five

Magnolia

They closed Saint Laurent on Old Bond early for me in the late afternoon so that I could take Henry and Christian suit shopping without having to deal with crazy people and cruel questions.

As far as the wedding goes—style-wise—as I’m sure you can imagine, I’m running a fairly tight ship.

It might come as a bit of a surprise to you (because we all know I love colours and have an aversion to the boring) but the dress palette for our wedding is black, white and neutrals.

That, of course, is not the overarching colour palette of the entire day—I’m not depressed—but unless BJ and I were to forsake tradition and wear colourful dresses and suits ourselves, the others in colours just looks a bit like a circus.

“You know,” Henry peers at me through a rack of clothes. “We are capable of dressing ourselves.”

I pivot in my pink and red rose appliquéd satin sandals from Magda Butrym, eyebrows up.

“When have you ever?”

“This morning,” Henry tells me defiantly.

I eyeball him. “And what are you wearing?”

“An outfit of my own choosing—” Henry says smugly, “—from the capsule wardrobe you gave to me at the start of the season,” he adds at the end, a fraction more sheepish.

“I like not dressing myself,” Christian announces.

I give him a merry shrug. “And I like having cute boy dolls to dress—”

He scrunches that cute nose of his. “I like it a bit less after that.”

“Oh no.” I yawn as I flip through a rack of dress shirts.

Christian grunts under his breath before he asks, “Are you dressing Beej for the wedding?”

“I’m not,” I huff, looking at him with my arms crossed. “But I do know he’s wearing Saint Laurent Oxfords and custom Gucci.”

“You mean Tom Ford,” Henry corrects me.

I give him a sneaky smile.

“Magnolia!” Henry groans. “He’s going to fucking kill me—”

I smile at him, smug. “You’re too easy—”

“Parks—” Henry viciously pulls a shirt he likes off the rack.

“You walked into that, man—” Christian shakes his head at his best friend. “That was vintage Parks, she’s a fucking sneak.”

I aggressively elbow my way past him, mostly just to elbow him but I disguise it to look as though I’m trying to get to the rack behind him. “Excuse you! I’m not sneaky—”

“Oh no,” Christian rolls his eyes. “You’re right, everything’s always face value with you.”

I give him a glare and hand him a jacket, trouser and shirt combination. He stares at the clothes for a few seconds then snatches them out of my hand with another roll of his eyes.

Henry bustles past me, still cross.

“Brat,” he calls me, and I scurry after him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and cuddle him, batting my eyes.

He throws a reluctant arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “Don’t tell him you know.”

I zip my mouth shut.

Christian reappears then proceeds to stare at himself in the mirror.

Single-breasted tuxedo jacket in Grain de Poudre over white slim-fit cotton poplin with Yves collar, tucked into the tailored trousers in Saint Laurent Gabardine.

He squints, pretending he’s trying to decide whether or not he likes it, but I can tell he does.

I hand him the black silk satin Yves bow tie, and he begins to fasten it to himself as I stand in front of him, tugging at the jacket.

Handsome, like always. Never doesn’t look handsome though, I suppose that’s the thing with him. Especially in a tux.

I take his arms and adjust the sleeves, I can feel him staring down at me, watching me.

I flick my eyes up at him. “What?”

His face pulls in some discomfort.

“Sorry if this is a shit question to ask—but like, who are your bridesmaids now?”

I breathe out the question and don’t let the way it stabs me in my heart show on my face. I take a breath, rubbing the fabric of my bead-embellished sequined tulle minidress from Valentino Garavani between my fingers.

Bridget’s absence (if that’s what we’re calling it) has highlighted a great many things, but one in particular is how few female friends I actually have.

Who would I have stand next to me in lieu of her?

There is no in lieu of her.

No one comes close. Not really. Except maybe . . .

“Me,” Henry says, sidling up next to me with broad smile. He tosses his arm around me again. “I’m her mate-of-honour.”

I give Christian a long-suffering look. “He came up with that himself.”

Christian smirks. “You don’t say.”

“I am your mate-of-honour,” Henry tells me, proud.

“You are my m—” I mash my mouth together and shake my head. “An honoured position in my life.”

Henry points his thumb in my direction. “She doesn’t like the M-word.”

“The M-word?” Christian blinks. “Mate?”

“God, you’re ridiculous,” my sister would say, and I’d ignore her.

I shake my head despondently. “Hateful.”

“What?” His face scrunches up. “It’s not even a swear word. Like, I get why you don’t necessarily like the word cun—”

And then I let out a scream to silence him, clamping my hand over his mouth.

“Never!” I shake my head at him. Henry rolls his eyes at me but I ignore him because we don’t say the C-word. “My god! Did you slip and fall into a lower socioeconomic bracket where that word would perhaps, at a push, on a terrible day, be acceptable to say?”

Christian rolls his eyes too.

“Absolutely never—” I keep shaking my head, my nose in the air. “So vulgar.”

“Such an idiot.” My sister would shake her head.

“Right.” Christian’s whole face pinches. “But ‘mate’?”

“It just sits funny in my mouth, that’s all.” I shrug. “I can’t say it properly.”

“You can’t say lots of words properly though, that’s hardly the word’s fault now, is it?” Bridget would pipe in and I’d be cross at her for that one.

“Why?” Christian asks, exasperated.

“Because I’m not poor.” I give him a curt smile. “And nor are you, it’s worth noting.”

Christian ignores me and looks over at Henry.

“So, you’re going to be standing at the top of an aisle with your ex. How are we feeling about that?”

Henry’s jaw juts a little and he swallows.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?” Christian tilts his head, not buying it. “See yourself standing at the top of any aisles with her anytime soon?”

“Nope.” Henry says, pretending to look at the jewellery. And then he looks up and gives Christian a dark look. “Heard from Daisy?”

Christian says nothing, just walks back into the changing room.

I toss Henry a look, because yes, Christian was being annoying and borderline unkind, but that was meaner.

I walk towards the changing room and call through the mirror-door. “No word?”

“Nope,” he says gruffly.

“Nothing at all?”

“No, Magnolia.”

“Have you spoken to J—”

The door swings open, and Christian plonks the clothes into my hands.

“I have spoken to no Haites since the day they left.”

I nod once, my heart feeling as heavy as his eyes look.

It did surprise me, if not perhaps hurt my feelings just a little, that I didn’t hear from Julian at all. Not when I had my accident, not even when Bridget d—

Well, you know what Bridget went and did.

“Right.” I tug my ear mindlessly then shake my head. “Okay. Now shoes.”

22:37

Gus W

Miss you

Same

Lunch soon?

Yeah. Friday?

Yes!

I can’t wait!

Alright though?

Are you ok?

I’m brilliant.

I just bought the Cherry Lunch Box Clutch from Gucci and Judith Leiber, it’s honestly perfect.

Wear it friday, dying to see it x