Page 43 of Taming Achilles

“You work for me, remember?” I reminded him, and he gave me that irritated, befuddled look. “I paid you,” I reminded him, and he stiffened. “So you work for me. I will walk, and you will do your job.”

But even I knew this was cruel. To put on a Venetian mask and send me down in baroque inspired outfits, one after another? In front of him? That was mean. And I saw it every time his jaw ticked and his eyes flitted away.

Halfway through the show, I was in a silver, one-shoulder dress with platinum strips that flowed off my shoulders like the dripping of water down a stony fall. Geordie grabbed me before I stepped onto the runway and brought me in close, and whispered into my ear, “You look beautiful.”

I was floored. I stumbled away from him, barely forgetting to turn my eyes downstage before I started walking.

The music was thumping, and my feet were heavy as I stomped, my hips flowing with the music. It was a fair imitation of the Catriona Grey lava walk. A sensual, sultry pacing that involved slow motion turns, and sideways glances.

I don’t always like attention. But I loved the stage. The runway. The lustful gazes and admiring nods. Not just for me, but for the dresses. Ray Ricoda was a real artist. Probably a once-in-a-generation kind of genius.

I regained my composure long enough to strike my pose downstage, and the cameras flashed. Ray had been in the wings of the stage, his thumbs up, jumping lightly as I walked back for my final dressing.

“This next one is going to be a hit,” he whispered to me as I stripped, getting ready for the show stopper.

It was a white satin gown, off the shoulder, with a fitted bodice and a thousand, icy Swarovski crystals coming in waves from the shoulder, to the high slit of the opposite thigh. I looked like an ice queen, with a long train, a bouquet of diamonds, and a tiara with a heavy, long, lace veil that trailed behind me with the jagged edges of icicles on the end. A white silver stiletto gave me extra legs, adding a sexuality to the whole thing.

It was exactly what I would have chosen for myself. For us. For a ceremony on a small bridge, where gondolas passed underneath.

I saw Geordie’s face when he saw me, his mouth open, his eyes glassy. I was breaking. The cracks were weakening me, like cracks in a mirror.

Ray whispered in my ear, “That’s the look of a man about to propose.”

I elbowed him in the ribs, and he laughed, not realising that I was on the brink of ruining all of my eyeliner.

Geordie approached me with those long, languid steps. He grabbed my left hand, his index finger and thumb playing with my bare ring finger. He breathed for a moment, and I waited, unsure what to say, just waiting for my turn to walk.

“You should wear this,” he finally said. The hand in his pocket came out to reveal a white gold, large marquise diamond on a filigree band.

I recognized it right away. There was an elusive blue flame dancing inside its facets. I could have picked it out from a million other rings of its same shape and size. Because it was my ring.

“Why do you have this?” I asked, as he slipped it on my finger.

He ignored my question, looking at Ray.

“What do you think?” Geordie asked him, presenting my hand for his inspection.

Ray nodded, sounding as stunned as I was. “It’s … perfect.”

“Why do you have this?” I asked again, desperately, grabbing onto Geordie’s wrists. “Why?”

Geordie stepped away from me, as the music changed to something softer. Something instrumental. More like a bridal march.

“You’re on,” Ray said, putting his hand on my lower back and shoving me toward the stage.

“Why do you have this?” I asked again, not taking my eyes off of Geordie as I was pushed forward.

He wouldn’t look at me. Instead, he looked at the crowd, his eyes scanning up and down at the faces. My bodyguard once again.

“Go!” Ray said, pushing me forward.

I moved in muscle memory, pacing down the runway with a bouquet in one hand, and the venetian ring on the other. I got to the end and posed. Then posed again. I did an extra turn, allowing the train to follow me so that the ornate beading on the icicle ends was captured by the photographers.

“Pippa, get down!” a voice yelled as I struck my last pose. Geordie.

I hit the ground hard, Geordie’s body falling on top of me. The familiar sound of firecracker gunfire sounded through the open Japanese gardens. Screams floated in the wind. I was engulfed with the scent of mulled spices.

There was red on my dress. On my beautiful, perfect wedding dress.

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