Poles Apart

I forced a smile, trying not to show how detached I was from it all, how emotionless I was inside about it. I couldn’t even summon one ounce of excitement. The wedding planner and Carson had chosen a date just over five months away because it fit in with his racing season being over. That meant, in five months, I would be married to a person who barely even liked me. What exactly was there to be excited about in that? Nothing.

“I don’t have a preference, baby; you just have what you want.” There, that answer should suffice and mean I don’t have to talk for the next half hour!

Carson sighed deeply, obviously seeing my unwillingness to be a part of this stupid day. He set down his champagne flute and scooted forward in his chair, taking the colour wheel from Margo’s hand and tossing it onto the table. “Emma’s favourite colour is red; dark red, like maroon. She likes butterflies, so maybe we could incorporate that somehow? I don’t know, on the invites or place names or whatever. Book the Scotland castle then if it’s a nice place. And as for the honeymoon,” he shrugged, “go for somewhere ridiculously hot with a gorgeous beach and no paparazzi. Emma and Sasha will need to order passports as they don’t have them.”

My mind was reeling as he spoke. How on Earth did he even know my favourite colour? Had I told him, or was he some kind of mind reader?

Margo gasped. “Butterflies? We could definitely work that in!” she exclaimed excitedly. “We could have the napkins printed with a butterfly in the corner and your initials either side, or incorporated stylishly within in the wings. I’ll get a designer on that and see what they can come up with. We could then have the same design throughout all the invites, thank you notes, place names, and table favours. I bet we could get some metal ones crafted and inserted into the bridal flowers. Oh, and I’ve just thought of the most beautiful idea for your hair instead of a tiara, Emma,” she enthused, patting my knee excitedly. “Butterflies! Beautiful!” She even clapped her hands as she wriggled in her seat happily. The scratch of her assistant’s pen filled my ears like a buzzing of a bee that I wanted to swat.

A butterfly theme. Had I not hated the whole idea of being forced into marriage, I would have swooned over the very thought of it. Instead, my wedding, which seemed as if it was going to be my perfect, dream wedding, was marred with thoughts that this wasn’t what anyone truly wanted. It was just a marriage of convenience and nothing else.

“Great. Are we done now? I think I’ve had about as much wedding planning as I can take for today,” Carson muttered, clenching and unclenching his hand on his knee as if it were painful.

I frowned, studying his hand to see if I could see anything wrong with it.

Margo cleared her throat and nodded toward all the books, magazines and other wedding planning essentials covering every inch of the brand new white wood table that Carson had bought yesterday. “Well, your part can be done for now if you want, Carson. Why don’t we girls just spend a few minutes talking about wedding dresses?” she suggested, grinning wildly.

I groaned internally, willing Carson to tell them enough was enough and that we’d pick this up another time. Surely they had enough to be getting on with for now. He didn’t jump in and save me, though; instead, he nodded and stood up, stalking from the room without another word.

Once he was gone, out came another book. Margo moved from her seat and sat opposite me. Her excitement was evident and burst from every pore. Clearly, this was her favourite part.

“I have some fantastic contacts, Emma, so if you have a designer in mind then let me know. But do you know who I think you should wear? Alexander McQueen!” she gushed.

Kimberly squealed, and the two assistants nodded in agreement, but I had no clue who they were talking about. Obviously he was some kind of famous designer, but I didn’t much follow the fashion world.

“I personally know Sarah Burton, and although the timing is short, I’m sure she could come up with something stunning and elegant,” Margo continued. “Something beautiful and form-fitting, something people will talk about and envy.”

I cleared my throat. “Who’s Sarah Burton?”

Margo raised one eyebrow before sharing a meaningful look with her assistants that clearly meant I was a level of stupid she wasn’t used to dealing with on a daily basis. “Sarah is creative director at Alexander McQueen,” she replied. When I still didn’t get it, she laughed incredulously, but it was a mocking laugh that made me feel about three inches tall. “Sarah is the one who designed The Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding dress.”

I gulped and shrank in my seat. My mouth had gone dry. “Oh,” I muttered before shaking my head. “I don’t need a designer dress. What’s wrong with me just going to a bridal dress shop and picking one out?” I didn’t need a ridiculous amount of money spent on a dress that I would only ever wear the once.

Margo’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “You don’t want an off-the-rack dress. You want something original, something stunning, something that shines and glitters like a thousand diamonds are sewn into it. Something that will show off everything you have to perfection and make you look unforgettable. You want people to talk about you for months after, telling their designers they want to look like you on their wedding day. You want people gushing over your photos saying how jealous they are of you because you look so beautiful,” she answered loftily, as if all of this should have been obvious to me.