I laugh. “I know. I’ll send Dale in my place, but something important came up.”
“More important that playing golf with the Dubai prince who could help us make millions?”
“Yeah. Besides, Dale is way better at golf than I am.”
He snorts. “I can believe it. Fine. But you owe me.”
Wynter stares at the floral blouse Lucy is holding up with absolute horror written across her face.
“It’s ugly,” she says flatly.
Lucy turns it towards herself, inspecting it critically. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s something a ninety-year-old woman would wear.”
“I deeply resent that.”
I bite back a smile from my place beside the changing rooms.
So far, we’ve been to three maternity shops.
Wynter has hated every single item she’s been shown.
Apparently, pregnancy fashion consists mainly of giant flowers, depressing beige and fabric that resembles curtains. All Wynter’s words, not mine.
“I swear,” Wynter mutters, shoving another hanger aside, “the second you get pregnant, society just decides you should give up entirely.”
Lucy snorts.
I glance around the shop one last time before speaking carefully. “I might have an idea.”
Both women turn towards me immediately.
“No pressure,” I add quickly, holding my hands up slightly. “But if none of these places are working for you . . .” I hesitate briefly. “A friend’s wife owns a boutique around the corner.”
Wynter sighs dramatically. “Ray, if you take me somewhere with more floral cardigans, I’m walking into traffic.”
“It’s not that kind of boutique.”
Lucy narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What kind of boutique is it then?”
I glance towards Wynter. “Somewhere that might actually have clothes you’d wear.”
She looks exhausted enough to agree to anything at this point. “Fine,” she mutters. “Whatever.”
Ten minutes later, we stop outside the boutique, and the second Wynter looks up at the storefront, she freezes.
“Oh my god.”
I glance sideways at her. Her eyes are huge.
“You know the owner?”
I nod once. “I know her husband better, but yeah. We’ve had dinner together a few times.”
Lucy studies the elegant black signage above the windows. “Who is she?”
Wynter turns to her slowly, looking mildly horrified. “She only headlined London Fashion Week last year.”