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She shakes her head. “I love my job and I want to see how far I can go in this career...at least for now.”
I feel an unlikely kindship with Sherilee. What women want is always open for criticism, and even when we try to conform, when we try our damnedest to be what someone wants...it’s never enough. “But isn’t your biological clock ticking?” I say with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“Don’t even get me started!” She snorts. “And seriously, I think the dress-up Jack and Jill party will be super fun. Don’t let the best man bully you into doing something else.”
At that moment, the curtain parts and Presley walks out of the dressing room and into the middle of the couture dress shop. It’s all I can do not to let my jaw hit the floor. Presley and I have exactly the same body—tall and slim, all arms and legs without much to speak of in the boobage area. Yet this dress has transformed her into curves and sweeping lines. The strapless bodice moulds to her figure, drawing her waist in and flaring out over her hips so she looks like a perfect hourglass.
She’s so beautiful I know our mother will cry buckets on the day. But then I’m struck by something deeper, something intense and...painful.
The dress looks identical to the one I tried on three months ago. I did it on a whim, while shopping in London. Vas and I were due to have dinner that night at some hoity-toity place in Mayfair and I had a feeling he might propose. So I’d ducked into a bridal shop and slipped myself into a dress exactly like this—giddy with excitement and so in love I couldn’t see the red flags through my thick rose-tinted glasses.
Suddenly, it all comes crashing down. The breakup and my heartache, the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing with my life and seeing Presley—which is like looking at myself—all dressed up for her wedding...
There’s a lump in my throat. Tears prick the backs of my eyes and when Presley sees me, her face crumples. But I willnotlet any of my shit ruin her day. So I pretend it’s nothing more than sisterly admiration.
“You looksobeautiful, Pres,” I say. And it’s true—she’s majestic. So perfect I wonder how she even exists. “Mike is going to be bowled over when he sees you.”
She rushes over and wraps her arms around me, despite the cries from the dressmaker about crushing the fabric. Presley smells like vanilla cupcakes and a spring garden, as she always does. I hold her tight, blinking back tears and pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“You okay?” she whispers. “It’s not like you to get all emotional.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I was...taken aback. The dress is perfect.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
We hold each other tight for another minute, and when we break apart there isn’t a dry eye in the room. No matter what happens in my life, I’m grateful to have Presley. Even if she manages to be everything I desperately want to be.
An hour later we all bundle outside to go for cocktails and make important decisions around bridal accessories and hairstyles. I pull away for a moment and bring up my email on my phone. There’s another email from Giant Pain in the Ass. Or rather, his assistant.
To: Melanie D. Richardson
From: Francis Albright on behalf of Flynn Lewis
Subject: Lewis-Richardson wedding: Jack and Jill Party
Dear Ms. Richardson,
My name is Francis Albright, and I’m Mr. Lewis’s executive assistant. I’ve stepped in to assist with the organisation of this event. To save further delays, I have gone ahead and booked the venue for the Jack and Jill party (please see a record of the booking with all pertinent details attached).
A theme of “black and white with a touch of gold” has been selected and the venue will be decorated accordingly. Email invites are currently being designed and will be distributed next week according to the list you compiled. A sample menu, music list and schedule are attached. At this stage, nothing further is required on your end.
If you have any questions, please contact me rather than Mr. Lewis.
Kind regards,
Francis Albright
That motherfucker! Not only did he palm me off on his assistant, but they went and organised the whole event without me.Andignored everything that I put forward to ensure the event was what Presley would want it to be.
If I were a cartoon character, steam would be shooting out of my ears right now. I’m livid. Beyond livid.
But here’s the thingMr. Lewisdoesn’t know about me: when someone decides to play dirty, I’m more than happy to change my tactics and respond in kind. This is no longer event organisation: it’s war.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Flynn
