Catherine sweeps the dress from my grasp and heads behind the curtain with Daisy as I flump down in the centre of the plush sofa.
My head is a swirling mess of Daisy leaving, my father’s desolate mansion, his absent wife, the job at Oakham Exports I’m supposed to just slot myself into, Mr B’s wedding in my back garden, Harry bloody Ellis and the friendship I lost . . . the friendship I fucked in the bin because I’m a grade-A assface.
“Oh my god,” Daisy whimpers from behind the curtain, pulling me from my solo pity party. She’s already tried the red and teal dresses on, and both were a hit, but I have a feeling this gown will trump them all. “Lan.”
The curtain is shoved aside by Catherine, and Daisy stands before me in the black dress looking like she’s ready to receive her best actress Academy Award. She’s stunning, and it’s perfect, and I feel sick just looking at her.
“That’s the one,” I say without a smile.
She turns back around and faces the mirror. The rear view of the garment is as gorgeous as the front, and it pulls at an achy and hollow spot in my chest.
“It’s black, though. Can I wear black to my dad’s wedding?” She wants me to say yes. I’ve known her for fifteen years, long enough to know every question she throws at me in this moment is rhetorical. It’s more like an invitation to cement her decision, to let her feel secure in her choice.
I could derail it right now. I’m feeling bitter enough that lying and spoiling her mood could be a possibility, but I don’t. Because it’s Daisy, and I still fucking love her more than anyone.
“Mathias is wearing black,” I explain instead. “I’m wearing black since I always wear black. Pretty much every dude there will be wearing black.”
“True, true,” she says, staring fuzzy-eyed at her reflection, her hands stroking the flared fabric over her hips. “But is it . . . a little too slutty?”
“We’ve been over this before.”
She nods and finally turns to face me. The skirt swishes around her legs in the most mesmerically Disney-like way. “Lan, it’s so expensive, though.”
I don’t even think before my next words escape, but I don’t regret them. “Think of it as a goodbye present, then.”
Daisy purses her lips into a tight line. She swallows hard and simply stares at me. I don’t let my eyes leave hers. Her cheeks grow pink, but she still doesn’t respond. Beside her, Catherine’s gaze bounces between us.
Eventually, I break the stare-down. “Catherine, do you have the black Jimmy Choo court shoes with the cut-out heel in a size five?”
It’s like the sales assistant has been zapped with a defibrillator. She bursts into life, slapping her hands together, obviously grateful for the end to the awkward as fuck encounter. “Certainly. I’ll get this gown wrapped up for you both and then grab the shoes.”
I don’t want to wait around while she undresses Daisy. “I’m going to find a suit.”
I choose a Dolce and Gabbana black wool-blend three-piece suit and a matching black shirt, which I’ll wear sans tie for the wedding and with a tie but no waistcoat to Father’s office. I don’t try it on, don’t waste time browsing foranything else, don’t even look at shoes. There are plenty of shoes in my closet at home. Yacht loafers would be a cute choice for both occasions.
Daisy waits for me at the cashier’s desk. She’s deep in conversation with Catherine and another assistant, who all stop chatting the moment they see me.
“Lan?” Daisy pleads.
The guy who followed me from the menswear department hands a bag containing my suit to Catherine to ring through.
Daisy places her hand on the back of mine. I don’t move away, but I also don’t look at her. I can’t do this right now, right here. I’m having big feelings, and I can’t summarise them into something palatable that can be digested in front of strangers.
“Lan, I just wanted to—”
“Excuse me, sir. Sorry to interrupt, but your payment card has been declined,” Catherine says.
It takes a good five seconds for the meaning of those words to register.
“No, that’s not possible. There’s a twenty grand limit on that card. Try it again,” I say, though my heart is beating like a fucked clock and seeds of suspicion are already sowing themselves deep within my stomach lining.
The male cashier joins Catherine, and together they process my Mastercard again. “My apologies. It’s been declined again,” he whispers, as though the shame of having six thousand pounds worth of garments go unfunded is easier to bear in baby volumes.
“God, Lan, have you maxed it out again?” Daisy says, laughing.
I ignore her. “Okay, try this one, then.” I toss my AMEX onto the counter and deliberately do not look at Daisy.
The cashier slow blinks his eyes closed and gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
