“I haven’t seen Becky’s wedding dress yet,” says Christina. “I hardly dare to.”
“It’s really nice!” I protest. “Come and look.”
I lead her into the sumptuous dressing area, where Danny’s dress is hanging up.
“It’s all in one piece,” observes Christina laconically. “That’s a good start.”
“Christina,” I say. “This isn’t like the Tshirts. This is in a different league. Take a look!”
I just can’t believe what a fantastic job Danny has done. Although I’d never admit it to Christina, I wasn’t exactly counting on wearing his dress. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I was having secret Vera Wang fittings right up until a week ago.
But then one night Danny knocked on the door, his whole face lit up with excitement. He dragged me upstairs to his apartment, pulled me down the corridor, and flung open the door to his room. And I was speechless.
From a distance it looks like a traditional white wedding dress, with a tight bodice, full, romantic skirt, and long train. But the closer you get, you more you start spotting the fantastic customized details everywhere. The white denim ruffles at the back. The trademark Danny little pleats and gatherings at the waistline. The white sequins and diamante and glitter scattered all over the train, like someone’s emptied a candy box over it.
I’ve never seen a wedding dress like it. It’s a work of art.
“Well,” says Christina. “I’ll be honest. When you told me you were wearing a creation by young Mr. Kovitz, I was a little worried. But this…” She touches a tiny bead. “I’m impressed. Assuming the train doesn’t fall off as you walk down the aisle.”
“It won’t,” I assure her. “I walked around our apartment in it for half an hour. Not even one sequin fell off!”
“You’re going to look amazing,” says Erin dreamily. “Just like a princess. And in that room…”
“The room is spectacular,” says Christina. “I think a lot of jaws are going to be dropping.”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” I say. “Robyn didn’t want me going in.”
“Oh, you should take a look,” says Erin. “Just have a peek. Before it gets filled up with people.”
“I can’t! What if someone sees me?”
“Go on,” says Erin. “Put on a scarf. No one’ll know it’s you.”
I creep downstairs in a borrowed hooded jacket, averting my face when I pass anyone, feeling ridiculously naughty. I’ve seen the designer’s plans, and as I push open the double doors to the Terrace Room, I think I know roughly what I’m expecting to see. Something spectacular. Something theatrical.
Nothing could have prepared me for walking into that room.
It’s like walking into another land.
A silvery, sparkling, magical forest. Branches are arching high above me as I look up. Flowers seem to be growing out of clumps of earth. There are vines and fruits and an apple tree covered with silver apples, and a spider’s web covered with dewdrops… and are those real birds flying around up there?
Colored lights are dappling the branches and falling on the rows of chairs. A pair of women are methodically brushing lint off every upholstered seat. A man in jeans is taping a cable to the carpet. A man on a lighting rig is adjusting a silvery branch. A violinist is playing little runs and trills, and there’s the dull thud of timpani being tuned up.
This is like being backstage at a Broadway show.
I stand at the side, staring around, trying to take in every detail. I have never seen anything like this in my life before, and I don’t think I ever will again.
Suddenly I see Robyn entering the room at the far end, talking into her headpiece. Her eyes scan the room, and I shrink into my hooded jacket. Before she can spot me, I back out of the Terrace Room and get into the lift to go up to the Grand Ballroom.
As the doors are about to close, a couple of elderly women in dark skirts and white shirts get in.
“Did you see the cake?” says one of them. “Three thousand dollars minimum.”
“Who’s the family?”
“Sherman,” says the first woman. “Elinor Sherman.”
“Oh, this is the Elinor Sherman wedding.”
The doors open and they walk out.
“Bloomwood,” I say, too late. “I think the bride’s name is Becky…”
They weren’t listening, anyway.
I cautiously follow them into the Grand Ballroom. The enormous white and gold room where Luke and I will lead the dancing.
Oh my God. It’s even huger than I remember. It’s even more gilded and grandiose. Spotlights are circling the room, lighting up the balconies and chandeliers. They suddenly switch to strobe effects, then flashing disco lights, playing on the faces of waiters putting finishing touches to the tables. Every circular table has an ornate centerpiece of cascading white flowers. The ceiling has been tented with muslin, festooned with fairy lights like strings of pearls. The dance floor is vast and polished. Up on the stage, a ten-piece band is doing a sound check. I look round dazedly and see two assistants from Antoine’s cake studio balancing on chairs, sticking the last few sugar tulips into the eight-foot cake. Everywhere is the smell of flowers and candle wax and anticipation.