Bee’s wedding planner, whom Hannah decided would be played in her imaginary big-budget wedding movie by Bonnie Hunt from Jerry Maguire and Cheaper by the Dozen, made it clear to Bee and her bridesmaids that once they were inside the tower with their dresses on, they would have to stay put until the wedding began.

The larger of the tower penthouse’s two rooms had a television, a Wedgwood blue velvet furniture set, and a sizable bathroom with two full-length mirrors, so there was no acceptable reason to leave, the wedding planner had said, with her eyes on Hannah as if she could read her mind.

The planner explained that when the clock struck five and the guests had found their seats, each woman would walk down the spiral staircase, exit the tower, take the arm of a groomsman—or the father of the bride, in Bee’s case—and make her way straight down the aisle, which was actually a meandering stone path as historic and well-manicured as the rest of the grounds.

The wedding wouldn’t start for another hour, but Dawn was already lining up her cosmetics on top of the end table in the larger of the two rooms. Her methodical arrangement reminded Hannah of the way the metal tools were displayed in a dentist’s office. Dawn organized her collection of beauty products by size—the skinny eyeliner pencil next to a tube of mascara next to a box of blush next to a tray of eye shadow.

Hannah wondered whether she might be able to postpone getting tweezed and painted for another half hour or so. Her dress was on, but she hoped to hold off being made up like a prom queen for as long as possible. She walked over to one of the tower’s windows and rubbed the back of her neck so aggressively that she felt the chain of pearls dig into her skin. She tugged at the clear strap of her bra, which pressed uncomfortably against the back of her neck. It was the most complex piece of lingerie she’d ever worn—a padded support system that had to be special ordered for the occasion by all the bridesmaids. Hannah had watched the other women slip into their special bras without help but had been unable to figure out how to put the bra on by herself. It wound up being a two-woman job; Bee and Dawn had surrounded Hannah to fasten her into the contraption, which crisscrossed her lower back twice and fastened with a sharp-cornered metal clip just above the axis of her spine.

“Does it have to be this tight?” Hannah had whined to Bee after the brassiere had been secured.

Dawn had answered before Bee could respond. “Any looser and you’ll fall out of your dress, honey,” she’d said sternly, peering at Hannah’s breasts disapprovingly. “You’re already going to be spilling over.”

Hannah had already called Rob twice, from her temporary prison in the tower, hoping he might calm her down about the bra, her impending walk down the aisle, and Natalie Portman, whom Hannah assumed was less likely to give her good news with each passing hour. Rob Nutley was supposed to be at this wedding. He’d RSVP’d, and had told Bee that he’d happily attend, and now, living up to everyone’s expectations of him as the reckless and irresponsible one, he was a no-show. Hannah had been counting on Rob to get her through the weekend, but now there would be no one but Vicki, who, these days, wasn’t much of a source of support to anyone.