“The circumstance?” Piper repeated. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m following.”

“The simple fact is that while I know you’re hoping that I can help your situation, I just don’t have enough time to design and produce hats for your wedding, which is in, what, six weeks?”

“Eight weeks, at the end of June. But, Viv, you have to,” Piper wailed. “My wedding will be ruined without you, absolutely ruined.”

I glanced at Andre. He ignored me and blew delicately on the tea in his cup. Obviously, Piper’s dramatics were nothing new to him.

“Dearest, so long as you and the groom show up, I sincerely doubt your wedding could be ruined by your bridesmaids’ hats, or lack thereof,” Viv said.

“Oh, it’ll be ruined. Whatever would people say? My mother would have an absolute episode. No, it’s completely unacceptable to have a hatless bridal party. I mean, we’re not savages,” Piper said. She glanced at me and said, “No offense.”

I sipped my tea and shot my pinkie out as if that proved I wasn’t a barbarian from America.

“Viv, I’ll do anything,” Piper wheedled. “You know, with all of the royals now married off, my wedding is to be the wedding of the year. I can’t have some second-rate milliner for the bridal party. It has to be you.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some resourceful up-and-coming milliner willing to fill the void,” Viv said. She set her cup on its saucer and placed it on the low table in front of us, indicating that the discussion was over. She looked every inch the picture of millinery royalty that she was.

Piper’s face became pinched, and she looked like she was considering having a tantrum. Her face cleared as she thought better of it. Good call. Tantrums never worked on Viv, they just got customers banned for life.

“How about this: Why don’t you come to the wedding as our guest of honor?” Piper asked. “You could stay the entire weekend. We’re getting married at Waverly Castle in Sussex, you know. Lots of hills, fields, sheep and quaint little villages. You could use it as a holiday.”

I saw Andre shudder. I wondered if it was the hills, fields, or sheep that he objected to.

“Andre is our photographer and he’ll be there all weekend,” Piper said.

“Right. Wait . . . what? Me? I’m your photographer?” Andre asked.

Piper turned her enormous brown eyes on him and blinked once, then twice, and then added a lip tremble. Andre was a goner. I’d known him for years now and he was useless with tears, anyone’s tears—child, woman, man, didn’t matter. Tears hit him like a wrecking ball.

“Yes, of course. Do not tell me you’re backing out, too. I mean, you promised me, Andre,” Piper said.