Suddenly Bethany jumped a little and put her hand to the front of her stomach. “Oh!” She laughed. “That was a strong kick.”

“It was,” Finola said. “I could see it. Do you need to sit down, Bethany?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Good. I’m just figuring out this paneling situation. I’ll be done in a second.” Finola’s gaze was filled with warm interest as she looked at Bethany. “I’m trying to figure out how much your bump will grow in the next month… Are you by chance expecting twins?”

Bethany shook her head.

“Thank goodness. One of my sisters had twins, and that was an unholy challenge. And the due date… has that been revised?”

“No,” Hollis answered for her.

Finola glanced at her assistant. “Chloe, please help Bethany out of the dress while I talk with Avery about the alterations. Bethany, may we leave your mother here with you?”

“Sure.”

Finola went to Hollis and picked up the empty champagne glass on the little table beside her. “More champagne?” she asked. “Coffee?”

“Coffee, please.”

“I’ll tell one of my assistants. We’ll be back soon. Come, Avery.”

Obediently, I followed Finola out of the dressing room. She gave the empty flute to a passing assistant and directed her to brew some fresh coffee for Mrs. Warner. We proceeded along a quiet hallway to a corner office lined with windows.

I sat in the chair that Finola indicated. “How tough is the paneling to fix?” I asked in concern. “You won’t have to take the whole skirt apart, will you?”

“I’ll have my pattern maker and draper take a look at it. For what they’re paying, we’ll remake the entire fucking dress if necessary.” She stretched her shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck. “You know what the problem with the paneling is, don’t you?”

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.”