I turned and saw my friend and neighbor Andre Eisel strolling down Portobello Road toward me while shaking his head. A strikingly handsome man with diamond ear studs that winked at me in the morning light, he was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt that showed off his dark complexion, beneath a black blazer with the collar turned up, and thickly soled combat boots. He was a professional photographer, and his impeccable sense of style was enough to make me feel dowdy in my brown ankle boots, cream-colored midi dress and loose-fitting navy cardigan.

Bella recognized him immediately and simply lost her puppy mind, barking and jumping as if she never received any attention at all. Honestly, from her behavior, a person would think I habitually left her outside in the cold, chained to the gate. The little conniver.

“Bella, my love,” Andre cried. He immediately dropped into a squat and gave her all the affection her doggy heart could hold.

“Encouraging her histrionics is not helpful,” I said.

He glanced up at me, completely unrepentant. “Where’s Harrison?”

“He had to go into the office early today,” I said. “So, I’m bringing Bella to Mim’s Whims with me.”

“Viv is going to love that,” Andre said, eyebrows raised.

“Meh, she’ll get over it,” I said. “She won’t admit it, but she secretly loves Bella.”

Andre rose to his feet and fell into step beside me. It was a glorious May morning. The sun was warm, the air was cool, the birds were— Bella stopped our walk to do her business. Again.

“Here.” I handed Andre the leash. He made a face while I took out a biodegradable bag and cleaned up after my girl. I tossed it into a nearby bin, and she glanced at me over her shoulder with her little tongue hanging out of her mouth. “Who’s Mama’s good girl?”

She wiggled and I gave her another treat, bending over to pat her soft head.

“She’s going to get fat,” Andre observed. He squatted down beside me and pointed to Bella’s round tummy.

“Hush,” I said. I clapped my hands over her ears. “She’ll hear you and you’ll scar her for life.”

“I would never—”

“Andre! Yoo-hoo!” Andre glanced across the street, where a tall, curvy brunette stood waving. She was dressed head to toe in designer clothes, from her pink Christian Louboutin heels, to her blue silk Stella McCartney dress, to her matching pink Chanel bag.

“Ack! Hide me,” Andre said. I glanced at his face. He wasn’t joking.

“Who is she?”

“Bridus horribilis,” he muttered. “Piper May, about as posh as they come. Her wedding is next month. I’ve been dodging her for weeks.”

“But you’re a photographer,” I said. “Aren’t wedding gigs your bread and butter while you pursue your artsy photos on the side?”