Hana slumped into her chair and put her face in her hands. An image of Henrietta’s dress fluttering in the breeze occupied her inner vision and she tried to see the funny side. Then she sat up straight, her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no!” she gasped. “What should I wear on Friday?” She ran through a list of possibilities, dismissing them all as too old, too prim, not wedding enough or just not gonna happen.
Hana panicked. She looked at her watch and then remembered her car sitting in Angus’ garage. By the time she got to it, the shops would have shut. “I can’t wear jeans to my own wedding,” she groaned, laying her head on her forearms. The idea came and went numerous times before Hana acted. In her defence, she felt she had no choice.
‘HELP ME,’ said her text to Anka’s number. No reply ca
