‘Madam?’
‘Ow, fuck!’ I hit my head on the coffee table in shock. Not because Martha has surprised me with her presence, rather this is the first time she’s referred to me with any sense of deference. As I turn, I realise why: she has the furry one nestled in her arms. Like a baby.
Must’ve left the door open on my yoghurt hunt.
‘Labnehno good for the kittah!’ She purses her lips, pointing at my strawberry yoghurt pot. ‘Labnehgiving loose motions,’ she continues in a warning tone.
So what? Yoghurt will loosen the fur-ball’s limbs. No big deal. Might be able to catch it next timeif it’s wobbling around, rather than speeding about the place like a demon on speed...ohhh wait, thoseloose “motions”.
I giggle a little nervously. ‘I, erm, see what you mean. No, we don’t want any little accidents, do we?’ Not on cream carpets.
At this, Martha clutches the kitten tighter, half turning, as though I’d issued a threat.
‘Is from the sir? From Mr. Kai?’
‘Yeah.’ And much I have to say about that, though not in current company.
‘Such a good boy, the Mr. Kai,’ she says rather wistfully.
Not so much, I want to tell her, but instead answer unconvincingly, ‘Yes. Isn’t he.’
An awkward silence falls, our fragile bond wiggling in her arms.
‘I will take,’ she says decisively. ‘I will bring again.Bukrah.’ Tomorrow.
‘Take your time,’ I answer to her retreating form. ‘I’m in no bloody hurry.’
‘Darling!’
Mishael rises from the pale gold Louis armchair, champagne flute in hand. Feeding her free arm around my shoulders, she kisses my cheek soundly. None of this Dubai-air-kiss-business; it’s a real smacker that’s probably left my skin coated in her plum-coloured lipstick.
‘Isn’t your friend accompanying you?’
‘Niamh? Yeah, she’s making her own way here.’ Late as usual. ‘She has her own sense of time, I’m afraid.’Yeah, permanently behind everyone else’s. Maybe I should’ve mentioned there’d be champagne at my dress fitting. Oh, andmacaron. Yum.
The door discreetly tinkles, the immaculately dressed assistant buzzing it open from her gold Rococo desk.
‘I’ve driven past the place twice!’ Niamh complains loudly. ‘Wouldn’t have even noticed the door if I hadn’t seen you standing there. The place doesn’t even have proper signage.’
‘Yes,’ Mishael answers. ‘There’s discreet and then there’s just plain snobbery. You must be Niamh.’
‘Niamh,’ I begin, thinking I should introduce the pair. ‘This is Mishael, my... My...’
‘Just call me Mummy, darling,’ she says with a wide smile. I actually think she’s being serious for a minute, until her shoulders begin to shake. ‘I’m the soon to be dreaded monster-in-law,’ she adds, holding out her hand to Niamh.
Introductions over, the gorgeous and willowy assistant produces two more crystal flutes of champagne and we step into the belly of the beast.
My designer—get me—mydesigner drew up the design based on those I’d liked in her portfolio. Glorious confections in satins, silks and lace. I’ve even had my grubby mitts on the fabric samples! Now we’re here at theatelierfor my first try on of the unfinished garment. I’m so bloody excited! I can’t believe it even resembles a dress after only a few days. Mishael has come along for translation. My French doesn’t extend beyond grade six, but also because she’s uber excited. I suppose this is her one chance at playing wedding Barbie, having only one son. And Niamh, well, she’s here for moral support. And out of sheer nosiness, of course.
I’d googled the wordatelierafter hearing it bandied around in wedding-talk. I’d been a bit disappointed to find out it meant nothing more than ‘workshop’, so I’m pleasantly surprised by my surrounds. It’s a bit like a movie set from the 1950’s; a sort of fashion house set, where models cat-walked potential purchases for wealthy customers. The place is all swagged fabrics and massive mirrors. There’s even a small dais for the model—that would be me—to stand on, while women—that would be Niamh and Mishael—watch from stylish sofas, dangling champagne flutes from bejewelled hands. Or in this case, sniffle and sob.
‘It’s beautiful, chick,’ says Niamh, surreptitiously wiping under her eyes.
‘Lay off the booze, Niamh. It’s just a bloody dress!’
‘Darling, it’s exquisite on you. You look like an absolute dream,’ adds Mishael, before turning to converse with Lena, the woman responsible for designing this vision, as she stands eyeing me critically.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Despite being as yet unfinished, this gown is certainlydreamlike.In fact, this whole experience is. Who’d have thought running away to Dubai would’ve brought me to the manofmy dreams? And I’ve never worn something that has made me feel so... bloody beautiful. I can’t wait to see his expression.Can’t wait for him to get home.
