At Mr. Cartwright's Command (13 page)

T
he night before the fitting feels endless. It turns into one of those anxious, sleepless nights where I stay awake in bed for hours plotting the next day, going over every possible scenario in my head and how I'll handle it.  Yet when I awake the next morning, I'm no more self assured than  the day before.  That's a whole lot of sleep lost for nothing.

I spend the morning running around town to six different designer showrooms and bridal shops pulling absurd amounts of gowns for Veronica’s dress fitting.  Each gown feels heavier than the one before – I have no idea what they look like underneath the sturdy garment bags but they must be ornate as all hell.

Luckily, Melissa doesn't need the company van today and lets me use it to haul the gowns upstate.  Trying to lug these all on the subway would been impossible.

Once the last gowns are pulled and the van is packed, I let the GPS lead me out of the city and into the country, traveling through those familiar rolling hills with random ornate mansions littering the horizon in the distance.  It reminds me of the drive up to Mr. Cartwright's home, except more open and, believe it or not, with homes that are much larger and considerably older. 

The drive is long and quite boring, especially since the van doesn't have have a jack for mp3 players or cell phones.  The first thing Melissa needs to do after the check clears for the wedding is to update this thing.  It takes about 45 minutes to get the location, even though it feels like twice as long.

This is definitely upstate, and this is certainly a manor. 
No wonder Veronica is the way she is
, I think as I pull to her parent's sprawling estate.  Even the drive up to her front door is a long one, with acres of lush, well manicured greens surrounding the property, and tall topiary lining the driveway.  The house itself is all brick, clearly very old, but obviously well maintained.  She probably has parents who spoiled her with things but neglected her most of the time—she clearly is a product of her surroundings.

I sigh.  Well, here goes nothing.

I exit the van, making my way towards the back where I start to unload. The back is packed with gown after gown after gown, all in over-stuffed white and pink garment bags.  It's going to take me a couple of trips to get these in, so I prop up one garment rack and fill it with as many dresses as it can take without it tipping over.   I won't even bother to ask for help – it's not like any of those women would lift a finger do manual labor, let alone help me.

“May I help you?” A woman with a stern face and a strong Spanish accent opens the door after I ring twice.

“I'm here for the bridal fitting today,” I say with a smile.  She cocks her head to the side as she gives me a once over. Sheesh, even Veronica's maid is snotty.

“What did you say your name was?” she asks.

“Tamara Pierce.”

“Tamara Pierce?  Hold on one second,” she says and closes the door in my face.  I wait anxiously on the porch – I just want to get this over with, and I'm not even in the door yet.  I swear, if she forgot or changed the date without telling me I'm going to... no, that wouldn't happen.  Veronica loves to torment me, after all, and I'm sure she's been waiting for this fitting for weeks.

The door creaks open again and the same woman is standing in the doorway, looking slightly more friendly.

“This way, Ms. Pierce,” she says, waving me inside.

“Would you or someone else mind giving me a hand with the door?  I have a couple more racks after this one,” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, keeping it propped open wide for me.

I follow her into the home, which remarkably looks even larger than it does from outside.  It resembles a library or a museum more so than a house.  Someone actually lives here? I shouldn't be surprised after Mr. Cartwright's digs, but I suppose these types of ridiculous displays of wealth will never cease to amaze me. 

I'm so caught up by the scenery – the opulent crown molding and shiny tile floors – that I don't even notice Veronica standing in the room when we round the corner.

“You're late,” she says.  She sounds awfully ticked off and has scowl on her face.  In her hand she has a tall glass of red wine, held closely to her lips, with her giant rock prominently on display.  I'd be willing to bet she sleeps with that thing on.

I glance down at my watch.  “I'm actually right on time.”

“You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

Is she crazy or am I?  “No, our itinerary had 1:30pm down for the fitting.”

She flips her surprisingly long, and sort of fried, hair back – which is down for the first time ever – and rolls her eyes.  “Oh, whatever, this is no time to argue,” she says in  a fuss, hustling across the tile and heading straight for the rack.  “Did you get them all?” she asks, as she fumbles through the gowns.

“Yup.  And there's more in the car.”

“Good.  Start taking these garment bags off so I can see them.  Then you can move in the rest.”

If there's anything I hate in this world it's being told what to do by the likes of Veronica. But I have to remember what Connor said.   I do my best to hide my disdain as I start unzipping each bag, letting each dress go free.  Some of these gowns are
huge
.  Like, ginormous.  I feel as if I'm swimming in a sea of tulle and sequined embroidery.  And all I can think about is what a pain in the ass it's going to be to stuff these back in their bags.

The lady from the door attempts to jump in and help, but Veronica puts that to a quick stop.  “No, no Rosa, she can do that herself.  Get me another glass of wine, please.”

It takes me a good ten minutes to unsheathe all of those dresses, run outside and get the rest of the lot, and do the same thing over again.  Veronica stands nearby watching me like a hawk the entire time.  But as I finish I notice something – we're the only two in the room. 

I wipe the sweat from my brow with my arm and glance around. “Don't brides usually have their maid of honor or their mother here for this?”

She shoots me a pointed look over the top of her glass.  “That's none of
your
business, and I don't have time for your attitude today,
Tamara
,” she spits out.  “Especially not after all that shit you pulled at the bakery.”

Well damn.  Who thought a simple question would ruffle Miss Priss' feathers so much?  I get a kick out of the fact that she doesn’t have any friends or family who care enough to show up.  That is, until I realize I wouldn't either.

She does have one person who's pretty important though...

I zip my lips, deciding I'll just keep my mouth shut for the rest of the time. I stand idly by as Rosa brings her a fresh glass of wine.  With her well manicured hands wrapped around the stem she goes through the rack, inspecting each dress carefully as if it were some sort of fragile artifact that had just been excavated.  And they are beautiful, that I can't deny; almost every single one of them, even the ones that are way too princessy for my taste.  When she's done, and her glass is nearly empty, she hands it off to Rosa and points to the last dress in the rack.

“I think I'll start with this one.”

“Okay,” I  reply.  She looks at me oddly as if she's waiting for something.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I ask confusedly.

She rolls her eyes at me yet again.  “You really are useless, aren't you?  Get the dress and bring it into the changing room for me.”

She is
seriously
trying my patience. It seems as if the less reaction I give her the meaner she gets.

“Alright,” I oblige. I grab the gown of her choice and follow her just a couple of doors down the hall into what looks like a small, private spa or salon.  I don't dare to ask but I cant help but wonder what she uses this room for.  Surely she doesn't have a salon inside her house?

“Just hang it over there,” she says, pointing to a hook on the opposite side of the room. 

The gown is heavy and I'm happy to set it down.  By the time I get it to stay on the hook and not slip off the hanger, I turn around to find that she's already stripped off her dress and is standing there in just her underwear and a nude strapless bra. She really couldn't wait for me to leave to do that?

I avert my eyes and head for door.

“And now where are you going?”

“To wait outside?”

“The who's going to help me get into this thing?”

Oh, so now I have to dress her too.  Note to self – Mr. Cartwright is essentially marrying a toddler.

From the way I look at it, she has two arms and can step into the gowns.  So I'm not quite sure how she wants me to help.  I stand there awkwardly for a moment.  “But what
exactly
do you want me to do?” I question her.

“Help me into it,” she says matter-of-factually.

“Okay...” I'm still completely lost.  How hard is it to put on a dress?  She's probably done it a million times in her lifetime.  But I play along, grabbing the gown off the wall and dragging it over to where she's standing.  Damn, it's heavy.  I guess I can sort of see why she would need assistance with this.

I hold it up in front of her, unsure of what to do next, and she gives me that “hurry the hell up” eye.  So I unzip it and hold the back open, instructing her to step in as if I really know what I'm doing.  Surprisingly she does it without complaining, although she still has her frigid bitch-face in tact.

“Zip me up now,” she says, holding the top of the gown up around her chest. 

Right. I move behind her and grab the two edges of fabric, holding them as closely together as I can, which... isn't actually that close.  Did the designer give me the wrong size?  Because the bodice of this dress is clearly too damn small. And she's going to give me so much shit if I tell her that.  So I try to zip it up anyway, yanking on the zipper as hard as I can without breaking it.  She keeps huffing and looking over her shoulder at me, but this thing won't go any higher than half way.

“Will you hurry up and zip it already!”

“I'm trying; it's not going.”

“Ugh, it's because you're doing it wrong!”

How can I be doing it wrong? There's only one way to zip up a dress. I tug my hardest, but it doesn't budge.  “Sorry but it... doesn't seem to fit.”

“Like hell it doesn't,” she shouts.  I take a step back—I know she's crazy but now she's erratic too.  Who knows what she's capable of.  “This is your doing!  It's you again trying to sabotage
my
wedding!”

Suddenly I understand the meaning of the word Bridezilla.

I try to remain calm. “I'm not sure how you think I could do that. I didn't shrink your dress,” I reply with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

“You've already turned my fiance against me.  You
ruined
my cake tasting.  You're ruining my dress fitting.  What are you planning next, Tamara? Hmm? Crashing the ceremony? Setting the church on fire?”

Okay, she has officially lost her goddamn mind.

I hold up my hands to placate her.  “First, you're not even getting married in a church, you're getting married outside,” I say.  “Secondly, I'm just trying to do my job.  Why would I try and sabotage your wedding if it would mean getting myself fired? Think about it.”

She pauses, contemplating it for a moment.  “Because you want him. You want Mr. Cartwright all to yourself and you won't stop until you get him.”

“I don't want Mr. Cartwright.”  Even I'm surprised by my own gusto when I say it.

“Like hell you don't.  And you're not going to get him.  He'd never pick you, not over his inheritance.”

“I know that,” I say.  The sad part is, he'd never pick
either
of us over his inheritance. And I think Veronica knows that.

“And don't forget it,” she adds. She unzips her gown and lets it fall to the ground.  “Now go fetch the next dress, we have a lot of work left to do.”

*

Who knew trying on dresses would be such an ordeal? An all day, 8-hour ordeal is something I did not expect, even with the excessive number of gowns she has me haul.  Nor did I expect her to try on every last one of them, and some twice.  You'd think she would've found 'the one' long before the end of the day.

The rest of the day is pretty much silent.  There's a heavy tension between us – it's not entirely comfortable but I'll take it over her insulting me constantly.  We fall into a pattern – I grab a gown or two, bring it into her changing area and help her get in.  When she starts admiring herself and twirling in the mirror it's my clue to start moving new dresses in and old ones out.  “Keep that one,” she says a couple of times.  I'm not exactly sure how she wants me to “keep them”, but I start separating the dresses she likes from the ones that she doesn't.

After I help her into the last gown I head back out to start the daunting task of packing up the remaining gowns. Much to my surprise, Rosa is already out there and helping.

I only have a few completed when Veronica marches back into the room.  “Make sure the gowns I chose make it to the studio tomorrow before 8am, that's call time for the photo shoot.”