“So why didn’t Michael see it like that?”

“He wasn’t listening. All he could talk about was how I was ‘setting the wrong precedent.’ ”

“Well, maybe he has a point! I mean, surely you hire staff in order to work for you, not to send off to other companies—”

“This is a one-off example,” says Luke impatiently. “And in my opinion, the benefits to the company will far outweigh any costs.”

“Michael’s your partner! You should listen to him. You should trust him.”

“And he should trust me!” retorts Luke angrily. “There won’t be a problem with the investors. Believe me, when they see the publicity we’re going to generate, they’ll be more than happy. If Michael could just understand that, instead of quibbling over stupid details… Where is he, anyway?”

“Michael had to go,” I say — and see Luke’s face tighten in shock.

“He left? Oh, well. Great.”

“It wasn’t like that. He had to.” I sit down on the bed and take hold of Luke’s hand. “Luke, don’t fight with Michael. He’s been such a good friend. Come on, remember everything he’s done for you? Remember the speech he made on your birthday?”

I’m trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Luke doesn’t seem to notice. His face is taut and defensive and his shoulders are hunched up. He’s not going to listen to a word I say. I give an inward sigh and take a sip of champagne. I’ll just have to wait until a better time.

There’s silence for a few minutes — and after a while we both relax. It’s as though we’ve called a truce.

“I’d better go,” I say at last. “Suze doesn’t know anybody down there.”

“How long is she in New York for?” asks Luke, looking up.

“Just a few days.”

I look idly around the room. I’ve never been in Elinor’s bedroom before. It’s immaculate, like the rest of the place, with pale walls and lots of expensive-looking custom-made furniture.

“Hey, guess what,” I say, suddenly remembering. “Suze and I are going to choose a wedding dress tomorrow!”

Luke looks at me in surprise. “I thought you were going to wear your mother’s wedding dress.”

“Yes. Well.” I frown. “The thing is, there was this awful accident…”


And all I can say is thank God. Thank God for Suze and her well-aimed cup of coffee.

As we approach the window of Dream Dress on Madison Avenue the next morning, I suddenly realize what Mum was asking me to do. How could she want me to dress up in white frills, instead of one of these gorgeous, amazing, Oscar-winner creations? We open the door and silently look around the hushed showroom, with its champagne-colored carpet and painted trompe l’oeil clouds on the ceiling — and, hanging in gleaming, glittery, sheeny rows on two sides of the room, wedding dresses.

I can feel overexcitement rising through me like a fountain. Any minute I might giggle out loud.

“Rebecca!” Cynthia has spotted us and is coming forward with a beam. “I’m so glad you came. Welcome to Dream Dress, where our motto is—”

“Ooh, I bet I know!” interrupts Suze. “Is it ‘Live out your dream at Dream Dress’?”

“No. It’s not.” Cynthia smiles.

“Is it ‘Dreams come true at Dream Dress’?”

“No.” Cynthia’s smile tightens slightly. “It’s ‘We’ll find your Dream Dress.’”

“Oh, lovely!” Suze nods politely.

Cynthia ushers us into the hushed room and seats us on a cream sofa. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she says pleasantly. “Have a browse through some magazines meanwhile.” Suze and I grin excitedly at each other — then she reaches for Contemporary Bride, and I pick up Martha Stewart Weddings.

I adore Martha Stewart Weddings.

Secretly, I want to be Martha Stewart Weddings. I just want to crawl inside the pages with all those beautiful people getting married in Nantucket and South Carolina and riding to the chapel on horses and making their own place-card holders out of frosted russet apples.

I stare at a picture of a wholesome-looking couple standing in a poppy field against a staggeringly beautiful backdrop of mountains. You know, maybe we should get married in a poppy field too, and I could have barley twined round my hair and Luke could make us a loving seat with his own bare hands because his family has worked in wood crafting for six generations. Then we’d ride back to the house in an old country wagon—

“What’s ‘French white-glove service’?” says Suze, peering puzzledly at an ad.

“I dunno.” I look up dazedly. “Hey, Suze, look at this. Shall I make my own bouquet?”

“Do what?”

“Look!” I point to the page. “You can make your own flowers out of crepe paper for an imaginative and individual bouquet.”

“You? Make paper flowers?”

“I could!” I say, slightly nettled by her tone. “I’m a very creative person, you know.”

“And what if it rains?”

“It won’t rain—” I stop myself abruptly.

I was about to say, “It won’t rain in the Plaza.”

“I just… know it won’t rain,” I say instead, and quickly turn a page. “Ooh, look at those shoes!”

“Ladies! Let’s begin.” We both look up to see Cynthia coming back, a clipboard in her hand. She sits down on a small gilt chair and we both look at her attentively.

“Nothing in your life,” she says, “can prepare you for the experience of buying your wedding dress. You may think you know about buying clothes.” Cynthia gives a little smile and shakes her head. “Buying a wedding dress is different. We at Dream Dresses like to say, you don’t choose your dress…”

“Your dress chooses you?” suggests Suze.

“No,” says Cynthia with a flash of annoyance. “You don’t choose your dress,” she repeats, turning to me, “you meet your dress. You’ve met your man… now it’s time to meet your dress. And let me assure you, there is a dress waiting for you. It might be the first dress you try on.” Cynthia gestures to a halter-top sheath hanging up nearby. “It might be the twentieth. But when you put on the right dress… it’ll hit you here.” She clasps her solar plexus. “It’s like falling in love. You’ll know.”

“Really?” I look around, feeling tentacles of excitement. “How will I know?”

“Let’s just say… you’ll know.” She gives me a wise smile. “Have you had any ideas at all yet?”

“Well, obviously I’ve had a few thoughts…”

“Good! It’s always helpful if we can narrow the search down a little. So before we start, let me ask you a few basic questions.” She unscrews her pen. “Were you after something simple?”

“Absolutely,” I say, nodding my head. “Really simple and elegant. Or else quite elaborate,” I add, my eye catching sight of an amazing dress with roses cascading down the back.

“Right. So… simple or elaborate…” She scribbles on her notebook. “Did you want beading or embroidery?”

“Maybe.”

“OK… now. Sleeves or strapless?”

“Possibly strapless,” I say thoughtfully. “Or else sleeves.”

“Did you want a train?”

“Ooh, yes!”

“But you wouldn’t mind if you didn’t have a train, would you?” puts in Suze, who is leafing through Wedding Hair. “I mean, you could always have one of those really long veils for the procession.”

“That’s true. But I do like the idea of a train…” I stare at her, gripped by a sudden thought. “Hey, Suze, if I waited a couple of years to get married, your baby would be two — and it could hold my train up!”

“Oh!” Suze claps her hand over her mouth. “That would be so sweet! Except, what if it fell over? Or screamed?”

“I wouldn’t mind! And we could get it a really gorgeous little outfit…”

“If we could just get back to the subject…” Cynthia smiles at us and surveys her clipboard. “So we’re after something either simple or elaborate, with sleeves or strapless, possibly with beading and/or embroidery and either with a train or without.”

“Exactly!” My eye follows hers around the shop. “But you know, I’m quite flexible.”

“Right.” Cynthia stares at her notes silently for a few moments. “Right,” she says again. “Well, the only way you can know is by trying a few dresses on… so let’s get started!”


Why have I never done this before? Trying on wedding dresses is simply the most fun I’ve had ever, in my whole life. Cynthia shows me into a large fitting room with gold and white cherub wallpaper and a big mirror and gives me a lacy basque and high satin shoes to put on — and then her assistant brings in dresses in lots of five. I try on silk chiffon sheaths with low backs, ballerina dresses with tight bodices and layers of tulle, dresses made from duchesse satin and lace, starkly plain dresses with dramatic trains, simple dresses, glittery dresses…

“When you see the right one, you’ll know,” Cynthia keeps saying as the assistant heaves the hangers up onto the hooks. “Just… keep trying.”

“I will!” I say happily, as I step into a strapless dress with beaded lace and a swooshy skirt. I come outside and parade around in front of Suze.

“That’s fantastic!” she says. “Even better than the one with the little straps.”

“I know! But I still quite like that one with the lace sleeves off the shoulder…” I stare critically at myself. “How many have I tried on now?”

“That takes us up to… thirty-five,” says Cynthia, looking at her list.

“And how many have I marked so far as possibles?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Really?” I look up in surprise. “Which ones didn’t I like?”

“The two pink dresses and the coatdress.”

“Oh no, I still quite like the coatdress. Put it down as a possible.” I parade a bit more, then look around the shop, trying to see if there’s anything I haven’t looked at yet. I stop in front of a rail of baby flower-girls’ dresses and sigh, slightly more heavily than I meant to. “God, it’s tricky, isn’t it? I mean… one dress. One.”