I give him my “I seriously need to get drunk” signal, and head downstairs to meet Angel.
This should be fun. And when I say “fun,” I mean incredibly uncomfortable, with just a touch of impending doom.
Angel twirls in what must be her twelfth dress. They all look amazing on her; it’s annoying as hell. I’ve given up trying to pick a favorite. The camera crews shoot her from all angles and sometimes the producer gets her to do specific poses. I don’t know much about television production, but I smell a montage.
I refill my champagnes glass and sigh. This is so screwed up on so many levels, it’s making my head pound. Helping Angel pick out the dress she’s going to wear to marry the man of my dreams is messing with me, big-time. And yet, because she’s such a lovely person, I’m torn between hating her guts and loving her like the sister I never had.
Is it any wonder I’m well on my way to being stinking drunk?
“I think I like this one the best,” Angel says as she studies herself in the mirror and sways in blush-colored chiffon. She’s a little drunk, too.
“That’s what you’ve said about the last ten dresses, princess.”
“And it’s been true every time.” She turns to the sales assistant. “How much is this one?”
The dark-haired woman gives her an almost-warm smile. “It’s a little more than the others you’ve been looking at. This one’s a hundred thousand, Miss Bell.”
“The fuck?” Everyone looks at me, and I’m a little surprised to have said that out loud. I wave my hand and laugh. “Sorry. Just . . . wow. Lotta money. I could buy a whole lotta cheese with that. Hell, an entire cheese factory.”
“We don’t pretend our gowns are cheap,” the snooty assistant says. “But the women who shop here want something extraordinary for their big day, and they’re willing to pay for it. I’m sure when you get to this point, you might view it as a worthwhile investment.”
I take another mouthful of champagne. I’m betting I’m never going to think a hundred grand for a dress you wear once is a worthwhile investment. Besides, at this point, I doubt I’ll ever need a gown. I’m twenty-five and single with zero prospects on the horizon. Oh, and did I mention that the love of my life is marrying someone else?
Weddings in general can bite me. This wedding in particular can die in a fire.
I down the rest of my champagne in two mouthfuls and stagger over to the racks of dresses. There’s got to be something that Angel looks terrible in, and goddammit, I aim to find it.
“I’m filling up your glass, okay?” Angel says, and her words are starting to slur. When I glance over at her, she’s drinking straight from the bottle and trying to hide it from the disapproving sales assistant. It makes me giggle. Why can’t she be a bitch so I can hate her? Stupid likable woman.
I push through the dresses, and to my dismay, they’re all gorgeous. I’m about to give up when a flash of pale green catches my eye. I pull out the dress to get a better look.
Oh, my God.
It’s one of the most hideous dresses I’ve ever seen. The color is the least of its problems. The green by itself wouldn’t look too bad, but the designer has clearly tried to make this dress into a couture version of The Secret Garden. There are flowers of all colors and styles stitched onto the bodice, and farther down on the skirt, there are even butterflies, bees, and dragonflies.
What the hell were they thinking? Any bride who wore this would be a laughingstock.
“Oh, Angeeel!”
She totters over. “You have something for me to try?”
I hold the dress out to her. “What do you think?”
She looks it over, then squints at something on the skirt. “Wait, is that . . . is that a frog?”
I look down. “Oh, wow. It so is. This dress is perfect!”
Angel shrugs and takes it from me. “If you like it, I’ll try it. The color’s really pretty.”
She disappears with the assistant into the dressing room, so I take my seat again and grab my champagne. If I just keep drinking, I can ignore my growing sense of guilt. One of the cameras hovers around me as if to say, “I see what you’re doing. Every petty, bitchy move.”
I want to swat it like a fly.
Angel emerges in the nightmare dress, and I almost cry with relief that finally, she looks bad in something. Well, that’s not true. She still looks perfect, but that dress is diabolical.
She tilts her head and studies it. “Hmmm. I don’t know. Do you think it’s too much?”
“No way,” I say. “It’s unbelievable! Just so . . . unique. No one has ever had a dress like this. People will be talking about it for months.”
That’s true. That dress will hit every single worst-dressed list known to man. Possibly more.
Angel twirls and giggles. The camera follows her.
I pour myself more champagne and drink away my feelings.