From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: re: Problem with order L5782
Hi Meg,
I would like COCK. Not COOK.
Best wishes,
Sophie
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Problem with order L5782
Hi Sophie,
Please forgive my stupidity. I was reading your previous emails too fast. Hectic day in the office! Sounds like a fun hen do!
I confirm that I have put through an order for the following:
20 x T-shirts in pink
Printed on back of T-shirts: I WOULD LIKE COCK
Thank you so much for using our service and we look forward to printing more personalized items for you in the future!
Kind regards,
Meg
CHAPTER EIGHT
I have a feeling I’m not going to enjoy this engagement party. For one thing, the bride hates me, and for another, I can barely breathe in these Spanx. They’re soclingy.But they also help me feel good in this ridiculously expensive dress that I bought earlier today. Lady Meade had emailed me with the details of the engagement party, apologizing for the lack of a formal paper invitation: it was at 7:00P.M.in the Grand Ballroom of the five-star luxury hotel the Rosewood, London, dress code black tie.
I’ve attended black-tie events before, including black-tie weddings, so I had options in my wardrobe, but I felt that forthisoccasion I had to go all out. As soon as I’d got through all my emails this morning, I called Cara and asked her to come shopping with me on her lunch break.
“So, why exactly do you need to buy a new dress for this engagement party?” she asked, waiting for me in the changing room of a gorgeous, much-too-expensive boutique she had suggested. “You’ve been to a hundred before.”
“Not like this one,” I replied, stepping into a sparkly sequin dress and fiddling with the zipper. “The client is going big.”
I wish I could tell Cara that the client is Lady Cordelia Swann, but I’ve signed the NDA. Cara would go crazy if she found out—when she was sixteen, she tried to copy Cordelia and Lady Annabel, who were photographed together at Ascot withmatching newly dyed bright red hair. Cara bought a cheap bottle of dye and turned her hair a bizarre neon orange. “It said ‘red’ on the bottle!” she wailed.
“It also cost ninety-five pence,” her mum pointed out.
I smile to myself, thinking back on that, and how Cara would react if I told her that I have now met Lady Cordelia Swann and I can confirm that she is the absoluteworstand last person in the world anyone should copy.
“What do you think?” I asked, stepping out in the dress.
Cara jumped. “Bloody hell. You almost blinded me.”
“With my beauty?”
“With the fuckload of sequins. Get that thing off before my retinas are burned beyond repair. Put on the black one I picked out, the one with the high neck,” she instructed.
