WHAT AM I THINKING?
This is stupid. A wedding in two months? Two months? I’ve been egged on by Cordelia’s superior attitude and now I’ve landed myself in a huge mess. It’s impossible to organize such a grand wedding in two months. Organizing an intimate wedding within two months would be stressful, but a society wedding for a few hundred people? Maybe with a super-experienced wedding planner, with the perfect suppliers on speed dial, all of whom happen to be available, but when we have to do everything ourselves? It can’t be done.
IT. CAN’T. BE. DONE.
“It can be done, I suppose. We have the venue and the church sorted,” Lady Meade says, once I’ve encouraged the foolish notion. “Dashwell Hall looks beautiful at Christmas. And the suppliers we’ve already booked will no doubt do their best to accommodate the new date. But we need to make quick decisions and send out the invitations immediately. I’ll call the stationers.”
“Am I the only one in the room who thinks Cordelia has lost her mind?” Tom says, prompting her to make a face at him. “Seriously, why don’t you just have the wedding next year?”
“Because I want to be married to the love of my life as soon as possible,” Cordelia replies, beaming up at Jonathan, then muttering, “and I won’t let Annabel win.”
Tom appeals to his father. “You must agree this is nonsense.”
“If your mother thinks it’s possible…” Lord Meade replies.
“Do you think everyone is going to be free on New Year’s Eve?” Tom adds. “What if the caterers and florists or whatever are already booked? Emily, you do events and stuff, right? Suppliers have dates booked in way in advance, don’t they?”
“Then they can change their schedules,” Cordelia says simply.
“Hmm, now that I think about it, Tom may have a point,” I say, pensive. “You may have to make some sacrifices.”
“Like what?” Cordelia asks, irritated. “I don’t want to make any sacrifices and I don’t see why I should.”
“Like what band you were thinking of booking, for example,” I stress, still smiling like a robot as though everything is under control. “It might be tricky for you to book them at such late notice.”
“What band did you want?” Tom asks.
“It’s a surprise,” she says, her eyes glinting at me, daring me to tell.
“Maybe you should have a think about a backup,” I suggest, reminding myself that I wasn’t letting her down. A good bridesmaid will go the extra mile but will also manage expectations. Especially ridiculous ones. “And,” I continue, remembering how she wanted to change the flooring at Dashwell Hall, “I’m not sure you’d have time for those interior changes you wanted.”
“Interior changes?” The marquess looks horrified. “Whatever do you mean?”
“My friend is in a band!” Jonathan blurts out, clicking his fingers. “We can ask them to play! They’re good, too. Very punk-rock style. Cool, right?”
Cordelia and her parents can’t hide their horror at the idea, and I seize upon the opportunity to do my job. This sort of thing, I can handle in my sleep.
“Such a cool idea,” I say enthusiastically, before letting my face drop, “although, if it was me, I probably wouldn’t want to play at your wedding.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because then I’d miss out on all the fun! You know,” I say casually, as though I haven’t thought about this before, “if you’re performing you’d have to set up and you couldn’t join in with any of the dancing. Your friend wouldn’t get to enjoy all the best bits. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—he’d probably love to play for you.”
“Hmm.” Jonathan looks thoughtful. “Maybe we shouldn’t ask him. I don’t want him to miss out on the actual wedding.”
“What a shame,” Lady Meade cuts in, giving me a grateful smile, while Tom smirks behind his mug. “I’m sure we’ll find another appropriate act to fill his shoes.”
“So we’ve decided, then?” the marquess says, glancing at his watch. “Two months it is?”
“We’ve decided,” Cordelia states. “What could be more glamorous than a New Year’s Eve wedding?”
“In that case, I think it’s appropriate we make our way to Dashwell,” he says. “Makes sense to be in the venue and work out how everything will go. Everyone able to come along this weekend?”
“Good idea,” Lady Meade agrees. “And, Emily, you must join us. You’ve never been to Dashwell, have you? You’d be very welcome.”
Everyone looks at me, so no one notices Cordelia’s shocked expression in reaction to the invitation. An invitation to the Meade stately home is like a dream, a position I never imagined I’d ever be in. Dashwell Hall is one of the most famous estates in the country and I’ve been offered a personal invitation to stay there.
But it also means being in the middle of nowhere, shut away in a big scary house with Lady Cordelia Swann.
There is no guarantee I’d get out alive.
“I’d love to come,” I hear myself say. “Thank you.”
“That’s decided, then,” the marquess says, clapping his hands together. “Tom, will you be joining us?”
“I can come Friday evening after work,” he says, then turns to me. “If you want, I can give you a lift. Jonathan and Cordelia have a two-seater.”
“That would be … oh, wait! I’ve just remembered it’s … uh … my friend’s birthday dinner on Friday evening. I can try to get out of it.”
It is actually my dad’s birthday dinner, but Emily’s parents are supposed to be in Australia. I can already hear the disappointment in my mum’s tone when I’ll have to call her to say I won’t be able to come. Even though it’s just me coming over for dinner with them, I know they’re both really looking forward to an evening together.
“No, you can’t miss your friend’s birthday celebration,” Lady Meade insists. “Why don’t you come on Saturday morning first thing, if that suits?”
“I can organize a taxi to pick you up from the station,” Cordelia says, watching Tom.
Before I know it, it’s all arranged. I’ll be joining the Swann family for a weekend in the country and, together, we’ll work out how to throw this wedding in two months.
What am I doing?
As soon as I get home, I schedule everything into my diary so that I won’t be neglecting any of my other clients, typing out everything I need to do and when. Thank goodness I don’t have another wedding on New Year’s Eve.
There’s an email waiting for me from a potential new client who’s getting married next year. I never like to say no to any bride, but I can’t imagine taking on anyone new at the moment. Even though her wedding is next autumn, I wouldn’t be able to fit in any introductions until after Cordelia’s wedding and that may not sit comfortably with her. I reply, explaining that unfortunately I’m not taking on any new clients as my schedule is full, and as I press send, I know that Cara would be proud of me saying no to someone.
You see? I can be sassy.
With my brain so busy, I know I’ll never sleep and I need sleep to get things done. I run myself a bath and force myself to leave my phone in the study. (FINE. Cupboard.) I need to have some time to myself, to close my eyes and relax, soaking in the hot, lavender-scented water.
After just a few minutes, I’m too hot and bored. I get out, guiltily letting out the water—such a waste, next time I’ll shower—and pull on an old T-shirt, brush my teeth, grab my phone, and get into bed. I try to sleep, but keep remembering things I need to do, sitting up and writing them down so I don’t forget them in the morning.
At around 1:00 A.M., my phone starts vibrating. I still haven’t managed to sleep. I reach over to grab it. When I see the messages are from Cordelia, I sit bolt upright and turn on the light.
Are you awake?
Hello?
Sophie, wake up!
I’m going to call if you don’t reply
Don’t make me call
I hate calling
Hi! I’m awake. All OK?
Hi, I need your help
Can you come meet me?
Now?
Yes
I’m serious
Is everything OK?
Everything is FINE
But I need your help with something
It’s bridesmaid stuff
It needs to be sorted now
Can you come?
Of course!
Thanks. I’ll send you the address
I’ll meet you there in half an hour
Wear dark clothing
Something you can run in
Why?
She doesn’t reply to my question, but a few seconds later sends an address in Kensington, then goes offline. I swing my legs out of bed and turn on the light, then search for a pair of black leggings and a black hoodie. I put on my trainers, grab my keys and my phone, and order an Uber.
Alarm bells are ringing. Why does she need me at one o’clock in the morning? Why do I need to wear dark clothing and why would I need to run? It sounds weird. Some kind of bridal exercise regime? But, then, why would I need to wear dark clothing?
I can’t say no, though. If I said no, she’d insist I’m fired. She’d be able to report to her mother that I had flatly refused to be there for her. And I wouldn’t be able to lie and say otherwise.
So here I am, hopping into an Uber in the early hours of the morning and speeding toward West London with no idea of what I’m getting myself into.
I arrive at the address and see her waiting for me, kitted out in dark clothes and scrolling through her phone. At least she’s here. I’d thought this might be some game in which she’d have been cackling away while sending those messages to me, then going back to sleep while I waited all night in the cold. But so far, so good.
“You’re late,” she says, as I thank the driver and climb out of the car. “I said half an hour.”
“It takes longer than that to get here from my place.”
“I don’t like it when people are late.”
“Won’t happen again.”
“Good.” She looks me up and down approvingly. “Let’s go, then.”
We walk along the quiet, elegant road, dimly lit by fancy streetlamps, the ones they have in old movies. A fox potters along ahead of us, ducking through the railings into the park next to the pavement. There are no lights on in the windows of any of the houses or boutiques. This is all very weird.
“What exactly are we doing here?” I ask tentatively, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” comes the irritated reply.
We walk round the corner until she comes to a sudden stop. “Here we are,” she announces, turning to face the wall that’s lining the pavement.
“Where?”
She nods at the brick wall. “Here.”
I look from her to the wall and back to her again, wondering if the stress of the wedding has caused her to lose her mind. “Um. OK?”
“Do you know the dress designer Melanie Kendall?”
“I’ve heard of her. Up-and-coming British designer. The Duchess of Sussex wore one of her gowns recently.”
“That’s the one. She’s designing Annabel’s dress.”
“Lady Annabel Porthouse?”
“Yes.” Cordelia nods bitterly. “That Annabel. Anyway, Melanie Kendall’s studio is the house just here, on the corner of the road we walked down. Number fifty-four.”
“OK?”
“Look, I don’t have long to find someone to design and create the perfect wedding dress.”
“I agree.”
“So, it’s of the utmost importance that I see Annabel’s dress designs. I need to know what style she’s going to be in. I want to make sure mine’s different from and much better than hers. I have to see the drawings.”
“Cordelia,” I say, a fear creeping into my mind, “why did we need to dress in dark clothing?”
“We’re going to break into Melanie Kendall’s studio and take pictures of the designs,” she says, her eyes wide with excitement. “We need to hop over this wall into the back garden.”
“You’re joking, right?” I laugh nervously, my throat closing. “This is a big joke. A big, mad joke.”
“It’s not like I can ask! No one’s going to let me or anyone else see them,” she says defensively. “Her dress will be eagerly anticipated by the press. Just like mine.”
“Cordelia, we can’t break into someone’s studio.”
“Imagine if my dress is shit compared to hers!” she cries, throwing her arms up in the air. “Imagine.”
“OK, I think the wedding stress has got a little bit on top of you,” I say gently. “You’re feeling overwhelmed with everything. We need to go home and have a little downtime.”
“Sophie, I’m perfectly calm,” she says, in, admittedly, a soft, collected manner. “You don’t understand. Annabel is my nemesis. Isn’t there someone who bullied you? Someone who made you feel really small?”
Yes, I can think of someone, Cordelia.
“Yes, of course, but I’m not going to—”
“Who made you feel like that?”
I can’t say it’s her, so I consider the next best person to fit the bill.
“Someone at school,” I admit, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. “That was ages ago. And, Cordelia, your wedding is about you and Jonathan! No one else. You can’t compare—”
“Tell me who the person was. Come on,” she says impatiently. “See this as bride-bridesmaid bonding or whatever.”
“It was a guy. Graham Slater.” I shrug, pretending his name doesn’t affect me still. “He laughed at me a lot. He wasn’t very nice.”
“He made you feel bad about yourself?”
“He made fun of me all the time in front of the rest of the class.”
She nods. “Was it your hair?”
“What? No!” My hand automatically flies up to my head. “Why would you assume it’s my hair?”
“No reason.”
There’s an awkward silence. I glare at her. “For your information, he took the piss out of me being a goody-goody,” I explain.
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Cordelia!”
“Look, we don’t have time to go into all these details, but Annabel is essentially my Graham Slater,” she tells me, exasperated. “Imagine if Graham’s parents were friends with your parents. Imagine if everything you ever did, Graham did better, then laughed in your face for being useless. Imagine if Graham pretended to be your friend and then betrayed and humiliated you. Imagine if Graham stole your wedding date.”
“What did Graham—I mean Annabel do to betray you?”
“The point is, take a moment to think about everything I’ve just said,” she says, brushing aside my question. “Do you understand why I need to make sure that my dress is nothing like hers?”
I sigh heavily. I still hate Graham Slater. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Then all I’m asking is that we sneak in, take a couple of pictures, and sneak out. No one will know we’ve been there. No harm done!”
“I said I get it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to help you break in. That’s a crime,” I say. “Cordelia, this is ridiculous. You’re talking about breaking the law!”
“Her studio isn’t alarmed,” she insists, turning to face the wall. “She doesn’t keep any materials there, none of the dresses.”
“How do you know the designs will be there?”
“Because Annabel had a meeting with her today. She posted it on her Instagram.” Cordelia rolls her eyes and puts on a posh, high-pitched drawl, I assume attempting to mimic Lady Annabel: “‘An amazing meeting drafting wedding-dress designs with my talented, inspirational friend Melanie! Can’t wait for you guys to see it! #blessed! #omg #weddingdress.’ Trust me, the designs are in there. I’ve worked with Melanie before and she’s not very tidy. Her drawings are all over her desk. The one for Annabel will be there.” She adds under her breath, “Traitor.”
“If you’ve worked with Melanie before, just ask her for a rough idea of Annabel’s dress.”
“No. First, she’ll have signed an NDA so won’t be able to discuss it. Second, she may tell Annabel I’ve asked and that would be mortifying.” Cordelia points at the wall. “This is the only way.”
“This is nuts. We can’t!”
“Why are you so afraid to take risks?”
“I’m not afraid to take risks!” I argue. “I’m afraid to go to prison!”
“Graham Slater might have been right about you, Sophie,” she says, looking disappointed. “Look at your life.”
“Why are you turning this on me? Don’t call me a sheep again, because I’m not,” I huff. “If I was, I’d follow you blindly over this wall, but here I am, standing my ground.”
“Your life revolves around you being a goody-goody.”
“This is stupid! I’m not burgling someone’s studio!”
“Always doing the right thing. Never breaking any rules. Playing it safe.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Something tells me you’re afraid.”
I brush a lock of hair behind my ear impatiently. Suddenly Daniel flashes into my brain, his stinging comments about my love of happy endings and lack of brazenness to pull off red hair echoing in my mind. Ugh.
“You’re afraid to get out there and take chances.” She sighs, tilting her head at me sympathetically as she twists the knife in further. “So you hide behind your brides, no eyes on you.”
“That’s not true,” I protest, glaring at her.
It’s a bit true, though. Isn’t it?
“Look, Sophie, I get that this is a big ask but it’s an important one.” She exhales, looking at me with such a sincere expression it makes me feel uncomfortable. “I need you. And you know how much it pains me to say that. I can’t do this alone. Help me. Please. Come on, prove Graham Slater wrong!”
Oh, my God, I can’t believe I’m considering this. She knows, too. She can see in my face that she’s wearing me down.
“Over this wall, we’re into her garden. And the wall isn’t very high,” she continues. “We pick the lock on her back door and that’s it! Her studio looks out onto the patio because she needs the light. I promise we’ll be in and out in a flash. We won’t touch anything.”
“What about cameras?” I ask, biting my lip. “What about alarms?”
“I told you, no alarms and no cameras. I’ve been here before.”
“And you scouted out the place in case you ever needed to break in?” I hiss.
“I’ve also checked and there are no cameras on this road either. Now, would you stop being such a wimp and help me work out how to get over this wall?” she barks. “We already know you’re going to do it, so let’s not delay the inevitable.”
She starts examining the bricks and I bury my head in my hands. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m going to be a criminal.”
“Hey, look!” She points to a dip in the wall. “Perfect foothold. Put one foot in there and use it to push yourself up.”
“Why do I have to go first?”
“Because I’m guessing you might be the one who needs someone to push them over,” she says, folding her arms. “Come on. I promise I’ll come after you. I doubt you can pick locks.”
“And you can?”
“Bloody hell, Sophie, we don’t have all night. I have a yoga class at five A.M.!”
“Oh, yes, wouldn’t want to ruin your zen,” I mutter bitterly, stepping toward the wall. “Nothing like a bit of breaking and entering to strengthen your spiritual core.”
I examine the bricks. Does everyone see me as this big, boring wimp? Was Graham Slater seriously right about me? Was he flaunting my flaws right from the start?
Daniel broke up with me because I’m not the sort of person to go rock-climbing. He broke up with me because I only like happy endings. I have no sense of adventure. I’m not spontaneous. An all-round goody-goody.
“Stop overthinking it,” Cordelia says, watching me curiously. “Just do it.”
Placing my left foot in the dip, I reach up to the top of the wall and attempt to haul myself up.
Fuck Graham Slater. Fuck Daniel. And fuck rock-climbing and its lame harnesses. I’m doing this all by myself. No ropes needed. In your stupid, smug, adventurous face, Daniel.
“Knew you had it in you!” Cordelia encourages. “Swing your leg over!”
“I’m trying!” I wheeze, my right leg flimsily stretching up as high as possible, my trainer scraping down the wall.
“Here you go,” Cordelia says, crouching and shoving her shoulder under my bum, then giving me a push.
My leg hooks over the top and I heave myself up until I’m lying flat, like a worm, along the wall.
“Great! Now, hop down,” she says, getting ready to follow me. “It’s not that big a drop.”
“This is so stupid,” I grumble, dropping my legs down the other side of the wall and attempting to lower myself gently toward the ground.
Unfortunately, my upper-arm strength is nonexistent and my fingers don’t have enough grip. They slip and I yelp as I fall, landing in some kind of bush before rolling off it onto the ground, landing with a thud.
“Ow!” I whimper.
A few moments later, Cordelia jumps from the wall, landing easily on her feet next to me, like Catwoman. She wipes her hands and puts them on her hips. “Are you OK?”
“No,” I whisper grumpily, getting to my feet and wiping the mud and leaves off my leggings. “Let’s get this over with.”
She gives me a salute and rushes to the back door, pulls hairpins out of her pocket, and slides them into the keyhole. There’s a gentle click and she opens the door. “Easy,” she says, grinning. “Right, in you go. I’ll wait here. By the way, you’ve still got leaves in your hair.”
“Wait, what? You’re not going in?”
“Course not,” she whispers, looking stunned. “That’s why I needed you here in the first place. I can’t be seen and I can’t have the photos on my phone. That’s evidence. You also have mud on your face. Seriously, how did you land so badly?”
“You said there were no cameras!”
“And there aren’t.” She sighs. “I don’t think. Also, we don’t know if someone’s working late or whatever. You never know. I can’t risk being seen inside. Imagine the scandal! Nobody cares about you, though. No offense, but you’re anonymous. You go in, get the pictures, then come back out. If anything happens, I can escape before anyone sees.”
“Are you joking?”
“That won’t happen! But just in case.” She gestures into the studio. “You’ve come this far, haven’t you? Look, if you do this, I’ll drop the Oasis thing, OK?”
I hesitate. “What about the tiara?”
“Fine! Forget the tiara.”
“And the peacocks? And swans?”
“Don’t push it,” she hisses. “Now get in there!”
Steeling myself, I grip my phone, ready on camera mode, then tiptoe into the room, heading toward the wide desk in front of me. Just as Cordelia said, there’s paper everywhere and there are scribbles all over it. Using the light on my phone, I scan the designs until I get to the one in the middle at the top of the pile. “Lady Annabel Porthouse” is written in swirly, arty letters at the top and there’s a rough sketch of a striking strapless, A-line satin dress with a long, dramatic train. I smile at the design. She’s going to look beautiful.
I lift my phone, check that the flash is on, and take the picture.
It’s done.
I creep out of the studio and Cordelia shuts the door carefully behind me. I give her the thumbs-up and she beams at me. Then we hurry across to the wall. She gives me a push up and this time I wait on top for her to climb up and jump back onto the road first. I don’t want to risk falling onto the pavement and breaking something. She supports me as I lower myself, then gestures for me to run, following her along the road and around the corner to where Joe is waiting with the car.
We jump in and he sighs. “I’m not going to ask any questions,” he says, and sets off.
“I can’t believe we did that!” I squeal, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I feel like I’ve got off a roller coaster.
“Can I see the picture?” Cordelia asks.
I bring it up and pass her the phone, my hands shaking.
“Ah,” she says happily, scrutinizing the design. “My dress won’t be like that at all. This is brilliant. I can relax.”
“I seriously cannot believe what I just did!” I exclaim, unable to sit still. “I’ve never done anything like that before!”
“You see?” Cordelia says, amused and irritated at how pumped I am. “Sometimes it’s fun to break the rules.”
From: Theodore@wecareaboutvintage.com
To: Sophie.Breeze@zapmail.co.uk
Subject: Re: Vintage wedding suitcases
Hi Sophie,
Thank you for your inquiry about our beautiful vintage suitcases.
We have several available for rent. How many was the bride after? And is she planning on putting anything in them?
Many thanks,
Theodore
We Care About Vintage! The Only Retailer That Really Cares About Vintage
From: Sophie.Breeze@zapmail.co.uk
To: Theodore@wecareaboutvintage.com
Subject: Re: re: Vintage wedding suitcases
Hi Theodore,
Thanks so much for getting back to me. Great news!
The bride was hoping for four or five in different sizes, if that’s available?
No, she’s not planning on actually using them—the theme of the wedding is “The Roaring 20s” and she’s having a vintage travel display, so I think she wants to stack them up next to the table plan with an old globe balanced on the top.
They would be purely for decorative purposes. Is that OK?
Best wishes,
Sophie
From: Theodore@wecareaboutvintage.com
To: Sophie.Breeze@zapmail.co.uk
Subject: Re: re: re: Vintage wedding suitcases
Hi Sophie,
We can provide those suitcases, no problem.
Please let us know which ones you would like from our website.
Many thanks,
Theodore
We Care About Vintage! The Only Retailer That Really Cares About Vintage
From: Sophie.Breeze@zapmail.co.uk
To: Theodore@wecareaboutvintage.com
Subject: Re: re: re: re: Vintage wedding suitcases
Hi Theodore,
I’m a bit confused by your website as it doesn’t actually list the date that any of the suitcases are from?
I’m specifically after ones from the 1920s.
Best wishes,
Sophie
From: Theodore@wecareaboutvintage.com
To: Sophie.Breeze@zapmail.co.uk
Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: Vintage wedding suitcases
Hi Sophie,
Please find attached suitcases in the style of those from the 1920s.
Many thanks,
Theodore
We Care About Vintage! The Only Retailer That Really Cares About Vintage
From: Sophie.Breeze@zapmail.co.uk
To: Theodore@wecareaboutvintage.com
Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: re: Vintage wedding suitcases
Hi Theodore,
Thank you for sending me those pictures.
I’m a little confused when you say “in the style of”? Just to confirm your vintage suitcases are genuinely from the 1920s?
Best wishes,
Sophie
From: Theodore@wecareaboutvintage.com
To: Sophie.Breeze@zapmail.co.uk
Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Vintage wedding suitcases
Hi Sophie,
The vintage suitcases we provide are not from the 1920s, but in the style of 1920s suitcases.
Our customers tend to prefer a reliable vintage product. Real vintage items tend to be old and shabby. Not ideal.
To sum up, our suitcases are vintage in that they’re new, but they’re vintage, if that makes sense.
Many thanks,
Theodore
We Care About Vintage! The Only Retailer That Really Cares About Vintage