She made a last-minute fashion choice. It was cold and she was likely to be very drunk: the green Diane von Furstenberg velvet jumpsuit, bought from Net-à-Porter with the last few hundred quid on her only working credit card, would be a triumph. It complemented Dixie’s hair and could just about contain her enthusiastic bosom, whilst ensuring that in the event of a tumble or other mishap, her vaginal modesty would be protected, and also keep her warm. If people spoke to her tits all day rather than her face, she wouldn’t be offended. With the emerald green velvet pretty much glued on (she was dreading needing a wee), she accessorised with bright red killer heels and luminous red Marc Jacobs lipstick. She felt ready for an evening of flirting and fabulousness.
Dixie was staying in one of Peter’s investment properties around the corner in Mayfair, while Freddie was already holed up at Claridge’s in the wedding suite. When Stella arrived, Dixie was sitting serenely in the corner getting her hair and make-up done, drinking a cup of tea. She looked oddly virginal; very out of character, very calm and peaceful. Through the window the low December sun had an orange glow that softened her freckles and lit up her hair. Stella suddenly felt a tear prick as she realised Dixie was going to be the most beautiful and serene bride she had ever seen. For a brief and sad second, a memory of her own wedding flashed before her; when she was full of hope and love and anticipation, when she thought nothing could ever come between her and Jake. She quickly snapped herself out of it, reminding herself that today was not about her, or Ana’s dramas and regrets – it was just about Dixie.
Soon they were hugging and kissing and carrying on as a relatively mild bout of wedding day hysteria overcame them. They might have changed and grown and matured, but there were still times when they were just two best friends who loved and fought and made up and loved again. As if knowing she was missing out, Ana arrived, looking more radiant than ever. Her hair was shining, eyes glistening; in spite of the stress, pregnancy really suited her.
‘Wow, Ana, you look good enough to marry!’ laughed Dixie. ‘How are you feeling? You sure you don’t want me to rustle you up a date?’
‘I’m good. I have stopped throwing up. I no longer want to kill everyone I meet. Perhaps the next six weeks will be more harmonious than the first! And I even found a designer dress that makes me feel hot as hell!’
Stella noted that she’d ignored Dixie’s question about her ‘plus one’. Questions would have to wait. She hoped desperately that she really was all right.
Ana’s dress, a beautiful, fitted Missoni, glinted metallically and flattered her in every way. The flashing dynamism made everything fluid; unless you knew, there was no way you could tell she was in the early stages of pregnancy. Ana had never looked so elegant and sophisticated. She even wore stunning strappy, gold Louboutins. It was unheard of for Ana to wear one designer piece, let alone two. Stella had to whistle in appreciation.
‘Wow girl, you are killing it. You look HOT!’
With Dixie’s hair and make-up complete, they helped with the final details of her look. Freddie had sent over some eighteen-carat diamond pendant earrings from Boodles to provide the final bling. Having already done and solidly proven the superstitious pointlessness of something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue from her previous failed marriage, Dixie had instead opted for something bridal (dress), something new (Ana), something old and bitchy (Stella) and something bling (Boodles). They gathered before the wall-to-wall mirror and raised a toast to their friendship, and the bride, obviously.
Dixie’s dress was a gorgeous number from a little-known American designer which was just sooo her: a deep V-neck nearly down to her belly button was filled in a light tulle. Beaded all over, with little spaghetti straps, showing off her beautiful elfin-like shoulders and sweeping figure, it was fitted to the ground, and over the top she slipped the most incredible sheer cape covered in more shining beads and gleaming stars.
‘You look like the most angelic Christmas fairy, you slut!’ laughed Stella.
‘Thanks, bitch,’ said Dixie, hugging her. ‘You get to make every joke you want because we both know I wouldn’t be here today without your love and determination.’
Ana joined them both in another hug, before Dixie pulled away.
‘I will not fuck with this mascara! Step back, you crazy bitches.’
‘Now I’m kind of officially bi-curious, I thought I might introduce an age-fetish into the mix at this wedding,’ teased Stella. ‘Age-fluidity is the new bi-curiosity. I might turn the tables, check out Freddie’s dad, see what he’s packing. You know, as I am here alone and all that…’
Dixie gave her a warning look.
‘No sexual assault!’
Dixie turned away and tightened her cape around her throat. Stella worried that the cape wasn’t going to keep her warm, but it would keep the snow off her shoulders and give her dress a train while she said ‘I do’. Her brilliant red hair tumbled down her back, with just a single sparkling clip holding it in place. She was mesmerising – a queen of fire and ice.
‘Holy fucking fuck, Dixie Dressler, you look in-fucking-sane! Freddie is the luckiest man alive. If he doesn’t gasp when he sees you walk down that aisle, then he’s not the man I think he is.’
‘I’m feeling a little sick,’ squealed Dixie with delight. ‘I am in a wedding dress, about to get married! Again! We’re just waiting for one more VIP.’
Stella and Ana looked at each other. They read each other’s thoughts: both were hoping that Peter would not be part of the wedding party as he was such a controlling force. Stella wanted to say something but her better instinct ruled that it was Dixie’s wedding, and Peter had for many years been the most important man in her life.
Eventually the buzzer rang.
When the door opened, a little shyly, a head peeked around the door.
‘Phew, the right place!’ said Pearl. ‘I brought some snacks.’ She opened a pink carton of fairy cakes and, without waiting, snaffled one and held out the box proudly. ‘Weddings can be very taxing… calorifically. Eat up!’
Chapter Thirty
Stella
For their arrival at Claridge’s, Freddie had insisted they go for something dramatic. After some discussion, ranging from the traditional Bentley to the hackneyed vintage Rolls, they had opted instead for a pseudo-regal arrival: an open-top carriage. Perhaps not the wisest choice for December in London, but they were lucky and the fresh snow had emptied the streets. The flakes fell in orange mounds beneath the street lamps, and the horses’ hooves clipped and clopped gently through the streets. With the careful use of dainty umbrellas, warm sheepskin rugs over their legs, and blankets over their shoulders, they arrived outside Claridge’s exactly six minutes after 4 p.m. to find a small crowd of onlookers gathered. The hotel had erected red ribbon barriers to allow them unhindered access to the portico.
A footman helped each of them down, Dixie stepping down last, dropping her rug and giving the waiting photographers a few seconds to collect their shots. In the flash of bulbs, Dixie laughed at the drama, loving the attention. As she was helped down to the freshly swept paving stones, Stella heard an insistent American voice behind her.
‘You, yes, I insist you let us through. We are guests of Mr Frederick Eastman. We’re with them… No, we’re not part of the wedding party, we’re guests… but surely—’