Page 15 of When Sinners Hate
The house rules are a little vague, but I head to the veranda, and as soon as I take a seat gently, a buttoned-up staff member appears.
“I’d like French toast with berries and whip cream.” It’s an indulgence I haven’t afforded myself in a long time, but I need to fortify my strength with something good.
The house staff doesn’t say a word but nods and disappears, and there’s no sign of Melena, which is a bonus. I’m not up to sparring with the woman today, and I fear I’d say something too far.
Fifteen minutes later, a platter of juice, coffee and my order of breakfast is delivered. My spot in the shade affords a little comfort from the already too-hot temperature, but my woes are lessened by the delicious food before me.
When I’m alone, I cut into the soft, fragrant toast and spear several of the ruby-coloured gems. It’s perfect. A succulent, sweet filling with a bite of tartness to cut through the generous sweetness. I finish the plate, lapping up every morsel as if this food can stitch my broken pieces back together. And in a way, it can. Or at least begin to.
Once finished, I check my lipstick and sit sipping my coffee.
The plates are cleared without a word, and I’m left in peace. It doesn’t last long. Voices intrude on my solace, and, like it or not, I must fortify myself for today.
Abel’s low baritone travels and meets my ears. My body stiffens with tension, but I force myself to relax. With him is Wren. She looks happy and chatty, and I observe their body language while I can for a moment. She’s comfortable around him, relaxed even with her partner nowhere to be seen.
They arrive at the veranda but don’t stop their conversation or show any indication they’ve noticed me. It’s rude and infuriating, and I add the slight to the list of other annoyances as they huddle, looking over at the pool. I stay sheltered in the shade, but I can hear what they’re discussing. My wedding. Wren has her little tablet out again and is writing notes over the screen. My wedding.
Just as I feel the anger surface at their lack of mind to include me in this conversation, they pause. Abel turns and, with a hand shadowing Wren’s back, leads her towards the driveway. Perhaps they think they can go wedding dress shopping without me? But Abel turns, his eyes cast an inspecting glance over me before he simply calls my name as if I were a dog.
And to my horror, I stand and follow.
My jaw aches from clenching my teeth together for the entire journey downtown. Like the show at the house, I’m not involved in the conversation. Instead, I’m relegated to theback of the car while Wren and Abel talk. My mind shuts the conversation off, and I drift to a place where I might feel real emotions, real connections with people. It’s a fantasy I have, or rather a dream that I had when I was a girl, being passed around to whomever Father needed to impress. And now here I am, repeating that same behaviour.
The wedding shop is gorgeous. Wren greets the shop manager animatedly.
“The place is ours – we have two hours of exclusive use, Abel.” She doesn’t address me.
“Let’s get to it. Do they have the dresses ready?” Abel asks Wren, but the manager, an older woman who’s aged gracefully and with sophistication about her neat and understated hair and makeup, responds.
“Yes, they are ready in the changing area.” She looks at Wren and then to me as if waiting for something to happen.
“Oh, I’m a part of this, am I?” I mock. “I was beginning to think you’d be trying on my dresses yourself, Wren. A shame we don’t quite have the same figure.”
My venom isn’t only aimed at her but at Abel, too. But I can barely look at him.
The shop manager directs me further into the store and towards the changing rooms. As with many bridal boutiques, I imagine, there’s a central raised platform with half a dozen changing rooms around it. A plush white couch and a dozen mirrors.
“I’m Margaret,” she whispers to me as she holds one of the curtains open for me.
“A pleasure, Margaret. I’m Alexia.” I step inside and, indeed, see a wall of white dresses.
“Shall we get started?” she smiles. “Now, Wren sent me your size, but anything can be altered.”
I place my purse on the chair in the small room and begin to undress. Margaret helps me step into the first dress and then buttons me up.
A simple but indeed elegant fitted silk dress with a small train. I glance in the mirror before Margaret opens the curtain and all but pushes me out for my entourage to critique.
With my head as high as I can lift it, I walk towards the centre dial and stand before my husband-to-be. My eyes don’t look for his; I seek no approval or look of love that might announce the dress as ‘the one’.
“Um, it’s a little plain.” Wren pipes up. “You’ll be able to wear whatever style with your figure.”
“What about the rest of them? What would you suggest?” Abel addresses his question solely to Wren.
“We have a few selected. Let’s see them all and then make a call.”
I step down and back into the changing room.
The hate stirs inside me like a sleeping serpent but not ready to strike.