Page 34 of The Bridesmaid
‘Maybe with some help. But something’s definitely off. She can barely string a sentence together, and she dresses like a guest at Hello Kitty’s funeral.’
I laugh. ‘What?’
‘I’m serious. Like, punk or something. But not chic, like Petra. This girl has zero class, zero taste, and says the first thing that pops into her head without thinking about it.’
‘I kind of want to meet her.’ I’m still laughing. But underneath I’m nervous. Mark wants some low-rent replacement as bridesmaid? Is he making some kind of pre-marital power bid?
‘Mark must have his reasons,’ I decide. ‘Maybe she’s super smart.’
‘Dri, she can’t work an elevator.’
‘I guess … Mark wants to make some choices at his own wedding,’ I decide.
‘I just sent you a picture of her. Check your messages.’
I glance down. ‘Jesus.’ I hiss. ‘What was Markthinking?’
The girl has hair the color of a Viagra pill and wears a bizarre shocked grimace. She has no blush to contour her chubby cheeks, which makes her round little face even more childlike, exacerbated by big round eyes. She’s fitted out in a weird combination of spider-web jewelry, cyber-goth chunky boots with silver buckles, busted fishnets, a skull motif dress with long lacy bell-sleeves and more black lace at the hem. As if she didn’t have enough on already.
‘That skirt is way too short for a girl with no thigh gap,’ I mutter, tilting my head and wrinkling my nose. ‘She accessorizes like she raided a kid’s Halloween bucket.’
‘I know. We could style her though. She has good ass to hip. And we need curvy.’
‘Yeah, but … She’s not going to fit the dress samples.’ I draw the phone away and back.
Themake-up. Like a dime-store goth.
‘She’s notsobig,’ says Georgia. ‘She’s just a little chubby. It’s kind of cute up close.’
‘I think it’s a no,’ I decide. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll break it to her.’
‘OK. I think … She just got back in the elevator.’
‘Then I’ll see her in about a minute. I’m in the lobby now.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
HOLLY
The elevator doors slide shut and make a gentle descent. I figure I’ve got about forty seconds to get the panel open before it gets to the ground floor.
I glance across at the lit-up buttons which are zooming through their sequence with alarming speed.
20, 29, 28 …
Removing the key from the pocket of my dress, I slot it into the tiny circle of light. It fits perfectly. But when I go to turn it, nothing happens. I try the opposite direction. Still nothing.
Come on, work.
The buttons are flashing faster.
15, 14, 13.
‘Please work,’ I tell the key. Instead, this time when I twist, an alarm button blinks to life.
5, 4, 3 …
I make a final twist. But now the key is stuck completely inside the lock.
