Rushing into the bedroom, I shove my clothes into my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“I hope everything’s OK!” Carolyn says, full of concern as I race out of the front door. “Careful with the costume!”
Ignoring the strange looks, the pointing, the laughing, and someone yelling, “Run, Chewie, run!,” I leg it down Holland Park Avenue toward Notting Hill.
Pausing to catch my breath at a street corner, I pull off the mask and take the turn according to the map, Chewie’s head now tucked under my arm. I reach Cordelia’s pin location, huffing and puffing,with a whole new respect for those who choose to run marathons in costume. Without looking up to see what establishment I’m entering, I push open the door and step into a posh boutique.
Cordelia is sitting in a plush velvet chair holding a floral china cup and saucer while a shop assistant holds up what looks like a blush pink satin bridesmaid dress. They turn their heads to look at me as I burst through the door.
“Oh, my God!” Cordelia gasps, her mouth dropping open.
The shop assistant looks horrified and begins apologizing to her, “I’m so sorry, Lady Cordelia, how embarrassing,” and starts shooing me out. “This is a private appointment!”
“Wait!” Cordelia says, before she can kick me out onto the street. “That’s my bridesmaid!”
The assistant freezes, staring at me, unsure what to do. She’s at risk now of having insulted Lady Cordelia’s friend, but I’m not sure she can quite bring herself to welcome a Wookiee into the shop.
Cordelia is cackling loudly now. She stands up, walking over and pointing at my costume. “W-what are youwearing?” she manages, between bursts of uncontrollable laughter. “You look like Bigfoot!”
“You said it was an emergency!” I cry, my cheeks burning, sweaty strands of hair plastered across my forehead.
She shrieks with laughter, bent double, having the time of her bloody life. “Why are you dressing up as a yeti?”
“I’m not a yeti. I’m Chewbacca,” I explain, holding up the head for her to see properly.
“What’s a Chew-barka?” she asks, sniggering.
“It’s not Chewbarka,” I correct grumpily, exaggerating her posh pronunciation. “Chewbacca!”
“FromStar Wars,” the shop assistant notes.
“Correct. Thank you,” I say politely, and round furiously on Cordelia. “You sent me those messages saying it was an emergency and you needed me straightaway! I was in the middle oftrying on a bridesmaid outfit in Holland Park for aStar Wars–themed wedding! Hence my current state.”
“Did you run here? Wearing that?” Cordelia wipes the tears from her cheeks. “So many people must have seen you! This ishilarious!”
“Cordelia!” I practically yell. “You said it was an emergency! I thought there was a crisis!”
“There is a crisis,” she says defensively, the shop assistant nodding in agreement. “Show her, Beryl.”
Beryl clacks away from us across the wooden flooring and selects two gowns from the rail, one in navy blue and the other in blush pink, the one I saw when I rushed in. She returns, holding them up, one in each hand.
“I love this style,” Cordelia explains, stroking the satin material. “I think it would suit your figure nicely. But they only have it in these two colors and it doesn’t go with the theme. The navy isn’t quite right and you know I’m not one for blush pink. I’m thinking a deep, rich red, you know, to go with the flowers and the time of year. What do you think?”
I stare at her. “This was theemergency?”
“I didn’t expect you to run here dressed as Bigfoot,” she says. “Although I have to say I’m very impressed with your dedication to me as a bridesmaid.”
“Yes,” Beryl says, nodding, still holding the dresses. “It’s very sweet. Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water?”
“Thank you, Beryl.” I wheeze, clutching the stitch in my side. “That would be lovely.”
She places the dresses back on the rail and scampers through a door at the back of the shop.
Cordelia starts giggling again.
“It’s not funny,” I tell her. “I was really worried! I thought something bad might have happened!”
“Why didn’t you call?”
