She stands before me in a floor-skimming, shimmery gold slip dress with barely-there straps. The bodice dips low between her breasts, clinging to her like a second skin. If I was a cartoon, I’d have big hearts in my eyes. “This is as close as we’re getting to a wedding dress,” she says, smoothing the dress over her hips. “I’m sorry, but I’m not wearing pink, and all the black ones felt too austere.” “Rachel, is that runway Versace?” I say.
