On the Rocks by Erin Duffy
Chapter 1
Just Like Instant Cookie Mix, but Slightly More Expensive
THERE HAS GOT to be a reason why they do this,” I said as I turned and checked out the back of my dress in the three-way mirror. “I mean, it doesn’t make any sense. This is without question the most expensive dress you will ever buy in your life. Explain to me why the sample size is so big you need clothespins to hold it up? You can’t even tell how it’s going to look when it’s the right size!” I stared at the back of the ivory strapless Vera Wang gown, in all its beautiful satin and lace glory, being held up by heavy-duty clothespins that cost two dollars for a bag of three hundred from the corner store. Personally, I thought the wedding dress industry was pushing the concept of shabby chic just a little too far.
“That’s not even the worst part, Abby,” my best friend Grace said from her perch on the chair in the corner of the room. “You go to a sample sale for normal clothes and the average size barely fits a six-year-old. The fashion industry is all kinds of screwed up.” She downed a glass of champagne. Free cocktails seemed to be the latest trend in customer service for soon-to-be brides and, in this case, their friends. I was pretty sure the booze was the only reason Grace was so eager to follow me to bridal shops all over the city, but I didn’t mind. I figured there was no harm in having a few drinks as long as Grace, not me, was the one who got buzzed. The concept of getting love-struck girls liquored up in a bridal salon seemed a bit risky. The last thing I needed was to overdo the bubbly and end up putting down a nonrefundable deposit on a dress with a forty-foot train or something.
Kate Middleton I am not.
“On the flip side, it does make me feel skinny,” I admitted.
“You may have just answered your own riddle,” Grace said as she finished her glass of Mo?t. “Do you think we could get some of our other friends to pretend they’re getting married so we can keep coming in here for free happy hour?” she asked. Most people would have laughed this off, but I knew Grace well enough to know that she wasn’t kidding. These were tough times, and you’d be surprised how creative you can be when you’re looking for ways to cut down on bar bills.
“That’s got to be bad luck,” I said as I shook my head. “Of all the wedding superstitions I’ve ever heard, pretending to be engaged so you can save money on alcohol has got to be right up there with wearing someone else’s ring on your ring finger.”
“It’s bad luck to wear someone else’s ring?” she asked as she peeled chipped pink nail polish off her thumb.
“The worst. Don’t ever do that,” I scolded her.
“Well, I’m screwed. I’ve been doing that for years. We’ve been friends since we were six. Why are you just telling me about this now?”
“Clearly, I’ve failed you,” I said as I piled my bottle-blond hair on top of my head to simulate actual wedding hair instead of the unbrushed mess of frizz that it actually was. “I’m going gray. Look at this,” I said as I smoothed the hair around my part. My overgrown, mousy brown roots were now showing random strands of gray. “I need to get my highlights done.”
“You spend so much money on highlights! You don’t need them. You’re not going gray.”
“Not all of us have perfect hair.”
“I’m a redhead. Not perfect.”
Grace’s hair wasn’t red. It was an ethereal, natural shade of auburn. It was a color that girls spend hundreds of dollars on trying to simulate and never come close to achieving. Grace was a stereotypical Irish girl. She had gorgeous red hair, shocking blue eyes, pale skin, and the ability to guzzle booze like a three-hundred-pound man. When I looked at the thousands of pictures of us from over the years, she always looked the same, while I transformed from the short girl with mousy brown hair and brown eyes to the short girl with bottle-blond hair and brown eyes. I wanted to hate her for her God-given beauty, but I loved her too much. I have, however, stopped standing next to her in pictures.
The annoying perky bridal lady who was helping me popped her bobble-head into my dressing room. “How are we doing in here, ladies? Can I get you anything?” she asked in a voice so high it sounded like she had sucked on a helium tank.
“The bride needs a glass of champagne,” Grace said with authority. “She’s a little jittery.”
“Not a problem, I’ll be right back,” she said as she pushed her way back through the heavy curtain.
“I don’t want a glass of champagne,” I said to Grace after the perky lady had left.
“It’s not for you, it’s for me.”
“Why do you need to drink to watch me try on wedding dresses?” I joked, though I already knew the answer.
“I don’t. But it’s free, so why wouldn’t I?” she said with a shrug.
I laughed. I loved Grace for her blunt honesty and her ability to find the fun in any situation—even sitting in the corner of a dressing room wallpapered in satin wedding dresses that more or less all looked the same. “Well, for what it’s worth, I do think that dress looks beautiful on you,” she said. “You know, assuming you ditch the clothespins and have about fifty yards of fabric removed. Do you want me to take a picture to send your mother?”