once falling into a vortex of transparency and tube tops. She adeptly meted out the budget and had a knack for suggesting alterations that gave an expressive pop to something I’d never have glanced at twice. She knew to strategize sewing weights into any hem, if a dress inhibited the way I had to sit or stand, could weather a traffic jam, or would look discordant with any of Nick’s blue suits. And she didn’t need any help.
Lacey responded with that dog-with-a-bone mentality that helped her pass algebra when we were in middle school and got her to med school (if apparently not through it) and even into Freddie’s bed. As we slowly stockpiled outfits for any occasion that might arise, Donna bumped up against Lacey at every turn, pushing the boundaries, desperate to make her mark.
“I like this one for an evening event,” Lacey said, pulling out a sexy gold strapless dress.
Donna made a polite noise and put it back on the rack. Lacey turned to me and examined the suit I was trying on, for my eventual first meeting with the Archbishop of Canterbury.
“That skirt could be a bit shorter,” she said. “You’re not eighty.”
“The Palace prefers to abide by certain rules,” Donna said pleasantly. “Rebecca’s nice long legs make any length work.”
“But it’s so off-trend,” Lacey complained.
“The Palace prefers not to bow to trends,” Donna said. “Rebecca has to look timeless.”
“But look at this day dress,” Lacey said, pulling one off the rack. “It’s so mumsy. That neckline. Bex is flat-chested so she can wear something low-cut without it looking vulgar.”
“The Palace prefers not to involve a lady’s sternum,” Donna said, calm but firm. I wondered if Marj had handed her a list to memorize.
“Well, fortunately, I have some accessories that will help,” Lacey said.
“The Palace prefers a minimum of fuss,” Donna said.
“The Palace prefers a minimum of fun,” Lacey groused.
I tried to make whatever concessions and conciliatory gestures I could, but I caught myself deferring to Donna more and more because, frankly, she was right. There were certain parameters I was not free to wiggle around, or at least, not during what was essentially my rookie year. After two full days of push-pull, Lacey retreated to the couch, giving only one-word answers and perfunctory smiles. Then she bailed and never returned. I tried tempting her with outings that had nothing at all to do with me or the wedding, but Lacey found conflicts with them all. By May, our conversations were just laundry lists of items she’d bought, restaurants she’d gone to, or men who were secretly in love with her, and she never, ever asked me anything. Not about how I was doing, or how Nick was, and not even razzing me about my thickening hair. Lacey was as finely attuned to my scalp as musicians are to their instruments, and she was the one person I’d counted on to tease me about the six hours I would spend letting Kira fuse bundles of a vegetarian Indian girl’s hair to my own inferior head. It was tedious and weird—before they were trimmed, they came down to my elbows, making me look like a cut-rate reality-TV star—but I didn’t want to bring it up for fear of looking like I was all me, me, me.
And yet, even without its emotional stalwarts, Team Bex was bigger than ever. Marj drafted a phalanx of expert strangers who diagnosed me as a Neanderthal hunchback with Clydesdale tendencies, and began shepherding my way through Duchessing for Dummies. No longer could I clomp from point A to point B. I had to glide, each leg crossing slightly in front of the other, my foot going heel-sole-toe at exactly the right smooth pace. I was taught to don and doff coats without them hitting the floor; to use only my left hand to hold drinks at official events so that my right would never be damp or clammy for handshakes; and accordingly, that I’d be better off never taking an hors d’oeuvre, lest I be forced to shovel it into my mouth. Before sitting, I learned to bump the chair ever so gently with my calves to be sure of where it was without glancing behind me. I must only cross my ankles, never my legs, and when getting up from that position, it is a discreet ballet of scooting to the edge of the chair and then standing quickly while uncrossing things. I am not uncoordinated, but that tripped me up