A Rhapsody Of Sorts

23- Roses Are Red, But So Are You

November 16, 2012.

After a series of attempts to reach the clasp with a pair of salad tongs and a coat hanger, I realized that it was impossible for me to zip up my dress without dislocating my shoulder. Although it probably wouldn't have been as painful as shopping for the dress had been in the first place, I figured Harry would be better at zipping it up for me than he would be at popping my joint back into place.

On Thursday morning, after Harry left with a sheepish smile on his face, I called Belinda to tell her that I'd acquired a plus-one for the premiere. What I hadn't expected was for her to knock on my door ten minutes later, grinning wide enough to scare me into compliance. She'd dragged me to a boutique in Hammersmith, where she made me try dresses on for upwards of three hours — each of them in various shades of pink that she thought would brighten up my "grumpy disposition" — until I felt like I might pass out on the dressing room floor.

She'd almost stabbed me in the heart with a glittery rose-shaped broach, and though she claimed it was an accident, I saw her smile to herself in the mirror when she circled around me to zip up the gown she'd just tugged on over my head.

"It's very pink," I'd told her, fingering the magenta applique sitting between my breasts with distaste. "I don't really think it's, er," I picked up the dress' long swishy skirt, tightly fisting the chiffon material, "me."

"You're probably right," Belinda sighed, placing her hands on her hips. "It's too similar to the color of my dress anyway. We'll look ridiculous in pictures." She pulled the zip down and slipped it over my head in one quick motion, already back to grappling through the rack of dresses the shop assistant had pulled for us.

"What do you mean by...pictures?"

Her face lit up when she turned back to me, her crooked, sincere smile coming as close to breaking my heart as a smile ever had. "Pictures of you and me together, of course!"

"Belinda," I started, hesitant to put a damper on her spirits, "I wasn't planning on stepping on the carpet or anything like that, if that's what you mean—"

"Why not? Mum and Katie are going to, at least for a little while," she interrupted, smile turning into a puzzled frown. "If it's because you're afraid of what they'll write about us, that's daft — you're the one who said they can't hurt us, Oliver."

"No," I answered. "I'm not worried that they'll trash us. But, you know, with Harry and everything, I think it'd be better if he and I went in 'round the back."

Her eyes glazed over with disappointment, as she bunched up the red dress she was trying to get off of its hanger and held it close to her chest. I continued, "Your mum and sister should be there — they're your family. It'll be better for everyone if I—er, and Harry, aren't there."

She'd chewed on her pink bottom lip for a moment before she'd nodded in agreement. "Okay." Then a small smile had returned to her features, though it wasn't nearly as crooked or as heart stopping as the one she'd been wearing before. "They could get some good action shots of us at the after party, at least."

Now, I was wearing the same red cocktail dress that she'd held in a ball over her front, wishing more than ever that she was here to zip up the clasp the same way she had the day before. My hair was plaited down my back, I was wearing the earrings Belinda had picked from my jewelry box, and I'd just pulled on a pair of black heeled ankle boots, when I heard the single, quiet knock sound from the other side of my front door.

Panicked, I crossed my arms over my chest and hurried to the door, pulling it open and catching a brief glimpse of Harry's face before I groaned, "I can't reach it."