The car glided through Mayfair with its polished glass and pavement cafés. We turned into a discreet side street to find a man in a black suit already striding forward as if he’d been waiting for us.
“Morning, Mr. Roth. Ma’am.” He’d opened my door before I’d figured out how the handle worked.
“Oh. Hi,” I said, clutching my bag. Liam handed the keys over and the man disappeared.
I followed Liam, trying not to feel like I was about to be arrested. Where were we—Bond Street?
The first shop we entered had no sign, just a single frosted pane of glass. An actual doorman stood outside. Inside, everything was hushed, and nobody else was here. How did they ever sell anything if it was too scary to enter? The racks were spaced so far apart it was like walking through a showroom. The exhibits just happened to be dresses.
How could I explain this to Eliza? This wasn’t even Selfridges. This was Selfridges’s snobby, thinner cousin who’d cut you dead at brunch because your highlights weren’t the right shade of blond.
A wooden mannequin stared at me, draped in something labeled with a price tag that might cover a small wedding. Or at least one in Croydon.
I swallowed. We were here for wedding outfits—proper ones. NotCoast sale rackwedding outfits. The serious kind, where shop assistants asked you if you’d made an appointment three months in advance.
Crap. I had nocluewhat I wanted. I didn’t even know what words to use. My choice was usually determined by (1) the price tag and (2) how my bum looked. That wasn’t going to fly here. I should have revised before I left, I should have known what to ask for. Used some sort of fashion lingo. Maybe flicked through a copy ofVogue. At the very least, I should have worn Spanx—if only I actually owned some. They’d always struck me as breathable sausage casing for women who don’t jiggle in the first place.
“So. Where do they keep the buy-one-get-one-free section?”
Liam snorted. “Don’t worry about that. They’ll give you some choices. Just go with what makes you feel good.”
A tall, slim woman in a dark-gray polo neck glided over, tablet in hand. She smiled a polished smile at Liam.
“Good morning. How may I help you today?”
Liam’s phone rang. He looked down at it, then held up a finger. “Sorry, Andrea, I won’t be a moment. Please, continue without me.” He pushed open the door and stepped back out to the street, focused on his screen.
The woman’s eyes scanned me like a barcode, lingering on my blazer, then my shoes—high street leather that squeaked if I walked too fast. I could almost see her recalibrating my worth.
I’d tried. I’d done a decent blow-dry and put on a nice lip gloss. I was wearing my best skirt and a jacket that usually passed aswork smart. But nothing I owned carried a discreetly embroidered logo that only the rich would notice. That absence seemed to glow like a neon sign in here.
Her smile stayed fixed, but a chill crept in around the edges.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
“It’s for a wedding,” I said. “I need some… um… guest outfits.”
She looked me up and down, her gaze barely warmer than an ice cube. I resisted the urge to tuck my hair behind my ears and announce that my skirt was from Whistles, thank you very much, which in my world counted as fancy.
“We’ve just had a few new gowns arrive,” she said, tapping something into her tablet. “They run in very limited sizes, though.” Her glance landed squarely on my hips and stayed there a hair too long. She scrolled across the screen, her mouth turning down at the corners. “I’ll see what we have that might… do.”
I wandered over to a rack and pretended to look at a silk top like I might actually buy it. The fabric was so sheer I’d have needed three more layers just to hide my boobs. I dropped the sleeve before I left a fingerprint.
God. This was turning out to be a lot less fun than Eliza and I’d thought. I wished I had James with me. Or better yet, Monish. Nobody intimidated him. He dropped designer names like they were old friends and treated shop assistants as if they should be flattered he’d turned up. He’d have known exactly what to ask for, while I crept around the floor like a lost intern.
“Sorry.” She was back, her smile little better than a sneer. “I looked, but we only have standard sizing.” She tipped her head on one side and clasped her hands together like I was a five-year-old asking to try on her mother’s shoes.
I felt my cheeks start to burn. I wasn’t skinny, but I wasn’t that out of shape. I’d actually dropped a couple of pounds since Christmas, and I felt fine about how I looked.
At least, I had. Until now.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice to somethingfaux-confidential. “Sometimes some of our clients prefer to order bespoke. For… special proportions.” Her eyes slid down my body again, slow enough that I knew exactly what she meant.
I wanted the ground to open up, or for Liam to reappear and casually buy the whole shop. Instead, I nodded dumbly, as ifbespokehad always been my plan.
She straightened, already typing something into her tablet. “I’ll see if there’s anything… forgiving in cut.” She delivered the wordforgivinglike a dart, then vanished again, her heels clicking on the polished floor.
I glanced over my shoulder at the floor-length mirror. Maybe Ihadbeen eating too many takeaways.Fuck this.My eyes started to sting at the corners. Why did Liam bring me here, knowing I’d never fit in? That my shape was sobespokeshop assistants would look at me like I needed a course of Ozempic before they’d even let me in the door?
