Unveiling the Bridesmaid Page 12

  Tamara had never tried on a wedding dress. They hadn’t even discussed the guest list. In fact, looking back, she’d shown no interest in anything but the ring—the largest he could ill afford and one she hadn’t offered to return.

  ‘Don’t laugh.’ Hope’s fierce whisper brought him back to the here and now. Finally. He’d begun to wonder if this was some form of purgatory where he would be left to ponder every wrong move he had ever made.

  Hope teetered into the large room, swaying as if it was hard to get her balance. The private showroom was brightly lit by several sparkling chandeliers and a whole host of high and low lights, each reflecting off the gold gilt and mirrors in a headache-inducing, dazzling display. The walls were mirrored floor to ceiling so he couldn’t escape his scowling reflection whichever way he turned. The whole room was decorated in soft golds and ivory from the carpet to the gilt edging on every piece of furniture. A low podium stood before him, awaiting its bride.

  Or in this case a bridesmaid masquerading as the bride. A pink-faced, swaying bridesmaid.

  ‘Because Faith’s two inches taller they’ve made me wear five-inch heels,’ she complained as she gingerly stepped onto the podium. ‘I’m a size bigger as well but they have these clever expanding things so hopefully we’ll get an idea but bear in mind that Faith won’t spill out the way I am.’

  Of course he was going to stare at her cleavage the second she said that—he was only flesh and blood after all—and she was looking rather magnificent if not very bridal, creamy flesh rising above the low neckline of the gown.

  The huge, ornate, sparkling gown. It looked more like a little girl’s idea of a wedding gown than something a grown woman would wear.

  But what did he know? Gael understood colour, he understood texture, he understood structure. Thanks to the work he had done for many fashion magazines he knew if an outfit worked or not. But in this world he was helpless. The second they’d sat down he’d been ambushed with a dizzying array of words: lace, silk, organza, sweetheart necklines, trails, mermaids—mermaids? Really? People got married in the sea?—ball gowns, A-line, princess, crystals. This was beyond anything he knew or understood or wanted to understand, more akin to some fantasy French court of opulent exaggeration than the real world. Marriage as an elaborate white masquerade.

  ‘Say something!’

  Hope looked most unbridal, hands on hips and a scowl on her face as she glared at him.

  ‘It’s...’ It wasn’t often that Gael was at a loss for words but he instinctively knew that he had to tread very carefully here. His actual opinion didn’t matter; he had to gauge exactly what his response should be. What if this was Faith’s dream dress—or, worse, Hope’s? He swallowed. Surely not Hope’s. Her body language was more like a child forced into her best dress for church than that of a woman in the perfect dress, shoulders slumped and a definite pout on her face.

  Gael blinked, trying to focus on the dress rather than the wearer, taking in every detail. There were just so many details. A neckline he privately considered more bordello than bridal? Check. Enough crystals to gladden the heart of a rhinestone cowgirl? Check. Flounces? Oh, yes. A definite check. Tiers upon tiers of them spilling out from her knees. It seemed an odd place for flounces to spill from but what did Gael know?

  ‘It doesn’t look that comfortable.’ That was an under-exaggeration if ever he’d made one; skintight from the strapless and low bust, it clung unforgivingly all the way down her torso until it reached her knees, where it flowed out like a tulle waterfall. If Gael had to design a torture garment it would probably resemble this.

  ‘It’s not comfortable.’ She was almost growling. ‘Worse, I look hideous.’

  ‘You could never look hideous.’ But she didn’t look like Hope, all trussed up, tucked in and glittering.

  Hope pulled a face. ‘Now you start complimenting me? Don’t worry, Gael, I don’t need your flattery.’

  Was that what she thought? ‘I don’t do flattery. But if you want honesty then I have to say that dress doesn’t suit you. But you’re not looking for you and I don’t know your sister at all.’

  She studied herself in the mirror. ‘She did shortlist it but I don’t think she’d like it. I can’t imagine her picking it in a million years but who knows? Even the sanest of women, women who think a clean jumper constitutes dressing up, get carried away when it comes to wedding dresses. This was designed for a reason. Someone somewhere must think it’s worth more than a car. But no, I don’t think Faith would. Still, it’s not up to us. Take a photo and email it to her.’

  The next dress was no better unless Faith dreamed of dressing up as Cinderella on steroids. The bead-encrusted heart-shaped bodice wasn’t too bad by itself—if copious amounts of crystals were your thing—but it was entirely dwarfed by the massive skirt, which exploded out from Hope’s waist like a massive marshmallow. A massive marshmallow covered in glitter. Gael didn’t even have to speak a word—the expression on his face must have said it all because Hope took one look at his open mouth and raised eyebrows and retreated, muttering words he was pretty sure no nicely brought-up Cinderella should know.

  He very much approved of dress number three. Very much so, not that it was at all suitable unless Faith was planning a private party for two. Cream silk slithered provocatively over Hope’s curves, flattering, revealing, promising. Oh, yes. He approved. So much so he wanted to tear it right off her, which probably wasn’t the response a bride was looking for. Regretfully he shook his head. ‘Buy it anyway, I’ll paint you in it...’ he murmured and watched her eyes heat up at the promise in his voice as she backed out of the room.

  ‘I like this but I think it’s too simple. She’s already wearing one flowy dress, I think she wants something a bit more showy for the party.’

  Gael looked up, not sure his eyes could take much more tulle or dazzle, only to blink as Hope shyly stepped onto the podium. ‘I like that,’ he said—or at least he tried to say. His voice seemed to have dried up along with his throat.

  He coughed, taking a sip of water as he tried to regather himself. Brought to his knees—metaphorically anyway—by a wedding dress? Get a grip. Although Hope did look seriously...well, not hot. That wasn’t the right word, although she was. Nor sexy nor any of the other adjectives he usually applied to women. She looked ethereally beautiful, regal. She looked just like a bride should look from the stars in her dark eyes to the blush on her cheek.

  Looked just like a bride should? Where had that thought come from? He’d attended a lot of weddings, many of them his parents’, but right up to this moment Gael was pretty sure he’d never had any opinion on how a woman looked on her wedding day. It was this waiting room, infecting him with its gaudiness, its dazzle, its femininity.

  But Hope did look gorgeous. The dress was deceptively simple with wide lace shoulder straps, which showed provocative hints of her creamy shoulders, and a lace bodice, which cupped her breasts demurely. The sweetheart neckline was neither too low nor too high and the skirt fell from the high waist in graceful folds of silk. She was the very model of propriety until she turned and he saw how low the back of the dress swooped, almost to her waist, her back almost fully exposed except for a band of the same lace following the lines of her back.

  ‘I’ve seen statues of Greek goddesses who look like you in that dress.’

  ‘I look okay, then?’ But she knew she did. Look at the soft smile curving her mouth, the way she glowed. Not only did she look incredible, she obviously felt it too.

  ‘Is this the one, then?’ An unexpected pang hit him as he asked the question. Not at the thought of the day’s purgatory finally ending, but because Hope should buy that dress for herself, not for someone else. It was hers. It couldn’t be more hers if it had been designed and made for her. But here she was, ready to give up the perfect dress to her sister, just as she had given up everything for Faith ever
y day for the whole of her adult life.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hope was obviously torn. ‘I really, really love it. It’s utterly perfect. But is it right? She asked for a showstopper for the party and this is too simple, I think. Take a photo and send it but I’m not sure she’ll pick it.’

  Gael disagreed. His show had been well and truly stopped the second Hope appeared in the dress. ‘Whatever that dress is it isn’t simple.’

  ‘It is the most gorgeous dress I have ever seen. I can’t imagine finding anything more beautiful. But I’m not sure it’s what Faith has in mind.’

  ‘There is a whole salon of showstopping dresses you haven’t tried on yet,’ Gael said, heroically reconciling himself to another several hours of dazzling white confections. ‘Let’s fulfil the brief and get your sister what she wants. But, Hope, you look absolutely spectacular in that dress. You should know that.’

  She looked at him, surprise clear on her face. Surprise and a simple pleasure, a joy in the compliment. ‘Thank you. I feel it, for once in my life I really do.’

  * * *

  Gael stood back and surveyed the painting before looking over at Hope, lying on the chaise in exactly the same position she had assumed every day for the last eleven days. She had complained that she was so acclimatised to it she was sleeping in the same position now. ‘I think we’re done.’

  ‘Really done? Finished and done? Can I see?’ Gael hadn’t allowed her to take as much as a peep at her portrait yet and he knew she was desperate to take a look. ‘I need to, to make sure you haven’t switched to a Picasso theme and turned me blue and into cubes. Actually, that might be easier to look at. I vote Picasso.’

  ‘No to the blue cubes, possibly to taking a look and no, not finished, but I don’t need you for the second pass, that’s refinement and detail. I have photos and sketches to help me for that. But I am absolutely finished for now. I’m going to let it dry for a few days and then work on it some more.’

  Hope was manoeuvring herself off the couch, as always reaching straight for the white robe, visibly relaxing as she tied it around herself. ‘It’s good timing. Faith gets here in what, three hours? We’ve got a fitting almost straight away. Tomorrow I am going to walk her through the whole wedding day and then we have afternoon tea with Misty. I hope Faith’s happy with the decisions we made. Not that she has much choice at this late hour.’

  ‘If she isn’t then just point out that rather than frolic in Prague she could have sorted it all out herself.’

  Hope ignored him. ‘Wednesday is the hen do all day—that’s a spa day, afternoon tea, Broadway show followed by dinner and cocktails and then Thursday is the actual wedding. Friday we recover while the happy couple love it up in the Waldorf Astoria and then it’s the blessing and party on Saturday. So it’s a good thing you don’t need me. I don’t have any time to pose this week. I’ve just about finished the archiving as well. Brenda has a designer and a copywriter ready to start working with you the second that contract is signed.’

  Which meant they were done. He didn’t need her to cross-reference any more photos or pose and the wedding was planned. So where did that leave them? Funny how they had been heading to this point for nearly two weeks and yet now they were here he felt totally unprepared.

  Because he was unprepared. The wedding was the end date; they both knew it. He’d finish his paintings and prepare for his show, she’d go back to DL Media and complete her time here in New York before heading back to London. Yet he felt as if something wasn’t finished. As if they weren’t finished.

  Gael swallowed. It had been a long time since he’d cared whether a relationship was over or not. And this wasn’t even a relationship, was it?

  It wasn’t meant to be... His chest tightened. Of course, it most definitely wasn’t. He didn’t do relationships, remember? Because that way he didn’t get hurt. Nobody got hurt. And he’d told her that right from the start.

  So why was he feeling suddenly bereft?

  Hope kicked off the mule, stretching out her leg. ‘Thank goodness that’s over with. Do you know how uncomfortable it is holding your leg in that one position for hours at a time? So, may I see?’ Hope nodded at the easel and gave Gael her most appealing smile. ‘I know nothing about art anyway, so you know my opinion isn’t worth anything.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Put yourself down. Your opinion is worth a lot more than most of those so-called critics who will make or break me in three weeks’ time. Because it’s genuine. Because somewhere hidden deep inside you have heart and passion and life if you’d just let yourself see that. But you never will, will you? Far easier to wallow and self-deprecate and hide than put yourself out there, risk falling or heartbreak again.’

  He wanted to recall the words as soon as he’d said them as she physically recoiled, staring at him, her face stricken. ‘I put myself out there. Good God, in this last two weeks all I’ve done is try new things.’

  He could apologise. He should apologise but he kept going, dimly aware he wasn’t so much angry with Hope as he was with himself. Angry because at some point he’d broken his own rules and started caring—and he hadn’t even noticed. Angry because yet another person was about to walk away out of his life and not look back—and he had no idea how to stop her. ‘You’ve let me lead you into new things. You followed. That’s not quite the same thing.’

  She straightened, her colour high and her eyes bright with anger. She looked magnificent. ‘Oh, excuse me for not walking in here and stripping off and begging you to paint me. Of course, where I come from that behaviour can get a girl arrested but why should that have stopped me?’

  ‘You never tell me that no, you don’t want steak you want Thai, you never say no, I don’t want red wine I’d like white even though I know you prefer white. You don’t tell me what ice cream you prefer so I end up buying out the whole store. You don’t tell me when your legs have cramps and the pose hurts. You don’t tell your sister that organising a wedding in two weeks is impossible.’

  ‘Because those things don’t matter to me. I wanted to help Faith. I genuinely don’t care what wine I drink. Why are you saying this?’

  Gael stood back from the easel, his eyes fixed on her, expression inscrutable. ‘Tell me this, Hope. Tell me what you want to happen next. Tell me what we do tomorrow when you no longer have to come here. What we say to your sister, to Hunter. Tell me how it ends.’

  Tell me how it ends. There was no point telling him anything because no matter what he said there was no real choice. It would end. Today, Sunday, when she went back to the UK—only the date was in doubt.

  She had to focus on that because if she thought about everything else he had said she would collapse. Was that how he saw her? She always thought of herself as so strong, as doing what was needed no matter what the personal cost. But Gael didn’t see a strong woman. He saw a coward.

  I know you prefer white.

  She did. Why hadn’t she said so? Because she was so used to putting other people’s needs, their feelings first at some point it had become second nature. Well, no more.

  ‘It has ended. It ended when you put that paintbrush down. We no longer have anything to offer each other.’

  ‘So that’s what you want,’ he said softly.

  Yes! No! All she knew was that it wasn’t a choice because if he could make her feel like this, this lost, this hurt, this needy, after less than two weeks then she had to walk away with her heart and pride intact. Or at least her pride because it felt as if something in her heart were cracking open right now. It shouldn’t be possible. She knew who he was and what he was and she had kept her guard up the whole time and yet, without even trying, he had slipped through her shields.

  Without even trying. How pathetic was she? He didn’t need to do anything and she had ju
st fallen in front of him, like her aunt’s dog, begging for scraps. The only consolation was that he would never know.

  ‘You knew I preferred white and bought red anyway?’

  The look he shot her was such a complicated mixture of affection, humour and contempt she couldn’t even begin to unravel it. ‘All you had to do was say.’

  Affecting a bravado she didn’t feel, she walked forward until she was standing next to him then turned and looked at the painting.

  It was at once so familiar and yet so foreign. The pose, the setting so similar to the painting she had now seen so many copies of she could probably reproduce it blindfolded—but this was magnified. No dog, no servant, no backdrop, the attention all zoomed in on Hope. Her eyes travelled along her torso, from the so casually positioned slipper along her legs. She winced as she took in the scars, each one traced in silvery detail, an all too public unveiling.

  The actual nudity wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, not compared to the scars. She was curvier, paler, sexier than she had expected; she looked like a woman, not like the girl she felt inside. Her breasts full and round, even the slight roundness of her stomach suggested a sensual ease.

  But her face... Hope swallowed. ‘Do I really look that sad?’

  Unlike Olympia she wasn’t staring out at the viewer with poise and confidence. She wasn’t in control of her sensuality. She looked wary, frightened, lost. She looked deeply sad.

  Gael was watching her. ‘Most of the time, yes. I paint what I see, Hope. I tried to find something else, thought if you confronted some of your sadness I could reach a new emotion but that’s all there was.’

  All there was. She wasn’t just a coward, she was a miserable one.

  ‘Between the scars and my emotions you have exposed everything, haven’t you?’ Hope whispered.