“She has certainly been around the block.”
Tying the ribbons around the bunches of meadow flowers, I painted on a beatific smile.
“Not a nice thing to say about the bride, is it?”
Melissa, my co-founder and trustworthy booze partner, just shrugged.
“You can’t deny her age, my dear.”
The said bride, surrounded by a retinue of oohing and aahing girlfriends, was now striking a seductive pose for the photographer on the stone terrace, decorated with billowing white silk curtains. According to the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room, we were moving according to schedule:
11:00–11:30 – Guest arrival and welcome cocktails and mocktails
11:30–12:00 – Glam photoshoot on the terrace. Bride outfit change
12:00–13:00 – Sit-down lunch in the Marble Room. Three-course meal followed by a choice of desserts.
I could rattle off the rest of the schedule by heart—from the garland-weaving after lunch to another photo set in the vintage-like dresses made especially for the occasion, to boating on the river and a hot-air balloon flight before sunset.
The gods had taken care of the perfect June weather for today, and tomorrow, after a spa morning, the bride would be driven to a picture-perfect postcard church to say her vows.
“I shouldn't have involved you in this account,” I said, placing another bouquet in the antique porcelain vase.
Melissa looked positively shocked.
“Because I once dated her current fiancé? Judith, that was donkey’s years ago!”
“Still…”
I tilted my head, listening. An indignant voice rang out from the terrace.
“You simply cannot tell me to move! I’ve done countless photoshoots back when you were still playing with a plastic camera in kindergarten!”
“What seems to be the problem?” I peeped out onto the terrace.
The girl photographer looked ready to cry. Hannah was towering above her—her rangy ex-top-model frame taut and eager for action. She flicked a blonde curl off her reddened cheek.
“I know where to stand and sit! I’ve been on more magazine covers than the number of years you’ve been alive!”
She pointed at the photographer. I gently took her hand—the one with the almost invisible scar from the cut she sustained when we were kids and she broke the glass door on the porch to let me in after I’d locked myself out and cried in terror.
“Just trust me, sis,” I whispered. She mouthed, I will, but tell her I know best. And by the way, tell Melissa not to dart away from me like a scared rabbit. I know about their affair, but Michael chose me, not her.
I just raised an eyebrow. Hannah always remained Hannah.
I winked at the photographer, who now seemed composed, and my older sister ordered:
“Lights, camera, action!”
Tying the ribbons around the bunches of meadow flowers, I painted on a beatific smile.
“Not a nice thing to say about the bride, is it?”
Melissa, my co-founder and trustworthy booze partner, just shrugged.
“You can’t deny her age, my dear.”
The said bride, surrounded by a retinue of oohing and aahing girlfriends, was now striking a seductive pose for the photographer on the stone terrace, decorated with billowing white silk curtains. According to the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room, we were moving according to schedule:
11:00–11:30 – Guest arrival and welcome cocktails and mocktails
11:30–12:00 – Glam photoshoot on the terrace. Bride outfit change
12:00–13:00 – Sit-down lunch in the Marble Room. Three-course meal followed by a choice of desserts.
I could rattle off the rest of the schedule by heart—from the garland-weaving after lunch to another photo set in the vintage-like dresses made especially for the occasion, to boating on the river and a hot-air balloon flight before sunset.
The gods had taken care of the perfect June weather for today, and tomorrow, after a spa morning, the bride would be driven to a picture-perfect postcard church to say her vows.
“I shouldn't have involved you in this account,” I said, placing another bouquet in the antique porcelain vase.
Melissa looked positively shocked.
“Because I once dated her current fiancé? Judith, that was donkey’s years ago!”
“Still…”
I tilted my head, listening. An indignant voice rang out from the terrace.
“You simply cannot tell me to move! I’ve done countless photoshoots back when you were still playing with a plastic camera in kindergarten!”
“What seems to be the problem?” I peeped out onto the terrace.
The girl photographer looked ready to cry. Hannah was towering above her—her rangy ex-top-model frame taut and eager for action. She flicked a blonde curl off her reddened cheek.
“I know where to stand and sit! I’ve been on more magazine covers than the number of years you’ve been alive!”
She pointed at the photographer. I gently took her hand—the one with the almost invisible scar from the cut she sustained when we were kids and she broke the glass door on the porch to let me in after I’d locked myself out and cried in terror.
“Just trust me, sis,” I whispered. She mouthed, I will, but tell her I know best. And by the way, tell Melissa not to dart away from me like a scared rabbit. I know about their affair, but Michael chose me, not her.
I just raised an eyebrow. Hannah always remained Hannah.
I winked at the photographer, who now seemed composed, and my older sister ordered:
“Lights, camera, action!”
