Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(76)

I shook my head. “I’d have to take a closer look.”

“Here’s the cardinal rule of designing for a knocked-up bride: Never trust the due date.”

“You think she’s off by a little?”

“I think she’s off by at least two months.”

I gave her a blank stare.

“I see it all the time,” Finola said. “Maternity is the fastest-growing department in bridal ready-to-wear. Approximately one in five of my brides are pregnant. And many of them fudge the dates. Even in this day and age, some women worry about their parents’ disapproval. And there are other reasons…” She shrugged. “It’s not for us to judge or comment. If I’m right about the timing, then Bethany’s belly will be considerably larger than we expected when she walks down the aisle.”

“Then we should forget the paneling and replace the entire overlay,” I said distractedly. “Although there’s probably not enough time to get new beadwork done.”

“We’ll have some hideously expensive local person do it. How long will Bethany be in town? Can we schedule an additional fitting for her tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. In the morning?”

“No, we’ll need more time than that. How about in the afternoon after your meeting?”

“I’m not sure how long it will last.”

“If you can’t make it, just have Bethany come here by four. I’ll take pictures and send jpegs so you can see exactly what we’ve done.”

“Finola… are you absolutely sure about the due date?”

“I’m not a doctor. But I guarantee that girl is more than four months pregnant. Her belly button’s popped out, which usually doesn’t happen until the end of the second trimester. And the way that baby’s kicking? Impressive for a fetus that’s only supposed to be about five inches long. Even though Bethany’s kept her weight down, the bump doesn’t lie.”

I went out to dinner that night with Jasmine and an assortment of old friends from the fashion industry. We sat at a table for twelve in an Italian restaurant, with at least three or four conversations going on at any given moment. As always, they had the best gossip in the world, exchanging tidbits about designers, celebrities, and society icons. I had forgotten how exciting it was to be in the middle of everything new and fresh, to know things before the rest of the world did.

Plates of beef carpaccio were brought out, the raw meat sliced into translucent sheets even thinner than the scattered flakes of shaved Parmesan on top. Although the waiter tried to bring baskets of bread along with the salad course, everyone at the table shook their heads in unison. I stared forlornly at the retreating bread, which left wafts of sweetly fragrant steam in its wake.

“We could each have just one piece,” I said.

“No one eats carbs,” replied Siobhan, the beauty director at Jasmine’s magazine.

“Still?” I asked. “I was hoping they’d come back by now.”

“Carbs will never come back,” Jasmine said.

“God, don’t say that.”

“It’s been scientifically proven that eating white bread is so bad for you, you’re better off emptying packets of granulated sugar into your mouth.”

“Send Avery a copy of the KPD plan,” Siobhan said to Jazz. She gave me a significant glance. “I lost twelve pounds in a week.”

“From where?” I asked, looking at her rail-thin frame.

“You’ll love KPD,” Jasmine assured me. “Everyone’s doing it. It’s a modified ketogenic-Paleo-detox plan, starting with an intervention phase similar to Protein Power. The weight comes off so fast, it’s almost as good as having a tapeworm.”

When the entrées were brought out, I realized I was the only one in the group who had ordered pasta.

Jett, an accessories designer for a major fashion label, glanced at my penne and said with a sigh, “I haven’t eaten pasta since Bush was in office.”

“First or second?” Jasmine asked.

“First.” Jett looked nostalgic. “I remember that last meal. Carbonara, extra bacon.”

Becoming aware of their intent gazes, I paused with my loaded fork halfway up to my mouth. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “Should I eat this at another table?”

“Since you’re technically an out-of-town guest,” Jasmine said, “you can keep your penne. When you move back here, however, you’ll have to say good-bye to refined carbohydrates.”

“If I move back here,” I said, “I’ll have to say good-bye to a lot of things.”

At one o’clock the next afternoon, I took a cab to midtown and walked into the Stearns production offices. After five minutes of waiting, a young woman with a messy bob and a skinny black pantsuit came to escort me to an elevator. We rode a few floors up and entered a reception area with a spectacular ceiling paved in a lavender-and-silver mosaic tile design and furniture upholstered in a deep shade of eggplant.

Three people were there to greet me with such lavish enthusiasm that I relaxed immediately. They were all young and beautifully dressed, smiling widely as they introduced themselves. The woman introduced herself as Lois Ammons, a producer and executive assistant to Trevor Stearns; after that came Tim Watson, a casting producer, and Rudy Winters, a producer and assistant director.