Sophia lets out this sharp little huff through her nose. “It’s fine,” she says, but her tone’s got an edge—way snippier than usual. “Just . . . Daisy, please, get into your dress.”
Ouch. Twenty minutes late, and you’d think I’d personally sabotaged her big day.
“It’s over there on the sofa,” the dressmaker says, gesturing toward a frothy heap of pastel pink chiffon, and I lunge for it.
Imogen freezes mid-twirl.
“What is thatsmell?” she shrieks, nostrils flaring theatrically as she stares at me.
Everyone freezes. Even me, hand hovering over the chiffon like it’s about to bite.
Imogen takes a delicate step forward.
“Daisy,” she starts. “Have you been smokingmarijuana?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Jamie.
He hotboxed our flat last night with his new “premium” weed, which he graciously decided to smoke directly under where my coat was hanging.
And fine, maybe I’d taken one—ONE—tiny puff, just to shut him up.
It wasn’t premium.
“It’s not what it smells like,” I say, my cheeks blazing. “My flatmate—he, um, he had some last night, and my coat was, you know, nearby.”
“Youlivewith someone who smokes weed?”
“Don’t touch the dress!” Sophia screeches, smacking my hand away from it. “We don’t have time for this, Daisy. Please, for the love of god, take off your coat and put it outside before you contaminate the fabric.”
Contaminate. As though I’m a walking biohazard, leaking skunk fumes from my pores.
Butfine.
I bare my teeth in a smile. “Of course. Be right back.”
I slink out.
Outside, she says. And byoutside, she obviously meansoutside the fucking building—because apparently, my coat now requires immediate removal from the premises.
I stomp down the corridor hauling my disgraced coat, feeling a tiny ember of rage glowing merrily in my chest.
Oh, sure, Sophia’s pissed, but you know what? So am I.
The coat barely smells. A whisper of weed at most. If you didn’t have a nose like a bloodhound—or, you know, Imogen—you’d miss it.
I once told Edward you can tell a lot about a person by their nostrils.
And hers? Absolute assholes.
This is the fifth fitting in as many weeks.Fifth.For a dress that already fits.
What exactly are we doing here? Squinting at seams for secret flaws? Stress-testing the zip to see if it’ll survive a sneeze?
Or is this some elaborate psychological experiment to see how long it takes before I start mainlining Chardonnay in the corner?
Unless Sophia’s banking on all of us spontaneously morphing into different body shapes before the wedding, this level of scrutiny feels unnecessary.
And does she haveanyidea how much this is costing me in train fares?
