Page 4 of The Bridesmaid
Must be a mistake. There’s no way in the world those people would be mailing me anything. As I peel back the lid, unease ripples through me.
It’s a wedding invitation.
The strangest wedding invitation I’ve ever seen.
Chapter Three
ADRIANNA
The sun is rising in uptown Manhattan, and I am surrounded by cake. Tiered, towering, perfectly frosted cakes. The boutique patisserie has cleared out their entire display before opening at 9 a.m., and filled it with potential versions of our wedding masterpiece. Ourfirstmasterpiece, I should say. We’re having three. One for each day of the festivities.
I’ve dressed down for the occasion. My usual high-shouldered blazer swapped out for an unstructured black jacket, over a loose silk cami with swinging pearl necklace, and a casual little peplum skirt in a light blush. I’ve traded my heels for a pair of black velvet wedges. Overall, the effect is casual – Hollywood starlet headed out for lunch. Now I’m here I wonder if I should have made more of an effort.
I let my gaze sweep the sugary constructions. Candy colors and glittering gold Rococo flourishes. I’m disappointed.
‘The brief was dark Versailles,’ I say, taking in the various decorations. The sugarcraft roses and golden swirls. ‘This is more like … Disney or something.’ I point to a frosted gold twist.
The pâtissière – a glossy-haired brunette in an apron – looks devastated. She plucks out her phone, and scrolls.
‘We designed those elements based on the cornice in the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles Palace,’ she says, hopefully, showing me a picture. ‘It’s actually an exact replica. We had the molds made especially.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Yeah. I guess, but …’ I take in more cakes. ‘I wanted kind of thevibeof Versailles, rather than just a copy of the interior. It’s a Kensington wedding,’ I add. ‘Think, dark glamour. Sophistication. Decadence. We own nightclubs.’
I’m fully aware I might seem picky to some, but like my father says, you want to be a special kind of person, you need special kinds of standards. And like my father, I have perfect faith in my visions. Even though he might not appreciate that about me just now.
The pâtissière nods in that way I’m used to people doing. Mark – my fiancé – isn’t used to this yet. People agreeing with things that regular people might feel are unreasonable. He would likely be gushing with praise. Speaking of which. I check my watch: 6.30 a.m. WhereisMark? He is never late. Memories of yesterday bubble up. The body. Cops.
We agreed to try and put it behind us but …
I pull out my cell. Unable to help myself, I quickly check the news.
Nothing nothing nothing.Dad’s injunction has worked. No one is allowed to report on what happened.
When the police piled into the ballroom of the Plaza, you could tell they were completely overwhelmed. None of them were prepared to see what had happened to my bridesmaid.
They asked a lot of questions about who arrived at the Plaza and when.
‘You’re telling me you’re not getting married at the Plaza today?’asked a young policeman who was obviously completely out of his depth.
‘I’m not getting married today,orat the Plaza,’ I said exasperatedly. ‘This is a demo,’ I explained to him patiently for the second time. ‘The planner has set it up so my fiancé and I can get an idea of how the wedding breakfast will look.’
His colleague kept looking around at the mirrors and tables.
‘You had the New York Plaza hotel recarpeted in white,’ she said finally. ‘For ademoof your wedding?’
‘Are you going to find who did this?’ I demanded.
They exchanged glances.
The young police officer cleared his throat. ‘Here’s the thing, ma’am,’ he said, emphasizing thema’ampointedly. ‘Your bridesmaid. She died in a very strange way. And you don’t seem all that upset, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘I’ve been raised to keep my feelings in check,’ I told him icily. ‘Not to mention I don’t know her all that well.’
‘Excuse me, Miss Kensington.’ His female colleague spoke up. ‘But you’re trying to tell me, you didn’t know the lady who was going to be bridesmaid at your wedding?’
‘What in the hell is all this?’ The silence of my non-reply was broken by a familiar voice. I looked up with waves of relief, to see my father’s short and stocky frame bowling across the white-carpeted floor at speed. He was wearing the Brioni suit, which my half-sister and I think makes him look like a Russian oligarch. Thinning brown hair combed back, and light-brown eyes bulging in fury.
‘Hey! You!’ My father closed in on the policeman, finger-pointing. ‘You don’t talk to my daughter. You talk to me.’
