Serena greeted us on the other side, wrapped in a white silk robe and pajamas that matched our own. Her hair was already swept off her neck and up into a set of massive pink rollers.
“Thank you, Minerva,” she murmured as she shut the door behind me and Georgie. At the click, Serena clapped her hands together, turning to us with a wide smile. “Who’s hungry?”
I opened my mouth, fully prepared to dive into it then and there, and was promptly interrupted by another knock. EvenGeorgiescowled. Serena apologized and opened the door again, ushering in three women dressed casually and dragging huge, purple roller cases.
They introduced themselves as the makeup artists. I rubbed my temples while they hurried by us, chattering quietly amongst themselves as they descended on the longest vanity I’d ever seen.
“Here, let me take your coats,” Serena said, practically pulling them off our shoulders.
I swatted her hands away and shrugged it off myself. “This is your wedding day, S. You’re not supposed to be lifting a finger.”
Georgie concurred with a nod, draping both our coats over the arm of a leather couch.
Serena blushed. “If you insist. There’s a carafe of coffee in the corner—extrasugar and creamer for you, Georgie—and under those silver lids you’ll find every breakfast food under the sun,” she said with a laugh and motioned to a table by a wide, arched window.
I already knew I’d need that entire carafe, and then some.
An hour later, I stuffed myself full of croque madame and brioche French toast, nursing my third mug of coffee as a spindly, vaguely French-sounding man worked on my hair. He was blessedly silent compared to Georgie’s stylist, a bubbly Southern girl who appeared to be competing for the title of her best friend. I sipped the hot, black liquid—a certain someonealready used up all the cream and sugar—wincing as the burnt flavor washed over my tongue.
Desperate times.
The bridal suite was thrummed with conversation of six strangers. My chest tightened while I studied Serena through the mirror. Anyone could tell she washappy—smiling, eyes shining, laughing at the tiniest things—by all accounts, she appeared to be a glowing bride.
Too bad I knew just how well she could fake it.
My stylist left as quickly as he came, covering my updo with a liberal dose of hairspray that smelled like jasmine and muttering something in French on the way out. Serena definitely would’ve taken the time to match us by personality—in which case, I wasn’t sure if I should be proud or offended.
I spun in my plush club chair and clinked a single nail against the ceramic of my mug. Serena’s makeup artist took a break after an exhaustive skin-prepping regimen. If I moved now, I could pull her into the corner. Georgie was still preoccupied, but it wasn’t as if she’d be leading the intervention, anyway.
My heart pounded as I stood and—
A knock on the door. I groaned and slapped my forehead, earning me a concerned glance from Georgie’s stylist.
Holding up a hand, I muttered, “I’ll get it,” to Serena. Maybe I could throw a curling iron at them or slam the door in their face and lock it.
The person on the other side was more effective than the disturbing amount of caffeine coursing through my veins.
“What are youdoinghere?” I snapped.
Teddy leaned against the doorway, an action which sent a waft of cologne straight to my already-muddled senses. He dipped his chin and murmured, “Did you forget I’m the wedding photographer?”
I did, actually. Not that I’d ever admit it.
“No, I mean—” I motioned spasmodically, nearly spilling my half-mug of coffee. “—here. In thebridalsuite.”
He held up his camera like I’d spontaneously grown a second head and started speaking a foreign language. “Serena specifically requested getting ready shots.”
I leaned my head against the door jamb, heard the distinct crunch of my smooshing updo, and jumped away. Teddy studied me with something between amusement and longing for a moment we didn’t have.
“We didn’t get to finish our conversation last night,” he said.
“Teddy,” a honeyed voice called from down the hall, followed by the swishing of a flowing black pantsuit. The woman that appeared at his right shoulder could’ve been mistaken for a model if she didn’t have a camera bag hung across her torso. “You just ran off without me,” she added, gaze dancing from him to me.
I gathered my wits quickly enough to stick my hand out. “Margot,” I muttered.
“I’m Ivy,” she replied, accepting my handshake with a blinding smile and unfairly soft palms. Blonde hair plaited down her back, unfathomably long legs, and a warm tan that suggested she’d come from somewhere tropical.
Thiswas the woman Teddy brought to Marigold’s funeral. The one I’d assumed was now hisex-girlfriend.
