Almost a Bride

by Jo Watson

  And of course they loved the idea—they even closed the shop over lunch and we all went out to celebrate. And from that moment onward, it moved so fast. We got into that back room of the shop that evening and cleared it out. We set up a table and a workbench and made the thing livable.

  With Zolani’s investment, I bought another sewing machine, hired a staff member, and bought some—super-discounted—fabric from the Patels. Zolani worked her magic, and soon my bags were being sold in a few shops. She was this powerhouse one-woman machine and I loved working with her; she was the sassiest woman I’d ever met and we soon became fast friends. And Stormy-Rain loved her, possibly more than she loved me. In fact, Stormy insisted that they had been related in a previous life.

  And suddenly my life was so much richer and fuller.

  But the best part of it all—the cherry of cherries of big fat tasty cherries on top—boss bitch Sonja wanted to do a designer profile on me in the next edition of Glamorous Girl. Oh, the sweetness of this revenge. So far she only knew the label as Annie Anne; she didn’t know I was behind it.

  So that day Zolani dragged me to her house and dressed me in her most fabulous clothes. She even got a hair and makeup woman to do me up, her gift to me. Later that day I walked into the offices of Glamorous Girl magazine with my head held high.

  The whispers started immediately. I could hear the hushed tones and feel the suspicious eyes on me. Last time these people saw me I had ruined a very expensive shoe, a very expensive photo shoot, and been arrested for “attempted murder.”

  Sonja’s office still smelled like jasmine and lavender, and I wondered what poor eager soul she had running after her now.

  “Anne.” Her tone was acidic. “Dahling, what a surprise.”

  “So good to see you, Sonja.” And I really meant it, because it was good to see her. For reasons that were about to become abundantly clear.

  “Divine, you look fabulous, but I’m sorry if you’re here looking for work. I’m afraid your old position is full. And if you will excuse me, I have a very important meeting now—”

  I cut her off. “I know. It’s with me.”

  The shock.

  The horror.

  I could see her brain was working overtime. “Dahling, of course it’s you, I was just teasing. And we couldn’t be prouder of you here. Could we?” She turned to another carbon copy of herself, who nodded. “Yes, we’ve been talking about it in the office all day, it’s all we talk about. Anne this, Anne that.”

  Lying bitch.

  But I didn’t care. I was going to take this opportunity and make the most of it.

  “So. Anne. Tell me your whole fabulous story. Where did the inspiration for these bags come from?” Sonja’s voice was sticky sweet and disgusting.

  I had to resist the urge to tell her the truth. Oh, but what fun it would have been to see her face when I told her that the clamping of each little diamanté had had the cathartic effect of driving a voodoo pin into her head. Instead, I stuck to the pretty story that Zolani and I had discussed.

  So I told her my story. I told her that after “leaving” a magazine job I started making the bags as a kind of rebellious declaration against fashion in general. I told her about ending up in a small fabric shop in the heart of Johannesburg. I told her all about the Patels and how the colorful materials and the weird and wonderfully diverse South Africans that came into the store inspired me.

  She had nodded and smiled, like she agreed, but inside I knew she was probably mentally wishing she had never met me, never clapped eyes on my bag, and was running me over with her shiny new Jag.

  We parted on civil terms, since I wouldn’t have done my future career any favors by pissing off the queen.

  In celebration of the day’s events, Zolani decided to throw a party at her house that night. She invited everyone that meant something to me. Damien and Lilly were there of course. Stormy arrived with her new “boyfriend”—I throw those air quotes in because she only dates guys for exactly six weeks and then breaks up with them. Jane had recognized him immediately and told me that under no circumstances was I to shake hands with him…ever.

  I later discovered that he was a rather infamous artist that had made a sculpture out of chicken carcasses outside of the KFC to protest corporate farming. Yes, it doesn’t quite make sense.

  Val was there with Mark, the friend that she’s been in love with for years. How he didn’t know was still a mystery to us all. She basically hung on his every word and laughed at everything he said.

  Zolani had even invited the Patels, all of them. We all squeezed into her small yet wildly stylish apartment, drinking champagne and laughing the night away. I looked around the room, and thought of what a motley crew we were. A bunch of unlikely people brought together by my bag. I guess what Zolani had said about them in the beginning was true; they were a true mix of colorful South African culture. God, that was deep again.

  There was only one thing missing from this moment, and that was Chris.

  “So you know we’re going to be rich and famous now.” Zolani came up behind me and slipped an arm around my waist. “Everyone is going to be talking about Annie Anne and her amazing bags.”

  “Oh, please!” I tsked.

  “Mark my words,” she said, handing me another glass of champagne. “A toast.” She held her glass up and I followed her lead. “To us. From wildly successful business partners”—Zolani was not short on confidence, that’s for sure—“to best of friends.”

  “Aaahh. That’s so…” I gulped back a tear. God, I was feeling so emotional all of a sudden. “I feel the same way.”

  “Oh please don’t cry on me now, you’ll ruin that fabulous makeup.” She gave me a hug and walked off. I watched her go and felt so lucky to have met her.

  * * *

  When Chris phoned that week, I was dying to tell him, even though we’d made that unspoken rule about never talking about the daily things in our lives. I couldn’t help it.

  “So…remember that bag I had in Mauritius?”

  “I know.”

  “What?”

  “You’re quite the celebrity designer now.”

  “Have you been stalking me?”

  “No, an actress walked on set the other day with one, raving about how she’d picked it up in South Africa. I recognized it immediately.”

  I swallowed hard; the celebrity carrying my bag meant nothing…

  “You’re making a movie?”

  “I am.”

  Pause.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not the one you read.”

  “What’s it about?”

  I could almost hear the smile. “Wait and see, Annie Anne, wait and see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Some months later a large brown envelope arrived on my doorstep. May I just add that my doorstep was now located in a small, modest apartment with no naked neighbors. I’d upgraded slightly. Zolani and I had branched out and were growing the business. I had started designing skirts and dresses, and she had managed to get them into stores across the country. And people were actually buying them. It was far from a million-dollar business, but I was actually able to make a living doing what I loved—which is a gift that most people cannot say they have.

  I picked up the envelope and went inside. I was convinced it was probably a friendly reminder from the bank or from a store, to pay them. So I chucked it to one side and forgot about it entirely until later that evening when I actually stepped on it. And that’s when I saw the address on the back. It was from Los Angeles, California, USA.

  I ripped the thing open as fast as my fingers could manage. I knew who it was from. I didn’t know anyone else who lived in America. And there, right before my eyes were…

  A plane ticket to LA. And an invitation to the premiere of an independent short film written and directed by Mr. Chris Christophersen entitled, The World’s Stupidest Man.

  I blinked several times and reread that title at least ten times.


  He didn’t.

  Surely not? Written a story about himself? I turned the invite over and read the small blurb on the back:

  The World’s Stupidest Man is a dark comedy drama about a once cynical and reclusive man who falls in love with a free-spirited woman, but loses her. It’s an ironic tale about a man coming to terms with what it means to be in love for the first time in his life and how to go about getting her back.

  Um…

  I read it again just to be sure. “Stupidest Man…once cynical and reclusive…loses her…how to go about getting her back.”

  I didn’t know what to make of this. Was it a joke or was he being serious? Either it was the sweetest, most romantic, albeit completely weird gesture anyone had ever made to me in my entire life, or it was the craziest thing I’d ever heard of. Had he seriously written and directed a movie just to get me back? The answer was obvious when a small handwritten card fell out of the package.

  Dear Annie,

  You’re going to cool places, you’re off and away. LA is waiting, so get on your way!

  Love,

  Chris

  PS—Please bring that thing that I told you to keep safe.

  PPS—Wear something that makes you look like a hot bitch.

  What thing had he asked me to keep sa…Suddenly it clicked. And I barely believed it the second my brain worked it out. I ran to my bedroom and opened the drawer, and there it was. I actually hadn’t looked at it in a few months.

  I opened the box and my heart exploded with happiness. The ring looked bigger and more beautiful than I remembered. Was this some kind of grand marriage proposal? Was he being serious? The big thing that he’d been planning this whole time? (Or maybe he just wanted it back to sell it; the thing probably cost more than my apartment.)

  I wanted so badly to go, but a little voice in the back of my head was saying no. Now I was confused.

  The truth was, even if I had been trying to deny it, Chris and I weren’t friends.

  The hours we spent on the phone giggling and chatting certainly contradicted that. The extended good-byes with neither of us wanting to hang up, the long silences on the phone that felt so comfortable and right. We were never going to go to each other’s weddings, hang out drinking cold beer and watching the game together, nor would we slap each other on the back and give high fives or whatever else pals did with each other.

  Because, the truth was, I was still in love with him—and now I knew he was still in love with me, too. But this time at least we had better grounds for it; we’d really gotten to know each other this past year. The way real relationships should work: You meet someone, you get to know them, and then you fall in love and get married. First time round we’d skipped the whole “getting to know each other” part and gone right to the I dos. But this time it was different. And yet that still didn’t render me any less confused.

  So I did the only thing I could: I called the logical one for an emergency meeting. And thanks to Jane, a week later I was standing in LAX airport. She had been instrumental in helping me decide to go. Her insistence that it was the worst idea in the world and that I should unequivocally not go, just made me realize that I needed to go.

  As a South African you hear a lot about LAX. The Carrie Bradshaws of the movie and television world are always rushing off to LAX—while the real-life Sarah Jessica Parkers are spotted disembarking from their private jets, always looking glamorous in their oversized sunglasses. So to actually be standing there felt totally surreal, and to be going to a movie premiere was even more out of this world.

  I walked out of the arrivals terminal and felt overwhelmed. It was definitely ten times the size of any airport we had in SA, and just when I was starting to feel panicky, I saw a man in a black suit holding up a sign.

  ANNIE ANNE

  I was a bit disappointed that Chris wasn’t there, but he was probably busy getting ready for tonight.

  My disappointment eased slightly at the sight of a large, sleek black limo waiting for me. I’d never been in a limo before.

  The inside was even sleeker than the outside, with ridiculously large, comfortable black leather seats. These portable lounge suites stood on a dark gray, velvety, and ever-so-soft carpet, and were flanked by shiny wooden side tables. All that was missing was the champagne.

  “A drink, ma’am?” the driver asked me after putting my bags in the trunk. (I stand corrected.)

  “Um…sure.”

  He opened a sliding drawer to reveal a fully stocked bar. Glasses, drinks, snacks—the whole deal. Suddenly I was J. Lo and Rihanna and starring in a hip-hop video.

  Driving through LA felt strangely familiar, probably because I’ve seen it a million times on TV. We continued to drive for a while, when a sign for Beverly Hills came into view. Even though I knew that this is where some of the world’s richest people live, nothing prepared me for actually seeing their houses up close. They were palatial.

  And then we stopped outside the Four Seasons Hotel. Clearly, Chris was sparing no expense in what was really a very big attempt at winning me back—and I was beyond flattered.

  The inside of my hotel room was stunning—bright and airy. And with the décor combination of gleaming white and cream, punctuated by splashes of bright pink, my room was definitely reminiscent of spring. But the best part of all was the small balcony that gave you a view of the whole city sprawled out in front of me.

  I set my watch to local time and realized that I only had three hours before the premiere started. The driver had said he would fetch me, and I needed to get ready.

  An hour later, I slipped into one of the dresses from my new line, an African-inspired little number with a very plunging neckline. I put on black heels, grabbed one of my bags, and looked at myself.

  This was it. Ready or not.

  The drive to the event was physically painful it was so nerve-racking. And by the time I’d gotten there, I’d bitten through at least two of my nails. I’d never been more anxious and more excited to see anyone—ever!

  As soon as I got to the event, I started scanning the dense crowd for Chris. But there were just too many people—and I was starting to feel a bit like a fish out of water in this foreign environment, surrounded by all these foreign people. I tried to phone him, and started to feel slightly more unnerved when I reached his voice mail. Not even the security guy at the door could tell me where I could find Chris.

  And just as I was reaching a panic of epic proportions, feeling so uncomfortable that I could climb out of my skin—I saw him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Chris was standing on the other side of the large room we’d just been herded into: an old retro cinema foyer with red carpet up the wall.

  I could only see the back of his head at first, but recognized it straightaway. Salt and pepper, scruffy, a tad long, possibly in need of a trim. Then he turned and I was almost knocked off my feet by an invisible gust of wind.

  He was clean-shaven, not a stray hair in sight; it was the first time I’d ever seen him like that. He was also wearing—be still my mad beating heart—a black double-breasted tuxedo with black satin lapels. He still maintained that signature casual Chris element, though, by wearing a dark gray shirt with a few buttons undone. No tie. A little bit of scruff mixed in with sophistication. Perfect.

  In contrast to his now even more perfect-looking face, he was surrounded by a bunch of guys with hipster beards, checked shirts, and very intense-looking expressions. They had an almost constant nod going while Chris was talking. His face, as always, was animated and friendly. I just stood and watched for a while, mesmerized by the confidence he spoke with. How full of life his eyes were and how, every now and then, even these serious-looking guys would burst out laughing—I wished I could hear what he was saying, longing to share a laugh with him in person.

  The buzz of an alarm went off to signify that the movie was about to start, and I suddenly felt like I was getting pushed by the crowd, away from Chris. I held my hand up in t
he air and called out, “Chris!” But nothing.

  “Chris!” I shouted louder this time until he looked up and found me. The feeling I got when our eyes met again, for the first time in almost a year, is hard to describe. I’ll try…

  Have you ever been dared to jump into a pool in the middle of winter? The water is icy and biting. And the shock of it is so overwhelming that you feel like you might have a heart attack. Not only is the feeling physical, every part of your body stinging as the icy water rushes over you, but it’s mental, too. Suddenly you are wide-wide-wide awake. Your heart is pumping, your brain is switched to overdrive, and all your senses are acutely alive. That’s how it felt.

  Chris smiled at me, and I smiled back. I smiled so wide that the corners of my mouth hurt like someone was tugging on them.

  I started moving toward him but seemed to be getting ushered in the opposite direction. I started climbing the velvet rope separating us when a man rushed up and ushered me away. I saw Chris waving. He was mouthing something and pointing his finger in the direction of the cinema. I didn’t need a sign language interpreter to figure that one out.

  So I went with the crowd, hoping to see him inside. But by the time I got inside it was pitch black, and an annoyingly helpful usher had attached himself to me. I guess their job is to usher, and normally I would be appreciative of said ushering, but now was NOT the time to be ushered, especially if it was in the opposite direction of Chris.

  I finally got to my seat and when my eyes adjusted to the light, I started desperately scanning the room again. I was tempted to take out my cell phone and use the flashlight on it, but I didn’t.

  I thought about calling out one more time or waving my arms in the air, but then I felt something fly into the back of my head. I turned, and about six rows up I saw Chris, throwing a rolled-up piece of paper at me.