Shopaholic Ties the Knot (30 page)

“I don’t know,” I say blankly. “I expect so. I ordered pretty much everything they had.”

I have a dim memory of myself at three in the morning, rocking Ernest on my lap so Suze could have a sleep, staring groggily at the screen.

“Do you know how terrible the telly is in Britain at three in the morning?” I rub my dry cheeks. “And there’s no point watching a film, because the minute it gets to a good bit, the baby cries and you have to leap up and start joggling him around, singing ‘Old Macdonald Had a Farm, Ee-I Ee-I Oh . . .’ and he still doesn’t stop crying. So you have to go into ‘Oh what a beautiful mooorr-rning . . .’ but that doesn’t work either . . .”

“Right,” says Danny, backing away. “I’ll . . . take your word for it. Becky, I think you need a nap.”

“Yes. So do I. See you later.”

I stumble into the apartment, shove all the post on the sofa, and head for the bedroom, as single-minded as a junkie craving a hit.

Sleep. I need sleep . . .

A light is blinking on our message machine and as I lie down, I automatically reach out and press the button.

“Hi, Becky! Robyn here. Just to say the meeting with Sheldon Lloyd to discuss table centerpieces has been changed to next Tuesday the twenty-first, at two-thirty. Byee!”

I have just enough time to think “That’s odd,” before my head hits the pillow and I pass out into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Eight hours later I wake up and sit bolt upright.

What was that?

I reach out to the machine and press the “Repeat” button. Robyn’s voice chirps exactly the same message again, and the computer display informs me it was left yesterday.

But . . . that doesn’t make any sense. The New York wedding’s off.

I look disorientedly around the dim apartment. My body clock’s so screwed up, it could be any time at all. I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water and look blearily out of the window at the mural of dancers on the building opposite.

I canceled the wedding. There were witnesses. Why is Robyn still organizing table centerpieces? I mean, it wasn’t as though I was vague about it.

What’s happened?

I drink my water, pour another glass, and go into the living room. It’s 4 P.M. according to the VCR clock, so there’s still time to call her. Find out what’s going on.

“Hello! Wedding Events Ltd.!” says a girl I don’t recognize. “How may I help you?”

“Hi! Excuse me, this is Becky Bloomwood. You’re . . . you were organizing a wedding for me?”

“Oh, hi, Becky! I’m Kirsten, Robyn’s assistant. Can I just say that I thought your
Sleeping Beauty
concept was totally inspired? I told all my friends about it, and they were all, like, ‘I love
Sleeping Beauty
! That’s what I’m going to do when
I
get married.’ ”

“Oh. Er . . . thanks. Listen, Kirsten, this might seem like a strange question . . .”

How am I going to put this? I can’t say, Is my wedding still on?

“Is my . . . wedding still on?”

“I certainly hope so!” says Kirsten with a laugh. “Unless you’ve had a row with Luke!” Her tone suddenly changes. “
Have
you had a row with Luke? Because we have a procedure if that happens . . .”

“No! I haven’t! It’s just . . . didn’t you get my message?”

“Which message was that?” says Kirsten brightly.

“The message I left about two weeks ago!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What with the flood . . .”

“Flood?” I stare at the phone in dismay. “You had a
flood
?”

“I was sure Robyn had called you in England to let you know! It’s OK, nobody was drowned. We just had to evacuate the office for a few days, and some of the telecoms were affected . . . plus unfortunately an antique ring cushion belonging to one of our clients was ruined . . .”

“So you
didn’t
get the message?”

“Was it the one about the hors d’oeuvres?” says Kirsten thoughtfully.

I swallow several times, feeling almost light-headed.

“Becky, Robyn’s just stepped in,” Kirsten’s saying, “if you’d like to speak to her . . .”

No way. I’m not trusting the phone anymore.

“Can you tell her,” I say, trying to keep calm, “that I’m coming into the office. Tell her to wait. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Yes. It’s pretty urgent.”

Robyn’s offices are in a plushy building, right up on Ninety-sixth Street. As I knock on the door, I can hear her gurgling laugh, and as I cautiously open the door, I see her sitting at her desk, champagne glass in one hand, telephone in the other, and an open box of chocolates on the desk.

“Becky!” she says. “Come in! I won’t be a second! Jennifer, I think we should go with the devore satin. Yes? OK. See you soon.” She puts down the phone and beams at me. “Becky, sweetheart. How are you? How was England?”

“Fine, thanks. Robyn—”

“I have just been to a delightful thank-you lunch given to me by Mrs. Herman Winkler at the Carlton. Now, that was a fabulous wedding. The groom gave the bride a schnauzer puppy at the altar! So adorable . . .” Her brow wrinkles. “Where was I going with this? Oh yes! You know what? Her daughter and new son-in-law just left for England on their honeymoon! I said to her, perhaps they’ll bump into Becky Bloomwood!”

“Robyn, I need to talk to you.”

“Absolutely. If it’s about the dessert flatware, I’ve spoken to the Plaza—”

“It’s not about the flatware!” I cry. “Robyn, listen! While I was England, I canceled the wedding. I left a message! But you didn’t get it.”

There’s silence in the plushy room. Then Robyn’s face creases up into laughter.

“Ha-ha-ha! Becky, you’re priceless! Isn’t she priceless, Kirsten?”

“Robyn, I’m serious. I want to call the whole thing off. I want to get married in England. My mum’s organizing a wedding, it’s all arranged—”

“Can you imagine if you did that?” says Robyn with a gurgle. “Well, of course you couldn’t, because of the prenup. If you canceled now, you’d be in for a lot of money!” She laughs gaily. “Would you like some champagne?”

I stare at her, momentarily halted. “What do you mean, the prenup?”

“The contract you signed, sweetheart.” She hands me a glass of champagne, and my fingers automatically close round it.

“But . . . but Luke didn’t sign it. He said it wasn’t valid if he didn’t sign—”

“Not between you and Luke! Between you and me! Or, rather, Wedding Events Ltd.”

“What?” I swallow. “Robyn, what are you talking about? I never signed anything.”

“Of course you did! All my brides do! I gave it to Elinor to pass along to you, and she returned it to me . . . I have a copy of it somewhere!” She takes a sip of champagne, swivels on her chair, and reaches into an elegant wooden filing cabinet.

“Here we are!” She hands me a photocopy of a document. “Of course, the original is with my lawyer . . .”

I stare at the page, my heart pounding. It’s a typed sheet, headed “Terms of Agreement.” I look straight down to the dotted line at the bottom—and there’s my signature.

My mind zooms back to that dark, rainy night. Sitting in Elinor’s apartment. Indignantly signing every single sheet in front of me. Not bothering to read the words above.

Oh God. What have I done?

Feverishly I start to scan the contract, only half taking in the legal phrases.

“The Organizer shall prepare full plans . . . time frame to be mutually agreed . . . the Client shall be consulted on all matters . . . liaise with service providers . . . budget shall be agreed . . . final decisions shall rest with the Client . . . any breach or cancellation for any reason whatsoever . . . reimbursement . . . 30 days . . . full and final payment . . . Furthermore . . .”

As I read the next words, slugs are crawling up and down my back.

“Furthermore, in the case of cancellation, should the Client marry within one year of the date of cancellation, the Client will be liable to a penalty of $100,000, payable to Wedding Events Ltd.”

A hundred-thousand-dollar penalty.

And I’ve signed it.

“A hundred thousand dollars?” I say at last. “That . . . that seems a lot.”

“That’s only for the silly girls who pretend to cancel and then get married anyway,” says Robyn cheerily.

“But why—”

“Becky, if I plan a wedding, then I want that wedding to happen. We’ve had girls pull out before.” Her voice suddenly hardens. “Girls who decided to go their own way. Girls who decided to use my ideas, my contacts. Girls who thought they could exploit my expertise and get away with it.” She leans forward with glittering eyes, and I shrink back fearfully.

“Becky, you don’t want to be those girls.”

She’s crazy. The wedding planner’s crazy.

“G-good idea,” I say quickly. “You have to protect yourself!”

“Of course, Elinor could have signed it herself—but we agreed, this way, she’s protecting her investment too!” Robyn beams at me. “It’s a neat arrangement.”

“Very clever!” I give a shrill laugh and take a slug of champagne.

What am I going to do? There must be some way out of this. There
must
be. People can’t force other people to get married. It’s not ethical.

“Cheer up, Becky!” Robyn snaps back into cheery-chirrupy mood. “Everything’s under control. We’ve been taking care of everything while you were in Britain. The invitations are being written as we speak.”

“Invitations?” I feel a fresh shock. “But they can’t be. We haven’t done a guest list yet.”

“Yes you have, silly girl! What’s this?”

She presses a couple of buttons on her computer and a list pops up, and I stare at it, my mouth open. Familiar names and addresses are scrolling past on the screen, one after another. Names of my cousins. Names of my old school friends. With a sudden lurch I spot “Janice and Martin Webster, The Oaks, 41 Elton Road, Oxshott.”

How does Robyn know about Janice and Martin? I feel as though I’ve stumbled into some arch-villainess’s lair. Any minute a panel will slide back and I’ll see Mum and Dad tied to a chair with gags in their mouths.

“Where . . . where did you get those names?” I ask, trying to make it sound like a lighthearted inquiry.

“Luke gave us a list! I was pressuring him about it, so he had a look around your apartment. He said he found it hidden under the bed, or someplace odd. I said, that’s probably the safest place to put it!”

She produces a piece of paper, and my eyes focus on it in disbelief.

Mum’s handwriting.

The guest list she faxed over to us, weeks ago. The names and addresses of all the family friends and relations who are being invited to the wedding. The wedding at home.

Robyn’s inviting all the same people as Mum.

“Have the invitations . . . gone out yet?” I say in a voice I don’t quite recognize.

“Well, no.” Robyn wags her finger at me. “Elinor’s all went out last week. But we got your guest list so late, I’m afraid yours are still with the calligrapher! She’s going to mail them off just as soon as she’s finished . . .”

“Stop her,” I say desperately. “You have to stop her!”

“What?” Robyn looks at me in surprise, and I’m aware of Kirsten lifting her head in interest. “Why, sweetheart?”

“I . . . I have to post the invitations myself,” I say. “It’s a . . . a family tradition. The bride always, er . . . posts her own invitations.”

I rub my hot face, trying to keep cool. Across the room, I can see Kirsten staring curiously at me. They probably think I’m a complete control freak now. But I don’t care. I have to stop those invitations from going out.

“How unusual!” says Robyn. “I never heard that custom before!”

“Are you saying I’m making it up?”

“No! Of course not! I’ll let Judith know,” says Robyn, picking up the phone and flicking her Rolodex, and I subside, breathing hard.

My head is spinning. Too much is happening. While I’ve been closeted with Suze and Ernie, everything has been steaming ahead without me realizing it, and now I’ve completely lost control of the situation. It’s like this wedding is some big white horse that was trotting along quite nicely but has suddenly reared up and galloped off into the distance without me.

Robyn wouldn’t
really
sue me. Would she?

“Hi, Judith? Yes, it’s Robyn. Have you . . . you have? Well, that was quick work!” Robyn looks up. “You won’t believe this, but she’s already finished them!”

“What?” I look up in horror.

“She’s at the mailbox already! Isn’t that a—”

“Well, stop her!” I shriek. “Stop her!”

“Judith,” says Robyn urgently. “Judith, stop. The bride is very particular. She wants to mail the invitations herself. Some family tradition,” she says in a lower tone. “British. Yes. No, I don’t know either.”

She looks up with a careful smile, as though I’m a tricky three-year-old.

“Becky, I’m afraid a few already went into the mailbox. But you’ll get to mail all the rest!”

“A few?” I say agitatedly. “How many?”

“How many, Judith?” says Robyn, then turns to me. “She thinks three.”

“Three? Well . . . can she reach in and get them back?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Couldn’t she find a . . . a stick or something . . .”

Robyn stares at me silently for a second, then turns to the phone.

“Judith, let me get the location of that mailbox.” She scribbles on a piece of paper, then looks up. “You know what, Becky, I think the best thing is if you go down there, and just . . . do whatever you have to do . . .”

“OK. I will. Thanks.”

As I put my coat on, I can see Robyn and Kirsten exchanging glances.

“You know, Becky, you might want to chill out a little,” says Robyn. “Everything’s under control. There’s nothing for you to worry about!” She leans forward cozily. “As I often say to my brides, when they get a little agitated . . . it’s just a wedding!”

I can’t even bring myself to reply.

The mailbox is off the corner of Ninety-third and Lexington. As I turn into the street I can see a woman who must be Judith, dressed in a dark raincoat, leaning against the side of a building. As I hurry toward her, I see her look at her watch, give an impatient shrug, and head toward the mailbox, a stack of envelopes in her hand.