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Juanita giggled, pushing the picture closer to her friend. “I don’t mean the colour. Just the style.”
Juanita looked at the picture torn from a magazine. The Givenchy gown was beautiful. A fitted bodice, with a feathered skirt that fell to the floor, it was both elegant and timeless. “Yes, the style is lovely.”
“High praise from you, Miss Picky,” Juanita grinned.
“I’m not picky. Just … selective.”
Juanita slipped the picture back into the bright green folder she carried in her handbag at all times. “WEDDING” was emblazoned on the front, just in case she mistook it for any of her other bright green folders, bursting at the seams with ripped magazine pictures and printed Pinterest snaps. “Okay, bride stuff dealt with. Tell me what went down on Friday?”
Carrie shook her head. “Ancient history reared its head for a moment. But I’ve popped it back in the past, where it belongs.”
“Oh, no you don’t. Come on, Carrie. Give me the details!” Juanita leaned forward, her dark hair plaited to one side, her lips parted in excited expectation of the salacious gossip. “You know Tom and I are like an old married couple. I live vicariously through your sexploits.”
“Sexploits?” Carrie arched a perfectly shaped brow, and turned her face to her MacBook. Only a slight flush betrayed the hint of self-consciousness that was ripping through her.
“Uh uh, no way,” Juanita reached over and pushed the screen down. “You told me that if I dragged myself to your office, I’d get at least an hour of your time.”
“I’m sorry,” Carrie smiled in true apology. “We’re in the middle of looking around for some capital, and I have a meeting this afternoon with a possible investor.”
“Then tell me what happened with Gael Vivas and I’ll leave you in peace.”
Carrie shook her head; the smile on her face now felt sticky and fake. “Nothing happened.” Everything had happened. A night of impossible passion followed by a weekend of tortured memories and confusing doubts. Doubts about who she’d become and what she wanted in life had left Carrie with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Gael Vivas,” even saying his name made Carrie’s heart lurch painfully, “showed me that I was right all along about the kind of man he is.”
“And what kind of man is that?” Juanita leaned forward, her expression captivated.
“He’s…” She bit down on her lower lip, and then expelled an exasperated sigh. “He’s … ugh. He’s a superficial, sexy, shallow jerk.”
“Oh.” Juanita’s face fell. “What a shame. I was holding out hope it might have been love at second sight.”
Carrie pulled a face. “As if. He’s a pig, good for one thing, and one thing only.”
“I see.” Juanita leaned back in her chair, wondering if there was more to the story than her best friend was letting on. After all, Carrie didn’t blush. She didn’t evade questions. And she didn’t vent plasma type rages about men she’d slept with. Carrie was known for being cool as a cucumber. Juanita was one of the few people who knew there was more beneath the cold exterior Carrie had perfected. And apparently Gael Vivas had an idea, too.
“Stop looking at me like that, Bridey. Just because you’re loved up to the extreme, doesn’t mean I’m keen to jump on your ship.”
“But it’s awfully fun,” Juanita said with a wink. “You want to know what Tom and I did Friday night, after we left the ball?”
“I don’t know. Do I?” Carrie prompted, her tone droll.
Juanita leaned forward and lowered her voice, as though she was on the brink of revealing something incredibly personal. “We went home and,” she looked conspiratorially towards the closed office door, “put face masks on while we watched old episodes of Mr. Bean.”
Carrie burst out laughing, and shook her head, sending her short blonde hair flying like two pale wings around her face. “That’s tragic. You used to be the doyenne of the party scene. What happened to you?”
Juanita grinned. “I grew up.”
“God, we’re twenty three. Don’t we have a million years or so before we have to do that?”
“What can I say? I guess I had a head start on partying. You were a late bloomer.”
“So you think I’m making up for lost time?”
“It would explain your steadfast commitment to sensual hedonism,” Juanita observed, her manner suddenly serious. “You are happy, aren’t you, Carrie?”
Carrie responded in the way she had for years. “Of course I am.” It was automatic. A response that the question asker seemed to want, that was therefore easy to supply. “Never been better.”
“Good. Then we can stop talking about you and start thinking about exactly which shade of white I’d like for my dress.”
