ALMOST A BRIDE (Open On Annie)

Prologue

D-DAY- A year ago

The shoe was undoubtedly the cause of all the problems that day. It was the shoes fault that I came home early, and the shoes fault I was fired.

I suppose I can’t blame the shoe for making me late though- that was the alarm clocks fault for rudely deciding not to do it’s job.

And when finally, through the thick haze of sleepiness, I realized that it hadn’t gone off, it was too later. I was already late for work. And when I say work, I mean my brand new job- job of my dreams- as an intern at ‘Glamorous Girl’ mag.

It was still early days, so I was desperately trying to impress by being perfect, polite and oh-so obliging. Whether it was the request for the Latte to be served at 36 degrees with no sugar, soya milk froth and a sprinkling of organic Cocoa powder flown in directly from the foot hills of the Andes Mountains, or whether it was for the Jasmine and Lavender scented candles to be burnt in the office for ten minutes before my boss arrived--that was me.

Little Miss. Annie Obliging.  

Because lets be honest, the word ‘intern’ is really just a polite synonym for impoverished slave girl.

So when I realized I wouldn’t be able to attend to the scented candles, or fetch the Latte, I panicked. So much so, that I left the house without the said trouble- making, life- ruining, world-annihilating shoes.

Lets take a moment to talk about the shoes. Because they weren’t ordinary shoes, oh no, they were none other than the - just- off- the- Paris- catwalk- and- not- for- sale- to- mere- mortals yet, Christain Louboutins that were the center pieces for that days shoot. That same rushed panic that caused me to forget the shoes, had also left me with barely enough time to scrape my hair back into a casual bun and slip on a slightly creased t-shirt from my floor and the first pair of jeans I could find.

The latter is a bigger sin than you think. Because where I work, wearing anything other than the most fashionable apparel, is sacrilege. People practically throw holy water at you and start wailing in Latin, for fear that you’ve been possessed by the demon of bad fashion. In fact, a real demon possession, complete with a backwards rolling head and the ability to speak in tongues, would be preferable to the demon of last season’s handbag, and Croc sandals.

So when I finally got to work, underdressed, out of breath, without the shoes and over an hour late, I was in serious trouble.

My boss was throwing a cadenza, due to lack of flowery scented office and her gay PA Sedric was in the throws of dramatic caffeine withdrawal due to lack of Latte.

And it kept getting worse.

Two hours later the panicky fashion director summoned the Louboutins. Those shoes had been troublemakers from the start; it had been an absolute trauma getting them in the first place, they’d been flown in to South Africa late last night and I’d been tasked with collecting them. Everyone was virtually holding their breath for the grand arrival. So when I was forced to confess to their absence….well, you can only imagine.

So when lunch finally arrived, I jumped into my car and sped home. I had exactly one hour to get in and out before the photo-shoot.

I pulled into my driveway, grabbed my house keys, ran for the front door, slipped them into the lock, and turned--

But…

Something made me stop.

Something told me not to go inside.

Something was very wrong.

I looked around nervously; everything seemed normal. Peter across the road was blasting his TV as usual, the rat bag Chihuahua from number 45 was running up and down the garden perimeter yapping at an unseen force, and Mildred my neighbor was outside watering her hydrangeas.