The Matchbreaker [antikvár]

I could think of far better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon in June than trying on bridesmaids' dresses. However, that is exactly what I found myself doing one day last summer; sweating like a French cheese in a changing room without air-conditioning in one of London's biggest departoient stores; trying not to swear out loud as I stepped into a dress specifically designed to bring out the red in my spots. It was a gold dress. Who on earth does a gold dress suit? Not an ash-blonde like me, that's for sure.Still, the bridesmaid doesn't really get much choice what she's going to wear, does she? And if the bride's special colour scheme for her big day decrees that her attendants look like they're suffering from a bad case of jaundice, there's not much the average bridesmaid can do about it but slap on some extra blusher. Not that there was enough blusher in the world to save me from looking like a convalescent right then. Karen's colour scheme decreed that her bridesmaids look as though they had just been disinterred . . .'Oh, Lindsey, you look beautiful,' Karen gushed as I emerged from the changing room. I prayed as I did so that no one I knew would walk past. I would have dropped dead for real if anyone I respected caught me looking so grim.'That empire line is super-feminine,' the shop assistant chipped in. 'And it reaUy does suit you.''Try this headdress with it,' Karen suggested.