Dictatorship of the Dress

Book 1: "Much ""I Do"" About Nothing"

by Jessica Topper

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

As the dress-bearer for her mother’s wedding, Laney Hudson has a lot more baggage than the bulky garment bag she’s lugging from New York to Hawaii. Laney is determined to prove she’s capable of doing something right, but running chores for her mom’s fairytale nuptials is proving to be a painfully constant reminder of her own lost love.
 
So when she’s mistaken for the bride and bumped up to first class, Laney figures some stress-free luxury is worth a harmless white lie. Until the flight crew thinks that the man sitting next to her is Laney’s groom, and her little fib turns into a hot mess.
 
The last thing Noah Ridgewood needs is some dress-obsessed diva landing in his first-class row. En route to his Vegas bachelor party, the straight-laced software designer knows his cold feet have nothing to do with the winter weather.
 
When a severe storm leaves them grounded in Chicago and they find themselves booked into the last available honeymoon suite, Laney and her in-flight neighbor have little choice but to get better acquainted. Now, as her bridal mission hangs in the balance, perhaps the thing Laney gets right is a second chance at love.

Release date: January 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 368

Sample

Terminal C Departures

Really, LaGuardia? One of the busiest airports in the country, and you couldn’t come up with a better name? You could’ve skipped Caltogether, like some hotels do when they omit the unlucky thirteenth floor. You know, Terminals A, B, D, E . . .

I’m sure there would still be some clueless tourists in life, scratching their heads, consulting their maps. Pointing and asking, Whatever happened to Terminal C? Where’s Terminal C?

“It’s in my bones, Laney Jane.” I could still hear Allen’s throaty whisper and feel his long, strong drummer’s fingers tangle through my hair. “It’s not going away this time.”

If I were an airport architect, I would’ve come up with something better. Because only 25 percent of people make it five years through Allen’s type of Terminal C.

I pushed on, eager to check my luggage: the crappy soft-sided Samsonite I’d had since college, and the invisible, matched “his and hers” mental baggage I had solely inherited two years back. Perhaps Hawaii would be good for something.

The lame heel on my favorite pair of boots finally gave out, sending me sprawling right foot over left. The heavy garment bag I carried twirled with me as I pirouetted like a demented ballerina across the concourse to the closest bench.

Freakin’ A, talk about adding insult to injury. I rubbed my ankle in quick consolation before yanking the boot zipper down the length of my entire calf. They were cheap 8th Street boots, not even worth the fix if it could be made. But they had been my first Big-Girl Paycheck purchase when I moved to the city, and their soles had carried not only me, but also miles of memories. Va-va-voom boots, Allen had christened them upon first sight.

There was no time to mourn them; into the trash they went. I plucked my flip-flops from my carry-on and slipped my freshly pedicured feet into them. Onward.

“Hi, one bag to check, two carry-on items.”

The Windwest Airways desk attendant threw a skeptical glance at the bulky garment bag as she reached for my license and boarding pass. “Are you sure you don’t want to check that now?”

I could hear my mother’s words echoing in my head louder than the PA speakers booming last call for Flight 105 to Miami. Whatever you do, do not let them check it, Laney. Do not hand it off.

“No, thanks.”

Rebel on the outside, mouse on the inside, Allen always used to say. Do you always do what your mother tells you to do, Laney Jane?Only Allen Burnside had the cojones to call me out on that.

“We can’t guarantee there will be room in the overhead. You may have to gate-check it anyway.” The attendant slapped a tag onto my Samsonite and sent it hurling onto the rolling belt, where it was quickly swallowed by two rubber flaps in the wall. She fixed a stare on me that made me wonder whether she got paid a commission per checked bag.

I contemplated the huge midnight blue bag with Bichonné Bridal Couture emblazoned across the front in frosty silver lettering. The metal hook of the hanger was cutting into the skin between my thumb and index finger. It would be so easy just to let it go. I imagined it getting chewed up through the luggage shoot, mangled in the greasy, mechanical gears. Stepped on by the handlers’ dirty boots. Run over on the tarmac by a baggage cart. Left behind in the dust.

I smiled.

“My mother called ahead. The airline told her a wedding dress could be carried on if the bag was under fifty-one inches.”

I watched as the attendant’s demeanor did a complete one-eighty; I’m talking ollie-on-the-half-pipe-at-the skate-park one-eighty. “Oh, true!” Her left hand fluttered up near her name tag—April R.—and a lone carat of promise on her ring finger glittered in solidarity. Apparently I had said the two magic words. “I would die if anything happened to my dress. I’m June.”

“I’m Laney,” I said slowly. “But your name tag says April.”

She laughed. “I mean my wedding! I’m a June bride.”

And you’re an oversharer, but that’s okay. “Cool, congrats.” I hefted the bag’s bulk to my shoulder and used my free, noncrippled hand to grab my carry-on. Out of available limbs, I had no choice but to pop my boarding pass between my lips. April the June bride was still smiling at me expectantly, so I offered my raised brow as valediction and lumbered on.

People talk about a monkey on your back; well, mine was eggshell white silk and taffeta, beaded and sequined and weighing in around ten pounds. About as heavy as my regret, but nowhere near as heavy as my grief.

And it belonged to my mother, the blushing bride.

Third time’s the charm, or so they say.

• • •

“Shoes in a separate bin, handbags, too. Any metal, loose change . . . take laptops out of their carrying cases,” droned the TSA worker. “Separate bins for everything, keep moving.”

Strangers around me in various stages of undress—belts whipped off, shoes untied and loosened—shuffled toward security. Oh, crap. I instantly regretted my sock and boot toss as I was forced to kick my flip-flops off. Think happy thoughts. Clean thoughts. Sanitary thoughts. My toes curled as my bare feet touched the cold airport floor. In less than twelve hours, I could buff my feet in Kauai sand and let the Pacific wash away the East Coast grime. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts . . .

“Is that yours?”

“Yep, that’s one of my two allowed personal items.” Personally, though, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.

“Ain’t no bin big enough for that, girl.” TSA and I both watched as the garment bag went down the conveyor belt, followed by my bag and my cell phone, chirping happily. It was probably Danica texting, loopy on the time change. I wasn’t going to need an alarm clock in Hawaii, not when I had a best friend who was an extreme morning person under normal circumstances. I couldn’t imagine Dani on Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time. I was going to have to slip an Ambien into her mai tai.

Although as heavy as chain mail, the dress made it through the X-ray and metal detector with flying colors. Me, on the other hand . . .

“Anything in your pockets, miss? Belt on?” I shook my head. “Jewelry?”

Allen’s class ring.

I hadn’t removed the chunky platinum band with its peridot stone since the weekend of our ten-year high school reunion, except to replace the string knotted on the back keeping it snug.

“But it’s so small.” And LaGuardia Airport was so, so big.

My heart vibrated in my chest like Allen’s sticks on the snare drum when he sound-checked to an empty room.

Mr. TSA wasn’t backing down. And there was a pileup of travelers in their stocking feet, holding up their trousers and grumbling, behind me. “All right, all right.” I plunked the ring into the little gray dog dish, held my breath, and crossed over to the other side.

East Concourse, Gate C15

Nothing a grande latte and a lemon poppy seed muffin wouldn’t fix. Ring? Check. Dress? Check. Phone? Useless, but I had time to power up before boarding. Boarding pass: nowhere to be found.

Are you kidding me?

I could practically hear my mother’s voice as I retraced my steps, back through Starbucks and over to the newsstand. “I swear, Laney, you’d lose your tuchus if it wasn’t stamped on the back of you!” No boarding pass tucked between the trashy novels I had contemplated buying for a beach read. I checked the perfume counter where I had impulse-purchased Aquolina Pink Sugar because no one was around to judge me . . . no sign of it. Nor was it in the restroom, first stall on the right.

I was a ticketed passenger without a ticket.

“Not a problem, we can certainly print a new one up for you, Ms. Hudson.” The attendant at the gate clacked manically at her keyboard. “I may even have an upgrade for you. That way you’ll be closer to your gown if there’s room for it in the first-class closet.”

“It’s my—” I paused. If I had to be the dress bearer while my mother globe-trotted around with her sugar daddy fiancé, shouldn’t I at least milk it for all it was worth? I had lost a boot heel and a boarding pass, but gaining a first-class seat would more than make up for it. “It’s my first time on a plane,” I finished, flashing pearly whites to go along with my little white lie. “That would be terrific, thank you.”

“Oh, then you definitely deserve a bumping up, Miss Bride-to-Be!” she enthused. “I won’t know until boarding time, so I’ll call you to the desk then, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

I made a beeline into the waiting area, in search of my favorite comfy seat and a power source. Between touring on the road with Allen’s band and escorting him down to that medical trial in Philadelphia, I was actually a frequent traveler through this particular waiting lounge.

The airline had pairs of great square chairs near the windows, in padded black leather with electrical outlets built right into the armrests. Unfortunately, the only free one was next to a guy in a matchy-match gray suit, draining half the tristate’s electric grid. Not only was he hogging both armrest outlets, with his fancy phone and his tablet charging, he was also typing one-handed on a laptop balanced on his knee, its power cord like a tightrope that I had to maneuver past just to get close to the empty seat. At close range, his cologne was a force field I had to skirt around. A hands-free device winked from behind a lock of his thick jet-black hair like a glowing blue locust. This guy was wired to the gills and completely self-absorbed within his sensory-overload bubble.

I made a production of carefully draping the garment bag across the chair before plopping myself down on the floor near the one wall outlet he wasn’t zapping power from. New text messages from Danica lit up the minute I plugged in.

Where are you!?!?! TEXT ME.

Sorry, needed to find a plug. Evil supervillain is harnessing all airport energy at his superbase to fuel his death ray.

Tech-Boy had stopped typing. I stole a glance. Maybe that was no ordinary Bluetooth device in his ear: could it read my thoughts? Or my texts?

English, please?

Dude totally hogging the outlets at my gate. And now he is staring at me.

Oh. :-) Is he cute?

I flicked my eyes up nonchalantly. He now had his cell phone in his hand and was frowning at the screen as he loosened his tie.

A little like Keanu.

Pre-Matrix or post-Matrix?

Pre-Matrix. But with more technology. And more hair.

LOL. Take a pic!

Are you THAT bored in Hawaii already? What time is it there, anyway?

Laney! Come on. Pic or I don’t believe you.

The stuff I do to amuse you, Dani.

I nonchalantly angled my phone and pretended to admire my toes, freshly shellacked in a blue the color of sea glass, and stealthily captured him still in frowning mode. Three button pushes later, his picture was in Hawaii, in my best friend’s waiting hand. Gotta love technology.

Pretty hot. I like the scruff.

I snuck another peek. I liked it, too. It was a nice contrast to his high cheekbones.

Maybe I should go buy him an electric razor so he can have one more thing to plug in.

Ha! Maybe he’ll be sitting next to you.

Just what I don’t need. Thanks.

Come on. Live a little. Think WWDD.

What Would Dani Do? You’d probably be joining the Mile-High Club with some sexy pilot.

LOVE a man in uniform! LOL. But no, not exactly . . . I would keep my eyes open, tho. And you should, too. You’re one bad sweater away from becoming a crazy cat lady, you know.

I frowned, glancing down at the long, gray, belted cardigan I had picked for my traveling ensemble. After a day of criminal-butt-whooping badassery, I could totally picture Wonder Woman or Supergirl kicking back to relax in such a thing. It was comfy and hip when paired with my black leggings and high black leather boots . . . although my boots were no more. True, I had picked the sweater’s neutral color with the thought in mind that it wouldn’t show cat hair as much as black would.

One cat does not a crazy cat lady make, Dan.

Wait, I thought you had three cats.

No, Sister Frances Tappan Zee Got Milk just has a really long name.

LOL. Whatevs. You’re about to board a jet for a grand adventure, Laney. At least take off Allen’s stupid ring.

I bit the raised stone on the ring guiltily. Even from the middle of the Pacific Ocean, my best friend knew me all too well. The peridot was warm against my lips, but the metal was cold.It was a subject I really didn’t feel like talking—or texting—about. I deleted her last comment and changed topics.

They want to upgrade me AND the dress to first class. Isn’t that a scream?

Cool. Will it get you here any faster? Cuz your mom is already driving me crazy! Tell me again why she didn’t just have her wedding on Long Island. There’s a perfectly good beach, like, a mile from your house.

You know my mom . . . she was worried people would get stuck in traffic on the L.I.E.

I sent the last text and smiled, picturing Danica laughing at the absurdity of Hawaii being an easier commute than the Long Island Expressway.

A half hour till boarding time. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out my sketchpad, a fresh Faber-Castell 2B, and my earbuds. Music was essential when I worked, especially with Tech-Boy keeping up his staccato one-hand typing trick just inches away from my eardrums. Using my legging-clad knees as my easel, I began to flesh out an elaborate throne. Coils of wire and tubing emanated from every crack and crevice; if I had my colors handy, I would ink them in neon yellow or toxic green, perfect for the supervillain siphoning all the world’s energy for his death ray.

I bit my lip into a smile as I sketched, my lines becoming looser and freer with every stroke of the pencil. Tech-Boy was sprawled spineless in his airport lounge chair now, barking short responses at someone on the other end of his Bluetooth. Funny how one tiny piece of technology was the fine line between socially acceptable and looking like a crazy person ranting into thin air.

In my drawing, he was rod straight in the chair, long fingers gripping the armrests in evil victory. A large T was emblazoned across his muscled chest in classic superhero style. I added Bluetooth devices to both ears—why not?—and, for added effect, a metal band around his head like a crown, connecting with bolts to all the tubes. May as well wire his brainpan. With simple wavy lines and a few bursts, I achieved a glow effect in a halo around him.

I was totally lost in my process now, not even aware that I was staring as I studied his facial features. Those cheekbones could cut glass, they were so sharp. His dark eyes were almond shaped, but I could see the curling fan of perfect, lush lashes. I had eyelashes like that, too, but mine came out of a mascara tube. His brow was thick and straight. He was actually a dream to draw. I smudged in his five o’clock shadow with the tip of my pinky, softening his strong jawline.

Allowing myself one last look to make sure I had captured the length and wave of his hair, I was met with a stony, irritated stare. I quickly dropped my eyes and slammed my sketchbook shut. Since leaving my job at Marvel, drawing was a guilty luxury, an escape.

Since losing Allen, I had a hard time being on board with the whole justice-prevailing-over-evil thing. Turns out, the good guys don’t always win.

Noah

CHOOSE YOUR BATTLES

From: Manhattan Paperie

Subject: Bidwell-Ridgewood wedding PROOF

Date: March 5, 2013 8:00 AM EST

To: Noah Ridgewood , Sloane Bidwell

Dear Sloane and Noah,

Thank you for letting Manhattan Paperie help commemorate your special day!

Attached please find your revised invitation proof. Your approval is required to complete the order, so please let us know at your earliest convenience if it meetsyour satisfaction.

It is a pleasure to be of service to you at this joyful and important time in yourlives.

Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Bidwell

request the honor of your presence

at the marriage of their daughter

Sloane Rose

to

Mr. Noah L. Ridgewood

Saturday, the eighth of June

two thousand and thirteen

at half after five in the evening

Grace Church

New York, New York

Dinner and dancing

immediately following

The Altman Building

135 West Eighteenth Street, Manhattan

From: Kewana Jones

Subject: Fwd: Fwd: Wedding flowers

Date: March 5, 2013 8:28 AM EST

To: Noah Ridgewood

Is she STILL not speaking to you?

P.S. Don’t shoot the messenger . . .

K

Begin forwarded message:

From: Sloane Bidwell

Subject: Fwd: Wedding flowers

Date: March 5, 2013 8:25 AM EST

To: Kewana Jones

Tell him if we change date, lily of the valley go out of season. Imported from Holland $9/stem. Revised estimate attached. Remy’s shooting schedule is tight and he leaves for Paris on June 20th. Also, band now booked up for the entire month of July. HIS CHOICE.

From: Noah Ridgewood

Subject: Sorry . . .

Date: March 5, 2013 8:31 AM EST

To: Kewana Jones

Kiwi,

I bet you didn’t think handling the boss’s daughter’s rebel fiancé would be in your job description when Bidwell-Butler hiredyou to be my secretary, did you? Sorry you are caught in the middle of this . . . I will deal with her.

Thanks,N.

From: Kewana Jones

Subject: Re: Sorry . . .

Date: March 5, 2013 8:32 AM EST

To: Noah Ridgewood

Noah,

Don’t apologize. You know I would follow you to the ends of the earth. If onlyyou could pay me half as well as B-B does.

Kiwi

From: Noah Ridgewood

Subject: Re: Re: Sorry . . .

Date: March 5, 2013 8:33 AM EST

To: Kewana Jones

LOL someday. Meanwhile, you would NOT have wanted to follow me into 7am mtg. w/ Bidwell today. Was basically handed my balls in a sling. Told to go “get it out of my system”in Vegas, then come back and make things right. As if it were that simple . . .

From: Kewana Jones

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Sorry . . .

Date: March 4, 2013 8:35 AM EST

To: Noah Ridgewood

Mama always told me to keep my eggs out of the same basket. You should never have put all your balls in that one basket, if you knowwhat I mean.

Safe travels, boss. What happens in Vegas . . . ain’t none of my business!

• • •

My father had always told me to choose my battles wisely, but with a fiancée on the wedding warpath, no topic was safe these days. Sloane had accused me of not caring enough about the details, but then she had thrown a fit when I suggested dove gray ink for our invitations might be a nice alternative to the traditional black. She sulked for days after I chose my groomsmen (they’re more IQ than GQ), but couldn’t understand why I might have a slight problem with her inviting not one, not two, but a whopping three of her ex-boyfriends to the wedding. She turned that tug-of-war into an exchange as complex as the Dix-Hill Cartel: my five buds for her three exes. I would hardly put them in the same category, since I had never slept with any of my groomsmen.

I hit speed-dial and announced my name and account. “I’d like to order two dozen long-stemmed roses, please. Um, cool water lavender and white. She likes a fuller petal in white, is that the Vendela? Perfect. Yes, to the usual address. No, no card needed. Thanks.”

Chi non ha denaro in borsa, abbia miele in bocca, my mother liked to remind me. He who has no money in his purse, should have honey in his mouth. But when it came to girls like Sloane, bribing with sweetness didn’t really impress. You’ll catch less hell with the push of a button to Sloane’s favorite West Side florist, over more flies with honey, any day of the week.

Last month we were fighting over honeymooning in Belize or Sardinia (as if either were a losing proposition) and this month: the date. She changed it while I was out of town on a business trip last week. And by changed it, I mean she changed it with the church, the caterer, and the venue before even consulting me. I got a “BTW,” courtesy of a Post-it waiting on my pillow when I got home. Since when does the groom rank a “by the way” level of importance on the ball-and-chain food chain?

Sounds petty, but out of the three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, she had to pick the one day that I’d rather have wiped from the calendar altogether.

I frowned as I scanned over the proof from the printer once more, my eyes going out of focus as they stared at the details I had not agreed to. “Can we not make any other changes until I’m back from Vegas?” I had specifically asked her. “And what about all the Save the Date e-mails that went out earlier?” Sloane had dismissed my concerns with a blanket “Oh, nothing’s set in stone” comment, but seeing it there in the printer’s proof felt pretty damn concrete.

My thumb worked its way into the tight Windsor knot of my tie while I waited for her voice mail. “Sloane. I saw the bill you forwarded to Kiwi. So import the flowers from Holland if you have to, that’s fine. I’m all right with choosing another band if it comes to that. And I’m sorry, but there are other photographers in the world besides Remy Georges. Just . . . please. Don’t sign off on that invitation proof until we’ve had time to figure this out, okay? Just . . . just call me back.” I slumped back in the chair and let out a gusty sigh, remembering the power struggle over the Post-it Note.

As usual, she had had the last word: “I get that the day sucks for you. It’s a lemon. So why not turn that day into lemonade?”

Because that’s not how my brain works.

And I thought she’d know that about me by now.

I’m not a game changer. Slow and steady wins the race. Not that I’m winning at much lately. Especially not the game of Marital Monopoly. In that game, Sloane’s father is the top hat piece. Mr. Moneybags. He’s also my boss in real life. And he’s controlling the bank; he rolls the dice first. Sloane, she’s like the iron token. She gives off the impression of being sweetly domestic, but when no one’s looking, she whacks me upside the head and leaves a scalding burn mark. Me? I’ve been the Scottie dog. Trotting along behind them, loyal to a fault. Trying to keep the peace. Trying to please everyone.

But lately, it’s all been Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect Your Prize. Sloane and I had been fighting like crazy. Plus, there was not even the bonus of amazing makeup sex, because even when we agreed to disagree, there was still the no-sex-till-the-wedding-night ban she had unilaterally imposed on us. Even if she finally agreed to bump the date out of June and back into July, I had the feeling that would be my last Get Out of Jail Free card.

“Thank you, young man.” I felt a soft hand fall on my shoulder. The elderly woman from the row of seats across from me was getting ready to board with the help of her grandson. She looked at me expectantly.

“Oh, no problem. They really need to add more outlets around here.” I wiggled the prongs of her adapter loose and handed back her Kindle, which had needed charging. “Happy to help, ma’am.”

“Such a gentleman.” She gave my shoulder an extra pat. “Your mother raised you well. Safe travels, dear.”

“Thanks. You, too.”

With a sigh, I clicked my laptop shut and glanced around. Half the passengers had boarded already and I hadn’t even noticed. Amazing how one stupid e-mail could bring the weight of the world down on my shoulders. Then again, Sloane Bidwell expected the very same world to revolve around her, twenty-four/seven, so why was I surprised in the least? I released myself from my necktie’s stranglehold and shoved it into the side pocket of my computer bag. If only I could loosen the grip she had on me as easily. Or her father’s, for that matter. I roughly pushed a hand through my hair, upsetting the careful grooming I had gone through to make my best impression at that morning’s meeting.

Trying to ungroom, Noah?

How fitting.

“Get it out of your system, Ridgewood.” My boss’s words echoed in my ears as I walked down the chilly gangway to the aircraft.

I’ve never been a game changer.

God, I really hoped Vegas was good for something.

Boarding and Departure

“Safe and sound,” the flight attendant assured me as she clicked the first-class closet closed with the dress inside. “I love your hair! Are you going to wear it like that for the wedding?”

I pushed a hand through my unapologetically pin-straight tresses that wouldn’t hold a wave no matter how hard I tried. The grass is always greener on the other side of the septic tank, Dani would remind me, with her Keri Russell curls that she considered a curse. Unlike its texture, my hair had a hard time making up its mind what color it wanted to be. A caramel-fudge combo in the winter that became streaky red-gold in the summer sun. “Nature’s highlights,” my mother would allow. “You can’t duplicate that in any salon.” I think it was a compliment.

“Maybe in an updo?” the other flight attendant offered. “You have enough for a French twist.” Sometime over the last year, it had reached past shoulder-blade length. A last-minute decision, along with a night at home alone, a bottle of red wine, and nothing good on television, had left me with the thick fringe of bangs that I was still getting used to. I had been conservative with the cutting shears, afraid to go too short, and was now constantly blinking them out of my eyes.

“Maybe.”

I hadn’t even decided what dress to wear for my mom’s beachside ceremony, let alone thought about my hair. All I knew was I wouldn’t be in the seafoam green strapless silk chiffon Danica and the other bridesmaids were wearing. My mother made no bones about letting everyone know my best friend would look better in the hue than her flesh and blood and only child. Whatever. Apparently, my primary function for the big day was getting her dress from point A to point B, and then the pressure was off.

Not that I think she had planned on giving me such an important role in the first place. But a delay with alterations at the dress shop, along with a last-minute opportunity to combine a business trip with a prehoneymoon in Paris, had created a first-world problem for her. And the only viable solution had been to ask the problem child: me.

“Laney can’t be counted on,” I had overheard her telling someone on the phone at work. “I just don’t know . . .” Oh, well. Desperate times called for desperate measures, apparently.

Not that I ever had a hope of measuring up in her eyes.

First class was, for lack of a better word, classy. I marveled at the size of the seats and my personal in-flight entertainment setup. Too bad I had a layover in Chicago; it would have been nice to jet all the way from New York to Hawaii in such luxury.

That grande latte had worked its way down to my bladder. “Is it okay to use the bathroom now?” I asked the attendant, who was bringing an elderly lady her first gin and tonic of the day.

“Honey!” She laughed. “Other than lounging in the cockpit, feel free to move about the cabin.”

I scooted toward the nose of the plane, bypassing the next group of passengers boarding, and into the first-class lavatory, which was identical to those in the back, except for the fancy lotion. Well, that answered one of those burning life questions. Rich people had to pee in Lilliputian-sized lavs just like the cattle in coach class.

The plane was rapidly filling. By the time I made it back to my cushy seat, it was covered with ruffled Wall Street Journal pages, headphones, and a banana.

“Um, excuse me? That’s my seat.”

“But that . . . that’s impossible,&#