“Turn right here. There’s three-hour free parking in that centre.” I direct Isabella to a low parking structure positioned atop a supermarket on the left.
We go around the car park twice before we get lucky and chance upon some shoppers returning to their vehicle. They have two kids and lots of groceries but Isabella follows them and waits patiently till they’ve loaded up everything and returned their shopping trolley.
“You guys can get out here,” Isabella suggests. “The spaces are pretty tight so it might be hard to get out later.”
I grit my teeth in annoyance. She’s right of course. It would be difficult to exit the Mini Cooper once we’re wedged between other cars but I would’ve rather figured it out for myself than have Isabella tell me.
Ugh. This is so not going to work—it was so much easier to like her while she was away and Keats wasn’t so actively plotting to get her back. Now everything she does just rubs me the wrong way, and I’m finally mature enough to realise it’s not always her fault. That I have issues and a huge, persistent chip on my shoulder.
Isabella balks at the entrance of the first formal wear outlet store we reach, an unsure expression on her face. She’s just spent thousands of dollars buying my dream wedding gown which doesn’t fit her, and she seems uncertain about getting our dresses from here.
“They might have something for Fiona,” I whisper to her, looking over my shoulder to where our ex-classmate is trailing behind everyone else, all sweat-covered and out of breath.
Isabella nods, puts on a brave smile and enters the store. She goes straight to the sales assistant and asks which styles they had from size 16 to size 24. Apparently, all the styles could be made to order to any size, but there are only three gowns in the store right now in Fiona’s size.
“Okay, everyone. Go nuts. Choose something you like and let’s see which one suits everyone best. No pink, white, black, patterned or multi-coloured,” Isabella reminds us, unable to hand over complete control.
My feet take me to the pink rack. I can’t help it. Dad bought unisex clothes so that whatever I outgrew, I could hand down to my brother. What can I say? As soon as I could buy my own things, I headed straight for the girliest clothes I could find, and I haven’t stopped since.
Maybe if I choose something fuchsia, it will be reddish enough for Isabella.
I take five dresses in various shades of pink into the change stall, passing by Mia who is carrying a loose-fitting maxi dress so dark blue it almost looks black.
“Hey, Jess. Help me with the zip?” Penny says, opening her change stall and turning her back to me. She’s trying to fit her breasts in a knee-length, light cream chiffon dress with short sleeves and a square neckline.
“You guys ready to show me yet?” Isabella calls to us a minute later.
The latches on the other stalls click as I’m pulling up the zip on my back. I rush out and find Isabella standing in front of the row of change stalls with a sales assistant who seems to have realised we mean business. I stand between Mia and Penny while the bride inspects us with a little frown between her brows.
“Those look black, pink, and white,” she says, voice flat with disappointment. Fiona seems to be the only one not in trouble with Isabella in a deep red, sleeveless maxi dress that is empire cut from the boobs down. It has some bling detail between the breast cups and lining the heart-shaped neckline. “That’s…nice, Fiona. What do you think?”
Isabella has always been a terrible liar. The gown looks like a fucking tent but at least it fits Fiona.
“It’s comfy,” Fiona says while beads of sweat form on her forehead.
The sales clerk’s smile wavers like she’s worried our friend would leave sweat stains on her discounted, but still-expensive, dresses.
“Have you got any more to try on?” Isabella sounds hopeful.
“There’s that royal blue one…” Fiona wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, then points to a gown on a mannequin on the far wall.
Isabella nods, a brave expression on her face. I can tell she feels bad for Fiona who looks ready to have a heart attack or cry. Or cry while having a heart attack.
“Well, maybe you can sit here and wait for everyone else to try on that dress. Let’s see what you look like all together as a group.” Isabella asks the sales assistant for an extra chair for Fiona, then looks at us with a silent tip of her head towards the red rack. “You can try the blue one after.”
Obediently, we get the red dress in our sizes and hurry into the change stalls. We’re not sure how much more shopping Fiona can handle. Disappointed, I peel the fuchsia dress off me, and pull the red gown on. I catch a glimpse of myself in the stall mirror. Even with the warm lighting of the shop, the shade makes me look washed out. And God, I look saggy in this—a saggy-boobed corpse. Perfect.
Wouldn’t it just be fan-fucking-tastic if Isabella bought my dream wedding dress and the worst possible bridesmaid dress ever on the same day?
I step out of the stall, ready for inspection. Penny is already out and pulling on the neckline of her dress. Mia looks bored, but otherwise indifferent. Fiona hauls herself out of the chair to stand next to us.
I notice a gleam in Isabella’s eye but whether it’s from excitement or disappointment, I can’t quite tell. “Wow. It looks better when you’re all next to each other like that,” she gushes with a wavering smile.
Better than what?
“They’re gorgeous,” the sales assistant says inanely—like she’d say otherwise.
“They’re two hundred and fifty bucks each—on sale,” I point out after inspecting the tag, hoping to put Isabella off buying
