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I giggled when I saw Andy’s furious expression. He’d been pretending to be in a bad mood with me ever since the news of mine and Alex’s ‘engagement’ had broken.
“Y’all decided not to tell me,” said Andy, the wine sommelier, when I explained to him, “that you and the boss was dating?”
“I thought you might be mad,” I said.
“MAD? Honey, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that love comes from unexpected places. I just wish you’d told me, is all.”
And the amazing thing was, despite the news, and despite the short notice at which it had arrived in my life, people were happy for me. When I told Sara the news one evening and asked her to be my maid of honor, she squealed and practically jumped on me.
“Sara,” I said, “Wait a second. It isn’t real, okay? I don’tactuallylove Alex. It’s a fake marriage.”
“Honey,” she told me, while embracing me and kissing my cheeks, “I didn’t expect any less of you. All those fancy uptown weddings are fake anyhow.”
“No!” I groaned. “Not like that. I mean, I guess it is a little bit like that but…”
“You’re gonna be making some realdinerosoutta this one, huh?” she said, rubbing her fingers together.
“SARA!” I yelled, outraged. But we couldn’t help but laugh. But it hurt to be getting married to the man who’d left me without help so many years ago.
Of course, there were also upsides.
Our visit to the flower shop was like nothing I’d ever seen. Alex chose a fancy place up in the wide streets and green boulevards of uptown Manhattan. We walked among the rows of budding blossoms and gorgeous white roses and carnations with a helpful sales assistant dressed in a smart suit guiding us. She wandered around.
“And have you thought about the bouquet?” she said.
I practically froze. Of course, I hadn’t. If it had been my own wedding, my ‘real’ wedding, I’m sure I would have agonized about it, spent sleepless nights thinking about what flowers to have, in what arrangement, how big the bouquet would be. But in the department store, I blushed. I couldn’t say anything.
“She’d like something with white roses and white carnations,” suggested Alex.
“Um, no she wouldn’t, actually,” I said. “I’d prefer white chrysanthemums and lavender.”
“Oh,” said Alex, and nodded at the sales assistant. “Sure, we’ll do that,” he said.
Outside the store, I noticed he was scowling. “What?” I said.
“You made me look like an ass in there!” he growled.
“You made an ass of yourself,” I said. “White roses? In a bouquet? That’s pretty basic, Alex.”
“I don’t know whatanyof this means,” he admitted grumpily.
When we got to the dress store, it was even worse. Alex had brought me toAtelier Harmonique, a beautiful store in midtown, where they made bridal dresses for princesses and visiting dignitaries. It was astonishing. I’d never seen such rare and beautiful clothes. There were corsages made from 19th-century lace, beautiful skirts and blouses made from fabrics you just didn’t see anymore, like velour and crenalin.
“Hasmadamethought about the style of the dress she would like?” said the tailor, when we sat down together in his beautiful office. Dotted around the place were mannequins, and there were incredibly rare models ofhaute-couturedesigns hung on the walls, like pieces of art.
“Not really,” said Alex, but I cut in again.
“I’d like something pretty classic,” I said. “Maybe an A-line, with lace on the straps?”
The tailor nodded, smiling, and I saw him searching through photograph albums. He showed me a few pictures, and I nodded. We chatted for at least an hour. At the end, he had just one question.
“Are you wearing gold, or silver?” he said.
“Gold,” I said. “Isn’t that right, honey?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alex roll his eyes.
“Sure it is,” he moaned.
“I must congratulate you on marrying a woman of good taste,” the tailor said to Alex, as we left the store that afternoon, with Alex’s wallet $50,000 lighter than when he came in.
