‘Why are you doing that?’

‘Usually women who are used to wearing very heavy make-up feel naked and dissatisfied when they first look in the mirror at what I have done, but they react in a totally different way to a Polaroid of themselves.’

I sit on a stool and she positions herself in front of me.

‘Are you wearing colored contact lenses?’

I nod.

‘Are they for correction purposes or just cosmetic?’

‘Cosmetic.’

‘Right.’

Going to a drawer she brings out antiseptic wipes and a contact lenses case and some storing solution. She gives the wipes to me and fills the cases with the solution and passes them to me. I clean my fingers and remove my lenses.

‘You have such lovely hazel eyes,’ she says. ‘What a shame to cover them with those lenses.’

Then she wets a cotton wool pad with make-up remover and starts taking the layers off. Once it is all gone she takes a step back and looks at me carefully. ‘Your eyebrows are so light. Is that the natural color of your hair?’

‘Yes.’ I grimace.

‘Why do you do that? It’s a beautiful color.’

She says no more. Just quietly gets to work. Lana comes back just as she is finishing. Her mouth becomes a surprised O and her eyes sparkle with delight.

‘Oh, Julie,’ she exclaims. ‘You look stunning.’

Another photo is taken of me and then the stool is turned around. I look at the mirror.

And I am not pleased.

The girl looking back at me is too exposed. Too young. Too uncovered. Aisha brings the two photos and puts them into my hands. The photos tell a different story. One is harsh with black eyebrows, fake blue eyes and thickly painted lips and the other is a dewy and soft eyed. I know which one I prefer. I look in the mirror.

‘I guess I am just not used to it,’ I say uncertainly.

Lana comes close to me. ‘Julie, you look beautiful. I have never seen you look more beautiful.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Look, let’s go do your hair, and then you can decide.’

Lana pays for my cosmetics and we leave. I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors and maybe, maybe Lana is right. I do look better. Different anyway.

Inside the fragrant air-conditioned confines of the hairdresser’s, Bruce Lenhart’s eyebrows fly into his hairline.

‘What’s the inspiration for this?’ he asks, running his hands through my hair.

‘Morticia Adams,’ I say meekly. I’m not about to tell anybody that Lana is my inspiration.

He crosses his arms across his chest. ‘Your hair is very dry. Do you straighten it as well?’

I nod.

‘So your hair is curly.’

‘Wavy.’

‘And you have been coloring your hair for how long?’

‘Years.’

‘Let’s get to work.’

As he works he explains that trying to bleach away years of chemicals is very harmful and he won’t be able to strip it back to its natural color. But he will take away as much as he can, throw a medium brown dye on all of it, and add three shades of highlights everywhere, which will turn me into a dark blonde overall.

Afterwards he cuts a good four inches of damaged hair off. By the time he is finished I am totally confused. I don’t look like myself, but I can see that the creature in the mirror is attractive. With soft tendrils around her mouth, drawing attention to its glossy color.

It’s… It’s, well, I guess, it’s quite…sexy. I look sexy. Lana comes up to me, meets my eyes in the mirror. She smiles and nods her head.

‘You’ll do,’ she says with great satisfaction, and I know it is the highest compliment I could receive from anyone. Because the truth is I don’t just secretly hate her, I also secretly admire her.

Eight

It is the eve of the wedding. Tom comes to pick Billie and me up and drives us to the church for the rehearsal. Made of ancient grey stone it has a quaint feel to it. We are introduced to India Jane, the wedding organizer. She has a posh voice, no-nonsense eyes, and oozes superficial charm from every pore. As soon as everyone arrives she sets about taking us through our paces with impressive efficiency, but I am too excited to pay much attention to any proceedings that do not directly involve me. Tomorrow I will see Jack again! I try to picture that moment and wonder what he will make of my dream dress, and the new me.

I hardly speak to Lana as Blake never lets her out of his sight. I do, however, meet Blake’s sister. A fully-grown, handsome woman who smiles artlessly, and behaves like a child. In the procession, she walks with a basket of flowers behind the flower girls and baby Sorab, who is carried in by his Nanny. He is given a dummy ring pillow to clutch.

I also meet all the groomsmen except for the best man who apparently has been through his part separately as he is attending a funeral wake. I wonder what it must be like to attend a funeral one day and a wedding the next.

At the end of it all, when Billie and I are about to get into the Bentley to be driven to Wardown Towers, where we will spend the night, Lana runs up to us and gives us devastating news.

I did do some research and discovered that Wardown Towers houses one of the largest and most fabulous art collections in private hands and is considered the grandest estate in Bedfordshire. It even has its own Zoo, but I go to it heavy-hearted and saddened. It is all for nothing.

Jack is not coming to the wedding.

The Wedding

Nine

It is 10.00 a.m. and I am in Wardown Towers. Billie and I spent last night here, because in four hours Lana will become Mrs. Blake Law Barrington. I have left them in the room with the make-up artist and the hairdresser while I go down the impressive curving staircase and walk through the many reception rooms and out into the stone courtyard. Stretched out below me is the vista of beautifully manicured gardens and farther away, but still part of the estate, the best and greenest of English countryside.

I watch workers stream like ants in and out of a large white marquee. They are carrying mostly flowers and plants, but also trays and boxes of all kinds. I go towards it and stand at the entrance.

Inside, it is bustling with activity.

A very gay man, presumably the one Lana says is from Beverly Hills, is prancing around giving orders. I gaze around in wonder. The tent is in the process of being turned into a gold, black and cream wonderland. The ceiling of the interior is made with hundreds of yards of crushed black velvet and looks like a giant black scallop. Fairy lights illuminate its whorls. Six enormous, three-tiered chandeliers hang from this sumptuously decadent ceiling.

The stage at the end of the room is made of hedge and surrounded by magnolia trees that were separated into trunks, branches and flowers so they could be flown in from America. Workers are reassembling them with staple guns. For a moment, the florist in me feels for those beautiful trees that will, after this one occasion lasting no more than a few hours, wither and die. The gratuitous waste of these beautiful trees is shocking. And yet this what I have read about in all the celebrity mags and longed to be part of. They are only trees, I tell myself. Raised solely for this purpose. Their greatest moment is here. When they are part of the fantasy garden a billionaire banker pays to create for his bride. She wanted a spring garden wedding.