“OK,” says Amy Forrester impatiently. “Whatever.”
I undo the zip a tiny bit more, then tug the tight-fitting dress up over her hips and right over her head.
Ha! She’s trapped! The stiff red fabric covers her face completely, but the rest of her is clad only in underwear and high heels. She looks like a Barbie doll crossed with a Christmas cracker.
“Hey. It’s gotten stuck.” She waves one of her arms fruitlessly, but it’s pinned to her head by the dress.
“Really?” I exclaim innocently. “Oh dear. They do that sometimes.”
“Well, get me out!” She takes a couple of steps, and I back away nervously in case she grabs my arm. I feel like I’m six years old and playing blindman’s bluff at a birthday party.
“Where are you?” comes a furious muffled voice. “Get me out!”
“I’m just… trying to…” Gingerly I give a little tug at the dress. “It’s really stuck,” I say apologetically. “Maybe if you bent over and wriggled…”
Come on, Laurel. Where are you? I open my fitting room and have a quick glance out, but nothing.
“OK! I’m getting somewhere!”
I look up and feel a plunge of dismay. Amy’s hand has appeared out of nowhere and somehow she’s managed to grasp the zip with two manicured nails. “Can you help me pull the zipper down?”
“Erm… I can try…”
I take hold of the zip and start pulling it in the opposite direction from the way she’s tugging.
“It’s stuck!” she says in frustration.
“I know! I’m trying to get it undone…”
“Wait a minute.” Her voice is suddenly suspicious. “Which way are you pulling?”
“Er… the same way as you…”
“Hi, Laurel,” I suddenly hear Christina saying in surprise. “Are you all right? Did you have an appointment?”
“No. But I think Becky has something for me—”
“Here!” I say, hurrying to the door and looking out. And there’s Laurel, cheeks flushed with animation, wearing her new Michael Kors skirt with a navy blue blazer, which looks completely wrong.
How many times have I told her? Honestly, I should do more spot-checks on my clients. Who knows what they’re all wearing out there?
“Here she is,” I say, nodding toward the Barbie-doll-Christmas-cracker hybrid, who is still trying to unzip the dress.
“It’s OK,” says Laurel, coming into the fitting room. “You can leave her to me.”
“What? Who’s that?” Amy’s head jerks up disorientedly. “Oh Jesus. No. Is that—”
“Yes,” says Laurel, closing the door. “It’s me.”
I stand in front of the door, trying to ignore the raised voices coming from my room. After a few minutes, Christina comes out of her room and looks at me.
“Becky, what’s going on?”
“Um… Laurel bumped into an acquaintance. I thought I’d give them some privacy.” A thumping sound comes from the room and I cough loudly. “I think they’re… chatting.”
“Chatting.” Christina gives me a hard look.
“Yes! Chatting!”
The door suddenly opens, and Laurel emerges, a bunch of keys in her hand.
“Becky, I’m going to need to pay a little visit to Amy’s apartment, and she’d like to stay here until I come back. Isn’t that right, Amy?”
I glance past Laurel into the fitting room. Amy is sitting in the corner in her underwear, minus the emerald pendant, looking completely shell-shocked. She nods silently.
As Laurel strides off, Christina gives me an incredulous look. “Becky—”
“So!” I say quickly to Amy, in my best Barneys employee manner. “While we’re waiting, would you care to try some more dresses?”
Forty minutes later, Laurel arrives back, her face alive with animation.
“Did you get the rest of it?” I say eagerly.
“I got it all.”
Christina, on the other side of the department, looks up, then looks away again. She’s said that the only way she can’t fire me for what just happened is not to know about it.
So we’re basically agreed, she doesn’t know about it.
“Here you are.” Laurel tosses the keys to Amy. “You can go now. Give my regards to Bill. He deserves you.”
As Amy totters, almost running, toward the escalator, Laurel puts an arm round me.
“Becky, you’re an angel,” she says warmly. “I can’t even begin to repay you. But whatever you want, it’s yours.”
“Don’t be silly!” I say at once. “I just wanted to help.”
“I’m serious!”
“Laurel—”
“I insist. Name it, and it’ll be there in time for your wedding.”
My wedding.
It’s as though someone’s opened a window and the cold air is rushing in.
In all the excitement and urgency, I’d managed briefly to forget about it. But now it all comes piling back into my head.
My two weddings. My two fiascos.
Like two trains traveling toward me. Quicker and quicker, getting nearer even when I’m not looking at them. Gathering momentum with every minute. If I manage to dodge one, I’ll only get hit by the other.
I stare at Laurel’s warm, open face, and all I want to do is bury my head in her shoulder and wail, “Sort out my life for me!”
“Whatever you want,” says Laurel again, and squeezes my shoulders.