The videographer startles me with his camera aimed at me. “Focus on the bride,” I say, thinking I won’t ask this guy to be part of Miz Peggy’s bridal services—talk about ruining a moment.
Isabella is having her make-up done, chatting with Penny, Mia and Sofie who are sitting around watching her. Mr and Mrs Harper are in matching armchairs on the other side of the room with nothing but adoration on their faces for their only child. Queen Isabella is truly queen for the day. Meanwhile, I am busy checking the schedule folder and clock to make sure we’re running on time. But the bride is so darn happy, it’s impossible not to catch myself smiling as I watch the buzz of Isabella’s wedding preparation.
“An hour and a half before we go to the church, Bels,” I remind her.
“Thanks, Jess.” She grins, totally relaxed. She and Mrs Harper stayed at the hotel overnight and she apparently slept well and soundly. She’s woken up this morning fresh-faced and cheery, and ready to get married. I thought brides were supposed to be more stressed on their Big Day. Instead, neurotic Isabella is the calmest I’ve seen her in a long time.
I unlock my mobile phone to sneak another peek at the new love of my life. I can’t help but smile.
“Stop perving at your new car,” Penny teases me.
I look up at her and smile. “But she’s so pretty!” I say, flashing her the screen of my phone.
I passed my driving test on Monday and bought my very first car on the same day. It’s a second hand, late model sedan in pink—and I am yet to experience buyer’s remorse. The colour may have swayed me, but I gave it a good, thorough check and test drive before I handed over my hard-earned cash.
The first place I drove her was my local pool. In the spirit of moving on post-Keats, I went for a swim every night this week. I might have been avoiding running into Keats who likes dropping by my place unannounced. Well, at least, he used to. I might’ve also been avoiding sitting at home and missing him, in case he didn’t show up. The fact I wore the rash shirt he gave me because it made me feel closer to him is my secret shame.
My phone beeps a reminder. I look down at the screen. “Dress time,” I inform the bride.
The hair and make-up people finish the final touches and release Isabella. That’s my cue to count out the right amount from her wallet to pay the hair and make-up women. I grab their business cards discreetly at the same time.
“I guess I can’t put it off any more,” Isabella says. “I hope I don’t get it too crinkled or stained before the church.” She disappears into the bathroom with a corset, special underwear and Penny. Sofie, who is tall enough to keep the hem off the floor, carries the wedding dress into the en suite.
“Isabella, come out when the zip is halfway up your back so we can capture your mum zipping you up,” the photographer calls to the bride.
She emerges from the bathroom five minutes later looking gorgeous in my dream dress—except for the frown between her brows. Penny and Sofie behind her are similarly grim-faced.
Mrs Harper walks up to her only child. “What’s wrong, Bella?”
“It won’t zip up.”
“When was the last time you tried it on?” her mother asks.
“Last week. It was worse but then I had a week left to get in it, so I thought I’d be fine.”
“Hang on to the bed post. Let’s tighten your corset,” Mia suggests. If our bridesmaids’ gowns had sleeves, she would’ve rolled them up for sure.
Isabella does what she’s told, looking like a nineteenth century woman with her arms around the wood while Mia yanks the strings of her control underwear.
“Breathe in,” she instructs then tugs so mightily on the straps that I fear she’d snap them or Isabella’s ribs. Quickly, Mia ties the strings of the corset, then tries the zip again. It starts moving, so the videographer and photographer get in position to capture the moment. Mrs Harper moves in and zips up the dress while Mr Harper puts on Isabella’s veil with a tear in his eye.
“Fantastic,” Isabella says with a lot of irony. “Don’t eat or breathe all day. Great plan.” She grins, too happy to care. “Okay, let’s get the rest of the photos done before the church.”
The photographer instructs her to put the buttonier on her dad’s lapel and a corsage on her mother’s respectable knee-length dress. After, Isabella has her photos taken by the window with her bouquet of white roses, then with her parents, sitting on the bed, followed by countless shots with all four bridesmaids.
“Okay, let’s go out to the balcony and get some shots there,” the photographer suggests.
We make our way to the door with the videographer and photographer in front so they can set up and find where to capture our images outside. The doorbell rings just as the photographer reaches the door. He opens it, and there stands Keats in his dashing groomsmen’s outfit. Tie, dark waistcoat and jacket over a predominantly red kilt, dark knee-high socks and leather lace up shoes.
It’s very annoying how he looks good in everything. The fact he hasn’t been in contact with me all week I’m sure is fuelling my annoyance. But what did I expect? Our only connection—Isabella—is out of the equation. Maybe I could’ve used passing my test to ring or text him. But I wasn’t sure he’d care. Besides, a big part of me is convinced I blew my chance by sharing my childhood with him, and making myself too sexually available.
I bite the inside of
