than an actual person about to be married.
And of course, she's correct in doing so.
Clare nods approvingly. “At first, I disagreed with Snickers when he insisted on ‘letting your independence shine through’ by going with a vintage-inspired dress. But early market research suggests that followers admire this trait in you.”
I freeze.
Market research.
Nothing about this, not even the dress, has been left to chance.
I tell myself I don’t care. That I knew what I was signing up for.
Then why does a small, irrational part of me feel… disappointed?
“I’ll go change,” I say quickly.
“No need,” Clare replies, glancing at her watch. “The van is out front. The media team is already set up at Brooklyn Bridge, ready for the next shoot. Once we’re done, you’ll have time to rest before tonight’s wedding rehearsal dinner at The Plaza.”
I nod. “Okay. Sure.”
“Oh, and if your friends want to attend," Clare says, nodding at Keesha and Zaza, "they are welcome. We need extras to fill the seats.”
Extras. Like set decorations.
I swallow the thought and turn to my besties. “You hear that?” I muster as much enthusiasm as I can. “You’re in.”
They leap up and hug me.
“Take care of yourself,” Keesha murmurs in my ear before handing Piglet back to me.
I squeeze Piglet close.
And as I follow Clare and Kit out of the bridal salon, I feel a surge of excitement for the afternoon to come.