She jumps in the shower, where her racing thoughts don’t give her a moment’s peace—the how, why and wherefores assaulting her from every angle. But by the time she steps back out, her overriding realization is that, twenty-four hours ago, every single one of the scenarios that are playing in HD and on surround-sound in her head weren’t even on her radar.
Sure that Jack is long gone, she pads over to his side of the bed and retrieves his wallet from the drawer. Knowing she can take her time to find any incriminating evidence to prove that he’s doing what she thinks he is, she carefully goes through the wad of receipts, placing each insignificant one facedown on the bed to ensure they stay in order. As she discovered last night, most of them are bills for innocuous items such as a meatball marinara from Subway, or a black-cab ride from Euston to Knightsbridge. But nestled in the middle of the stack is one so brash and loud that it literally takes Rachel’s breath away.
It’s not that, as a piece of paper, it stands out any more than the rest of them. It has no bright colors and doesn’t have bells on. But the words at the top send a bolt through Rachel’s chest that makes her whole body crumple. She stares at it—hard—waiting for the letters to change into something else, and when they don’t, hot tears sting her eyes, mercifully blurring her vision, but she already knows what’s there.
Tiffany & Co.
Her brain rushes to conjure up another retailer with the same name, that won’t mean that Jack’s spent two hundred and seventy pounds on a present for his mistress. But the words “silver heart” in the item description and accompanying barcode are hard to ignore.
She throws her hands on her head as she paces the room, unable to fend off the heat that is creeping around her neck, strangling her. She can’t do this; she needs some air.
Stepping out onto the balcony, she wonders how she can possibly hold it together. Seeing Noah, resplendent in a pale-linen suit on the terrace below, brings home the utter hopelessness of the situation, because whichever way she turns, there’s a reminder of the very deep shit she’s in.
As if sensing she’s there, he looks up and smiles, holding a glass of champagne to her. “Do you want me to bring one up?” he asks.
She shakes her head vehemently, strands of wet hair slapping her across the face. Pulling the towel tighter around her body, she steps back into the room, forcing herself to think. She can’t throw herself into the torturous brouhaha that now seems inevitable, especially when she knows she has little chance of coming out unscathed.
She could lock herself in her room and refuse to come out. She could feign illness, say she must have eaten something off. Christ, the way she’s feeling right now, she could even go to the airport and get herself a flight home.
Though, while that might remove her from the here and now, if she has any chance of saving her marriage, she needs to deal with all this head on. Because she can’t face a whole lifetime of living in limbo, breathlessly waiting for the tipping point to come.
Fifteen minutes later, she’s standing in front of the mirror with blow-dried hair, wearing a belted dress and wedges, though she can’t remember doing any of it. As she’s putting the final touches to her makeup, a text from Ali pings through on her phone.
Sorry, I need your help again!
What is she supposed to do? Ignore it and play right into Ali’s hands by showing her how much their last conversation has unnerved her? No; she refuses to give her what she wants.
“It’s me,” she says, knocking on Ali’s door a couple of minutes later.
It opens, but it’s not until it closes again that Rachel sees Ali standing behind it in her wedding dress. Her body is encased in a strapless bodice, barely containing her breasts, which seem to be two-thirds out, one-third in. White lace clings to the in-and-out of her waist and follows the curve of her hips. But as it skims her thighs, it loses the lining that has kept her skin from view, revealing her toned and bronzed legs beneath the sheer fabric.
“Well, what do you think?” asks Ali, her voice breaking with emotion. “Honestly.”
“Your hair looks lovely,” says Rachel.
“But you hate the dress,” says Ali, on the verge of tears. “I must have put on a few pounds since the last fitting because these weren’t so…” She eyes her breasts like an enemy. “And my arse wasn’t so…”
Rachel has a straight choice. Get this day over and done with by making the least amount of fuss possible, or railroad into it, starting here and now, until not a semblance of the happy event is left. Though, even as she’s thinking it, she knows she would have done the latter before now, if that was the kind of person she was.
“Your dress is…” she says, trying to find the words. “It’s stunning … you look stunning.”
“You’re not just saying that?” asks Ali, sticking her bottom lip out the way she does. “You really think Will will like it?”
“Is that who it’s for?” asks Rachel, unable to stop herself.
Ali laughs nervously. “Who else do I need to impress?”
Rachel takes a deep breath, unable to decipher how long her pride is going to let her hang out to dry for. “Primarily, you should be doing this for yourself,” she says, swallowing the litany of barbs that so readily leaps to her lips. “He’ll adore it, but he adores you more, so you need to be happy first and foremost.”
Ali looks down at herself. “I never imagined I’d ever wear a dress like this.” She dabs at the tears falling onto her cheeks with the back of her hand. “God, I swore I wouldn’t get upset.”
Rachel wouldn’t have expected anything less. She has no doubt that histrionics will follow her around for the entire day.
“You’re bound to feel emotional,” says Rachel. “It’s a big moment.”
“You don’t understand,” says Ali, fluttering her hands in front of her eyes in a futile attempt to stop crying. “I just can’t believe I’m here. About to get married. In this dress.”
Rachel smiles tightly.
“Listen, I need to tell you something,” says Ali, picking Rachel’s hands up and holding them in hers.
It’s as if Rachel’s heart has stopped pumping. Is she really going to do this now? Here, as she’s standing in her wedding dress?
“What is it?” she asks shakily.
“It’s really important to me that you know…”
“Yes?” If this is going to happen, she wants it over and done with as quickly as possible. She knows the pain won’t be any lesser, but it will allow her to start rebuilding the rest of her life, whatever that’s going to look like, because, as crazy as it sounds, it feels like she’s been stuck in this state of limbo forever.
Ali looks down at the floor, and Rachel wants to slap her, to make her hurry up, if nothing else. “I just need you to know that, whatever happens, I want us to promise that we’ll always be friends.”
Rachel’s lips stick to her gums as she forces a smile. “What could possibly happen that would mean that we wouldn’t be?”
“You know how families can be,” says Ali. “Brothers fall out, people mess up. But you’ve been so kind to me since I’ve been seeing Will, and I want you to know that I’ll be forever grateful for that. I’ll always be here for you in return, no matter what.”
Ali pulls Rachel in for a hug, throwing her arms around her and holding on, as if her life depends on it. “Thank you,” she says, pulling away with tears in her eyes. “Oh, bloody hell, I’m going to cry again.”
Rachel looks at the woman standing in front of her, like really looks at her, as if she’s trying to get a glimpse into her soul, to see if what she’s saying is heartfelt. But Ali’s fixed smile thwarts any attempt to see what’s behind it, leaving Rachel to surmise that it’s probably all a crock of shit.
“Anyway, we should probably get going,” says Ali, turning away. “Can you just do the top buttons on this corset? It’s barely letting me breathe, let alone reach around to do it up.”
Rachel hooks the silk loops over the three buttons and smooths down any errant fabric. “You’re good to go,” she says.
Ali steps into a pair of peep-toe stilettos, the lace of which matches her dress, and picks up the posy of fuchsia bougainvillea and white clematis from the chair.