Wedding Belles (14 page)

“Do you want to go first, Amy?” Seth asks, after moving to my table.

“No, you can. I’ll just sit here and try not to laugh.”

“OK.” Seth picks up his pencil and starts to sketch the outline of my face using quick, light pencil marks. His gaze meets mine every time he looks up and he studies my eyes carefully, his own giving nothing away. He’s concentrating hard.

I try to tell Seth how I feel about him, through my eyes.
I’m confused
, I make them say.
And hurt and angry. What do you want? A friend or a girlfriend?
Suddenly Seth’s eyes change; they’re softer. He gives me a gentle smile. And I feel hope. Maybe he does still like me after all. . . .

“Seth,” I say. It’s difficult to get his name out.

He pulls his eyes away from me and stares down at the sheet of paper and concentrates on his sketch again, his hand moving expertly over the page.

I try to see what he’s doing, but his other arm is curved around the paper, blocking my view. I watch him for a few more minutes. When he finally moves his arm, I gasp. His picture is extraordinary. He’s caught me perfectly: my oval face, the wispy bits of my hair tucked behind my ears, the downward curve of my sad mouth. But my eyes are the most captivating feature of all — huge swirling pools of emotion that swallow up the viewer.
Love me
, they say.
Please, love me
. Seth’s version of me looks so needy and lost. I take a few deep breaths and will myself not to cry. Breaking down in art class would be so embarrassing.

“Change over if you haven’t already,” Mr. Olen says.

Seth now sits silently staring at me, offering himself to me to draw. I sketch his face on my sheet and mark in the curved lines where his eyes and his mouth will go, like Mr. Olen showed us during another class. I re-create Seth’s mouth, with his full lips. Then I move upward, trying to capture his high, angular cheekbones, the smattering of sun freckles over his nose and cheeks; the way his hair flops over his face. And finally, his eyes.

As I study them, taking in every fleck of each sky-blue iris, noticing again that the right one has a curved navy-blue fleck in it, the shape of a tiny dolphin, my heart is racing.
Come back to me, Seth
, I will him with my own eyes.

He stares at me for a long moment and then looks away. He whispers, “Amy, stop looking at me like that. We’re just friends, OK?”

And there it is — as simple as that. Mills was wrong. Dave was wrong. Clover was wrong. Seth doesn’t want me back — ever. I realize that I can’t be “just friends” with him, even to help him through all the stuff with Polly. I can’t! I still love him, and it’s too much to ask. He’s not being fair.

My eyes are welling up, so I run from the room, muttering, “Toilet, sir,” as I pass Mr. Olen.

Once I’m out of sight of the classroom, I collapse on the steps up to the main school building and finally allow the tears to flow. I believed Mills and Dave and Clover. I thought that once everything with Polly had settled down, Seth would come back to me — would love me again. But clearly I was delusional.

I’m crying so much now I can barely breathe. Oh, Seth.

After I told Mills what had happened in art class, she invited me to her house after school so we could talk about it properly. She really is a great friend. We’re in her room now, and she’s trying to make me feel better about Seth and my broken heart, but it’s not doing much good.

“You need to take some time to get over him,” she says gently. “There’ll be other boys. Look at Ed. I was mad about him, but it just wasn’t meant to be.” Ed was Mills’s first boyfriend. She met him in Miami last summer, and he broke up with her by e-mail. Ouch!

“Not like Seth, there won’t,” I say. “And I don’t want anyone else, I just want
him
. I can’t bear it, Mills. Why does it have to hurt so much?”

“Oh, Ames, if I could fix it for you, I would.” She gives me a hug. “I hate seeing you so upset. Do you want to watch a movie or something? It might help take your mind off things.”

“OK, but nothing smoochy. I couldn’t bear it. How about a horror movie?”

“You hate horror movies!”

“I know, but you love them. I’ll shut my eyes during the gory bits.”

So we watch
The Others
, one of Mills’s sister Claire’s old DVDs. It’s a creepy film about ghosts and hauntings, and according to Mills, it’s a horror “classic.” Thankfully it’s not too gory, but I still hate every dark and dismal minute of it. However, it does match my mood perfectly.

Clover rings me at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, waking me up.

“Clover?” I ask her groggily. I didn’t get back from Mills’s until late. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing at all, Beanie. In fact, things are most definitely
right
. But I need your help. Is Dave there this morning?”

“I think so. I don’t think he’s working this weekend.”

“Good. Tell him we need Sylvie this morning on urgent wedding-dress business. Get your mum up and dressed and looking respectable, and I’ll be over to collect you both in half an hour. If she asks, don’t mention wedding dresses. Make something up.”

“Wedding dresses? What’s going on, Clover?” But she’s gone. Great — I so obviously need even more drama in my life!

At half past nine on the dot Clover bustles us into her Mini Cooper. “Chop-chop, don’t want to be late,” she says, practically pushing me into the backseat.

“Late for
what
exactly, Clover?” Mum asks. “I’m not in the mood for Dundrum. Promise me we’re not going to be trailing around shops. Amy said it’s something to do with the wedding favors, but I thought we’d decided against those.”

Clover gives me a “Nice one, Beanie” wink. “All will be revealed soon, Sylvie,” she says, “but there will be no shopping, I promise. Right, I’m not saying another word about it until we get there, understand? Life’s dreadfully boring without the odd surprise to perk it up.”

“I hate surprises,” Mum moans. “Can’t you just tell us now, Clover?”

“That would be a negative. Now, Golden Lions, anyone? Brains gave me a CD of their new songs.”

“Any of them about you, Clover?” I ask. Brains has already written a song about Clover. He couldn’t make “Clover” fit into his song lyrics, though, so he called her Caroline instead. It was a big hit and got loads of airplay.

“And that would be an affirmative.” She grins and switches on the car stereo. A strong drumbeat fills the car, followed by a jangle of guitars and then Brains’s strong, husky voice rings out:
“Baby, won’t you be mine? Be my one and only Valentine? One and one make two. I wanna marry you, marry you, marry you.”

Mum starts to giggle nervously. “Gosh, sis, is he serious? Aren’t you both a bit young for that kind of commitment?”

“No kidding. Marriage is for olds. Like you and Dave.”

“Do you mind? I’m in my prime. Hey, that almost rhymes — maybe I could write a song too. Like Dave and Brains. How hard can it be?”

“One songwriter in the family is enough, Mum,” I say. I’m about to ask her if Dave has heard about his Dinoduck meeting with Rolf Grant, but I remember just in time that it’s a secret.

“Two, if I marry Brains,” Clover says, then shrugs. “In the future, I mean. When I’m all grown up.”

I grin. “Like that’s ever going to happen, Clover. Seriously!”

“Touché, Beanie,” she says. And then we all start to laugh.

After parking just off Kildare Street, Clover heads toward Dawson Street. Mum and I scurry behind her, like rats after the Pied Piper.

Mum is groaning. “I thought you promised no shopping. It’s Saturday, Grafton Street will be heaving.” Grafton Street is one of the biggest shopping streets in Ireland, home to Brown Thomas department store and many other cool shops.

“I did,” Clover says. “And a promise is a promise. We’re here.” She points at a gold plaque beside a large red door. It reads
THE GOSS
.

“Your office? Why are we at your office, Clover?” Mum looks baffled.

Clover just smiles. “Patience, Grasshopper.”

Mum rolls her eyes. “Clover! Tell me you did not drag me the whole way into town so you could pick something up from work?”

“As if, Sylvie. But we
are
going inside.”

“Really?” I ask excitedly. I’ve always wanted to visit Clover’s office.

“Abso-doodle-lutely, Beanie.” Clover takes out what looks like a credit card and swipes it through a discreet brown box attached to the side of the door. There’s a buzz and the door clicks open.

“This had better be worth it, Clover,” Mum says. “If it is some sort of wild goose chase, I’ll kill you.”

I thought the
Goss
office would be all high-tech and modern, with glossy white walls and chrome, leather seating, and maybe even an acrylic desk, but the hallway is paneled with squares of dark wood, and there’s a musty smell. It’s like walking into an old church.

“Not quite what you were expecting, is it, Bean Machine?” Clover says.

“Not exactly.”

“It’s an old building. But wait till you get upstairs. It’s got a bit more pizzazz.”

Clover starts walking up the wooden staircase, and once again, we follow her. We go up one flight and then through a door. We enter a small reception area that’s gleaming white, with dozens of framed magazine covers hanging on the walls, picked out by a row of tiny spotlights. There’s a white-and-chrome desk, with a matching leather-and-chrome swivel chair. OK, this is more like it!

“That you, Clover?” A petite woman emerges from the door to the left of the reception area and walks toward us. She’s wearing a black silk jumpsuit teamed with pink-and-purple leather high-tops. Her hair is orange and cut into a cute pixie crop. Enormous blue plastic geek glasses frame her hazel eyes.

“Hey, Clover,” she says, then kisses her warmly on both cheeks. “And this must be your niece.” She smiles at me, her eyes sparkling. “I’m Saffy. The editor around these parts. Saffron Cleaver, to be precise. And I do like to be precise. Not enough precision in this world, if you ask me. Clover never stops talking about you, Amy. Or should I call you Beanie?”

“Amy’s good,” I say. “I’m Beanie only to Clover.”

“Excellent, Amy it is. And finally the wedding belle, am I correct?” Saffy turns to Mum. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“That’s right. I’m Sylvie,” Mum says, shaking Saffy’s hand. “Nice to meet you too.” Mum looks completely bewildered. She’s clearly wondering what on earth we are doing here. I’m curious too. I have a strong suspicion that Clover and Saffy have something rather special up their fashionable sleeves.

“As you know, Clover has been working with us for some time now,” Saffy continues. “She’s become an invaluable member of the team and has saved my bacon on a number of occasions. She even stepped in for my friend Hettie at the wedding fair. As a special thank-you and to celebrate her general wonderfulness, I told Clover she could have her pick of the fashion cupboard. Anything she likes — a Mulberry bag, a Prada dress, a Gucci jacket. . . . She deserves it. Hettie was there at the time and joked that she could have her pick of the
Irish Bride
’s wardrobe too. So guess what Clover chose?”

I smile to myself. I think I see where this is going.

“Sylvie,” Clover says. “I know you’ve got your thrift store dress and that for you the most important thing is marrying Dave, but please let me do this for you. You’ve done so much for me over the years, and this is my way of saying thank you. The
Irish Bride
cupboard is full of beautiful wedding dresses, and Hettie said I could take my pick. Saffy’s even offered to help find the perfect one for you. I really want you to look stunning on your wedding day. Please say yes.”

“Are you sure, Clover?” Mum asks. “A Mulberry handbag does sound pretty tempting.”

“Positive. Seeing you sparkle on your wedding day is worth hundreds of handbags, Sylvie.”

Mum smiles. “Then I guess it’s a yes.”

“Excellent,” Saffy says. “Now, we’d better get moving, I have a lunch date at one. Hettie’s office is crammed with dresses, as they’ve just shot the wedding spreads for their May edition. This could take some time.”

Saffy’s right. Even though Hettie’s office is large, it is so stuffed with wedding dresses, we can barely move. Gowns hang from rails, others lie over the backs of chairs in white zipped-up bags, and some are simply piled on top of her desk. And it’s not just frocks; the room is also full of shoes, hats, veils, bags, and jewelry.

“Mamma mia,”
Clover says. “Wedding dresses a-go-go.”

Mum is starting to look rather scared. “So many dresses,” she whispers.

Saffy immediately takes control, which is something she seems rather good at. “Don’t panic. Hettie said that it may look like chaos, but there is method to the madness. The dresses are broken down into shapes and styles. She also said to help yourself to accessories if you need them.”

Mum, who has been staring at a pair of pale-pink sandals with diamanté butterflies on the toes, gasps. “Really?” Her eyes are still glued to the shoes. “Are you sure, Saffy?”

“Go for it, babes,” Saffy says.

Mum slips her feet into the shoes and sighs dreamily. “They’re heavenly.”