Page 31 of The Bridesmaid
Petra climbs in, with no thanks or acknowledgment, forcing me to move awkwardly closer to Ophelia. Her green cat-shaped eyes are made-up with a pixel-perfect slash of turquoise liquid liner on each side.
‘I thought you were going to drive away,’ she says, her Swedish accent sharp. ‘Little girls playing games.’ There’s a dangerous edge to her voice, and suddenly, all my courage leaves me. Somehow, the dynamics of the car have regressed us all, right back to frightened schoolgirls. My hand slides across the seat to take Ophelia’s. She squeezes it tightly.
Petra casts a brief look at Ophelia and turns to me. ‘We’re going to be early for the dress fitting,’ she says.
‘Georgia moved it forward,’ I tell her, ‘so we can get safely to Elysium this afternoon.’
Petra’s eyes widen fractionally. ‘Thisafternoon? Does Leopold know we’re going early?’
‘He wouldn’t approve, so don’t tell him,’ I say, knowing she won’t. Kensington Manor School girls don’t tattle. ‘Dad wants his armed goons around me at all times.’ I give a little shudder. ‘He doesn’t realize the world has changed. Like Mark says. The right technology is worth twenty bodyguards, and we have the best.’
Petra looks thoughtful. ‘Leopold doesn’t quite understand the crew he put together, does he?’ She pauses for effect. ‘You, me. Her,’ Petra nods disdainfully toward Ophelia. ‘Little Georgia, and crazy Silky. Going a day early to the island where you were held hostage. And no Daddy to protect you.’
At the mention of my being held hostage, Ophelia physically jolts in her seat, her face turning in horror toward Petra. I restrain my reaction.
‘Well,’ says Petra, looking carefully at my face, ‘aren’t you the perfect little Kensington Manor School girl? Smiling through adversity.’
With effort, I keep my smile perfectly fixed.
Petra leans back, thoughtful. ‘I just saw the article inVanity Fair,’ she says. ‘How you and Mark met.’ She turns to look at me meaningfully. ‘I didn’t realize you got together on a dating app.’
I turn to Ophelia with a ‘help me’ expression.
‘They didn’tmeeton a dating app,’ fills in Ophelia, releasing a waft of her peachy perfume as she leans forward. ‘Markinventeda dating app for wealthy people. A Who’s Who of everyone who’s anyone. But also very scientific, taking data from happily married people, and figuring out who is going to make you happy long term.’
‘I hadn’t even heard of the app,’ I interject, ‘but I noticed when it floated on the stock market. Then a friend told me, the guy who invented it, his match was me. I just thought that was funny.’ I nod to Ophelia to fill in her cue for the well-worn story.
‘And maybe a little scary, how he’d got access to your data,’ adds Ophelia obediently. ‘Right, Dri?’
‘Right. I thought Mark was a nerd stalker.’ I nod. ‘Then we met by chance at a tech gala, and he kind of swept me off my feet.’ I smile at the memory. ‘Our first date he sent me a custom smartphone loaded with apps he knew I’d like. The ringtone was the song we danced to that night. He’d thought of everything.’
Petra looks away, annoyed.
‘Shall we look at the plans for the Island?’ Ophelia suggests quickly, flipping a strand of orange hair from her narrow brow.
I turn to her gratefully, as she unearths a printed pack from the purse at her feet, outsized neon plastic bangles clacking.
The brand, with its Art-Deco Kensington edge, has been skillfully spun to a beach, Miami style.
‘OK, plans for Elysium. It’s going to be fab-ul-lous.’ Ophelia is re-energized, flipping pages, showing mood boards of green jungle leaf juxtaposed with sooty blacks and antique gold.
‘We’ve focused on luxe wellness. Infinity pools,’ says Ophelia. ‘And a whole new redesign of the colonial house, in fairy-tale gothic gold and exposed plaster walls.’
Petra says nothing. I suspect she’s quietly seething at how well Ophelia has met the brief.
‘I think it’s great that you’re branching out,’ I say. ‘Not just make-up.’
She nods. ‘I’ve … actually been doing interior design for a while,’ she explains shyly.
‘Really?’ I blink. ‘I should get you to design my apartment.’
‘Um. You … did.’ Her smile flip-flops awkwardly.
Petra makes an exaggerated pretense at disguising a laugh with a cough.
Ophelia regroups. ‘It was months ago now, you’ve had a lot on your mind.’ The smile settles to something hopeful, casting about for recognition.
Petra arches a long, skinny eyebrow. ‘You should be careful, Adrianna,’ she says, with mock concern. ‘You know what happens when you get super-stressed.’
