Why?
She doesn’t reply to my question, but a few seconds later sends an address in Kensington, then goes offline. I swing my legs out of bed and turn on the light, then search for a pair of black leggings and a black hoodie. I put on my trainers, grab my keys and my phone, and order an Uber.
Alarm bells are ringing. Why does she need me at one o’clock in the morning? Why do I need to wear dark clothing and why would I need to run? It sounds weird. Some kind of bridal exercise regime? But, then, why would I need to wear dark clothing?
I can’t say no, though. If I said no, she’d insist I’m fired. She’d be able to report to her mother that I had flatly refused to be there for her. And I wouldn’t be able to lie and say otherwise.
So here I am, hopping into an Uber in the early hours of the morning and speeding toward West London with no idea of what I’m getting myself into.
I arrive at the address and see her waiting for me, kitted out in dark clothes and scrolling through her phone. At least she’s here. I’d thought this might be some game in which she’d have been cackling away while sending those messages to me, then going back to sleep while I waited all night in the cold. But so far, so good.
“You’re late,” she says, as I thank the driver and climb out of the car. “I said half an hour.”
“It takes longer than that to get here from my place.”
“I don’t like it when people are late.”
“Won’t happen again.”
“Good.” She looks me up and down approvingly. “Let’s go, then.”
We walk along the quiet, elegant road, dimly lit by fancy streetlamps, the ones they have in old movies. A fox potters along ahead of us, ducking through the railings into the park next to the pavement. There are no lights on in the windows of any of the houses or boutiques. This is all very weird.
“What exactly are we doing here?” I ask tentatively, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” comes the irritated reply.
We walk round the corner until she comes to a sudden stop. “Here we are,” she announces, turning to face the wall that’s lining the pavement.
“Where?”
She nods at the brick wall. “Here.”
I look from her to the wall and back to her again, wondering if the stress of the wedding has caused her to lose her mind. “Um. OK?”
“Do you know the dress designer Melanie Kendall?”
“I’ve heard of her. Up-and-coming British designer. The Duchess of Sussex wore one of her gowns recently.”
“That’s the one. She’s designing Annabel’s dress.”
“Lady Annabel Porthouse?”
“Yes.” Cordelia nods bitterly. “ThatAnnabel. Anyway, Melanie Kendall’s studio is the house just here, on the corner of the road we walked down. Number fifty-four.”
“OK?”
“Look, I don’t have long to find someone to design and create the perfect wedding dress.”
“I agree.”
“So, it’s of the utmost importance that I see Annabel’s dress designs. I need to know what style she’s going to be in. I want to make sure mine’s different from and much better than hers. I have to see the drawings.”
“Cordelia,” I say, a fear creeping into my mind, “why did we need to dress in dark clothing?”
“We’re going to break into Melanie Kendall’s studio and take pictures of the designs,” she says, her eyes wide with excitement. “We need to hop over this wall into the back garden.”
“You’re joking, right?” I laugh nervously, my throat closing. “This is a big joke. A big, mad joke.”
