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Authors: Abby Green
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him feel unaccountably protective.
Samia was facing another velvet drape in another exclusive shop about three hours later—albeit this time in a secluded side street in Paris, the centre of world fashion. She’d woken just before the air stewardess had come to tell her they were about to land, and Sadiq had largely ignored her on the journey into Paris. She fiddled for a moment with the chiffonoverlay of the dress, and then the much friendlier French stylist appeared at her side and tugged her through the drape. ‘Come on,
chérie.
We have a lot of outfits to get through.’
Samia closed her eyes for a split second and held her breath, the bright light blinding her for a moment so she couldn’t see the initial expression on Sadiq’s face. He was standing near the window and he lowered the ever-present smart phone from his ear.
Samia desperately felt like fidgeting in the long dress, but the stylist was already fussing around her, tweaking and pulling. Resolutely refusing to be intimidated this time, she hitched up her chin and looked straight at Sadiq—but his gaze was somewhere around her breasts. Samia’s jaw clenched; he was looking
for
them, no doubt. Although she had to admit that even she’d been surprised at how voluptuous the dress made them look.
The sylist had chided her that she’d been wearing the wrong size bra for years and had quoted a size of 32C, which had had Samia protesting vociferously that she must be wrong. Until she’d given her a bra to try and it had fitted like a second skin.
Sadiq’s gaze finally ascended and his face was completely expressionless. Samia thought she saw a flare of something in those blue depths, but put it down to the light and cursed the traitorous jump in her pulse.
‘Much better.’ His voice was cool. ‘This is more like it. Well done, Simone. Keep going.’
And then Samia was whisked away, back into the dressing room, and pushed and pulled and contorted into a dizzying array of outfits. Evening wear, daywear, casual wear, beachwear. She soon affected her own uninterest as she was paraded in front of Sadiq for the umpteenth time. And then they were finished. When she went back outside Sadiq was gone, and she felt an ominous lurch where her heart was.
She whirled around when the petite Frenchwoman appeared holding out her coat. ‘Um … do you know where …?’
Simone smiled and said cheerily, in her gorgeous accent, ‘Your fiancé is trusting my judgement for the rest of the day. You don’t really want him to see your wedding outfits before the wedding, do you? And also …’ She linked her arm with Samia who felt extremely uncomfortable—never having been a
girly
girl. ‘I think when he sees you in your new underwear it should be a nice surprise,
non?’
For the next few hours, until dusk fell over Paris, Samia endured the humiliation of having an army of women parade around her, poking and prodding, and of climbing in and out of underwear so indecently flimsy that she had no earthly intention of ever wearing it for herself, never mind for someone else!
She’d been measured for her main wedding dress, which she would wear on the final day of the celebrations—the most westernised part of the wedding. The rest of the fitting for that would take place the next day, as well as her spending a few hours in a beauty salon. In a couple of weeks the dress would be brought to London for a final fitting and last adjustments before they left for Al-Omar.
So apparently they were staying in Paris for the night. An ominous fluttering started up in Samia’s belly.
Simone escorted her out to the car that had been ferrying them around all afternoon and bade her goodnight, telling her that all of the clothes would be delivered to London and then on to Al-Omar. She pressed a small luxury holdall into Samia’s hands and winked. ‘You might need this tonight.’
Samia wasn’t sure what she meant until she opened it in the privacy of the back of the car. She
Samia was facing another velvet drape in another exclusive shop about three hours later—albeit this time in a secluded side street in Paris, the centre of world fashion. She’d woken just before the air stewardess had come to tell her they were about to land, and Sadiq had largely ignored her on the journey into Paris. She fiddled for a moment with the chiffonoverlay of the dress, and then the much friendlier French stylist appeared at her side and tugged her through the drape. ‘Come on,
chérie.
We have a lot of outfits to get through.’
Samia closed her eyes for a split second and held her breath, the bright light blinding her for a moment so she couldn’t see the initial expression on Sadiq’s face. He was standing near the window and he lowered the ever-present smart phone from his ear.
Samia desperately felt like fidgeting in the long dress, but the stylist was already fussing around her, tweaking and pulling. Resolutely refusing to be intimidated this time, she hitched up her chin and looked straight at Sadiq—but his gaze was somewhere around her breasts. Samia’s jaw clenched; he was looking
for
them, no doubt. Although she had to admit that even she’d been surprised at how voluptuous the dress made them look.
The sylist had chided her that she’d been wearing the wrong size bra for years and had quoted a size of 32C, which had had Samia protesting vociferously that she must be wrong. Until she’d given her a bra to try and it had fitted like a second skin.
Sadiq’s gaze finally ascended and his face was completely expressionless. Samia thought she saw a flare of something in those blue depths, but put it down to the light and cursed the traitorous jump in her pulse.
‘Much better.’ His voice was cool. ‘This is more like it. Well done, Simone. Keep going.’
And then Samia was whisked away, back into the dressing room, and pushed and pulled and contorted into a dizzying array of outfits. Evening wear, daywear, casual wear, beachwear. She soon affected her own uninterest as she was paraded in front of Sadiq for the umpteenth time. And then they were finished. When she went back outside Sadiq was gone, and she felt an ominous lurch where her heart was.
She whirled around when the petite Frenchwoman appeared holding out her coat. ‘Um … do you know where …?’
Simone smiled and said cheerily, in her gorgeous accent, ‘Your fiancé is trusting my judgement for the rest of the day. You don’t really want him to see your wedding outfits before the wedding, do you? And also …’ She linked her arm with Samia who felt extremely uncomfortable—never having been a
girly
girl. ‘I think when he sees you in your new underwear it should be a nice surprise,
non?’
For the next few hours, until dusk fell over Paris, Samia endured the humiliation of having an army of women parade around her, poking and prodding, and of climbing in and out of underwear so indecently flimsy that she had no earthly intention of ever wearing it for herself, never mind for someone else!
She’d been measured for her main wedding dress, which she would wear on the final day of the celebrations—the most westernised part of the wedding. The rest of the fitting for that would take place the next day, as well as her spending a few hours in a beauty salon. In a couple of weeks the dress would be brought to London for a final fitting and last adjustments before they left for Al-Omar.
So apparently they were staying in Paris for the night. An ominous fluttering started up in Samia’s belly.
Simone escorted her out to the car that had been ferrying them around all afternoon and bade her goodnight, telling her that all of the clothes would be delivered to London and then on to Al-Omar. She pressed a small luxury holdall into Samia’s hands and winked. ‘You might need this tonight.’
Samia wasn’t sure what she meant until she opened it in the privacy of the back of the car. She
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