Shopaholic Ties the Knot (31 page)

“Stop!” I yell, increasing my pace to a sprint. “Don’t post those!”

I arrive by her side, panting so hard I can barely speak.

“Give me those invitations,” I manage to gasp. “I’m the bride. Becky Bloomwood.”

“Here you are!” says Judith. “A few already went in. But you know, no one said anything to me about not mailing them,” she adds defensively.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If Robyn hadn’t called when she did . . . they would’ve been gone. All of them!”

“I . . . I appreciate that.”

I flip through the thick taupe envelopes, feeling slightly shaky as I see all the names on Mum’s list, beautifully written out in Gothic script.

“So are you going to mail them?”

“Of course I am.” Suddenly I realize Judith’s waiting for me to do it. “But I don’t want to be watched,” I add quickly. “It’s a very private matter. I have to . . . say a poem and kiss each one . . .”

“Fine,” says Judith, rolling her eyes. “Whatever.”

She walks off toward the corner, and I stand as still as a rock until she’s vanished from sight. Then, clutching the pile of invitations to my chest, I hurry to the corner, raise my hand, and hail a cab to take me home.

Luke is still out when I arrive, and the apartment is as dim and silent as it was when I left it. My suitcase is open on the floor—and as I walk in I can see inside it the pile of invitations to the Oxshott wedding that Mum gave me to pass on to Elinor.

I pick up the second pile of invitations and look from one to the other. One pile of white envelopes. One pile of taupe envelopes. Two weddings. On the same day. In less than six weeks.

If I do one, Mum will never speak to me again.

If I do the other, I get sued for $100,000.

OK, just . . . keep calm. Think logically. There has to be a way out of this. There
has
to be. As long as I keep my head and don’t get into a—

Suddenly I hear the sound of the front door opening. “Becky?” comes Luke’s voice. “Is that you?”

Fuck.

In a complete panic, I open the cocktail cabinet, shove both lots of invitations inside, slam the door, and whip round breathlessly just as Luke comes in.

“Sweetheart!” His whole face lights up and he throws his briefcase down. “You’re back! I missed you.” He gives me a huge hug—then draws back and looks anxiously at me. “Becky? Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine!” I say brightly. “Honestly, everything’s great! I’m just tired.”

“You look wiped out. I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me all about Suze.”

He goes out of the room and I collapse weakly on the sofa.

What the hell am I going to do now?

THE PINES

43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey

FAX MESSAGE

TO BECKY BLOOMWOOD

FROM MUM

20 May 2002

Becky, love, I don’t want to worry you. But it looks like that deranged woman you were telling us about has gone one step further and actually printed invitations! Auntie Irene phoned up today and told us she’d got some peculiar invitation through the post, for the Plaza Hotel, just like you said. Apparently it was all bronze and beige, very odd and not like a proper wedding invitation at all!

The best thing is to ignore these people, so I told her to put it straight in the bin and not worry about it. And you must do the same, darling. But I just thought I should let you know.

Much love and talk soon,

Mum xxxxxxxxx

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

New York, NY 10014

May 21, 2002

 

April 3rd Receiving instructions to redraft your will                                       $150
April 6th Receiving further instructions to redraft your will                             $150
Aprill 11th Receiving instructions for further amendments to your will            $150
April 17th Receiving further instructions to redraft your will                           $150
April 19th Receiving instructions for further amendments to your will             $150
April 24th Receiving further instructions to redraft your will                           $150
April 30th Receiving instructions for further amendments to your will             $150

Total                                                                                                       $1,050

INVOICE no. 10956

With thanks

OK. THE REALLY vital thing is to keep a sense of proportion. I mean, let’s face it, every wedding has the odd glitch. You can’t expect the whole process to go smoothly. I’ve just bought a new book, called
The Realistic Bride
, which I’m finding very comforting at the moment. It has a huge chapter all about wedding hitches, and it says: “No matter how insurmountable the problem seems, there will always be a solution! So don’t worry!”

So the example they give is of a bride who loses her satin shoe on the way to the reception. Not one who has arranged two different weddings on the same day on different continents, is hiding half the invitations in a cocktail cabinet, and has discovered her wedding planner is a litigious nutcase.

But you know, I’m sure the principle’s broadly the same.

I’ve been back in New York for a week now, and during that time I’ve been to see about seventeen different lawyers about Robyn’s contract. All of them have looked at it carefully, told me they’re afraid it’s watertight, and advised me in the future to read all documentation before signing it.

Actually, that’s not quite true. One lawyer just said, “Sorry, miss, there’s nothing we can do,” as soon as I mentioned that the contract was with Robyn de Bendern. Another said, “Girl, you’re in trouble,” and put the phone down.

I can’t believe there isn’t a way out, though. As a last resort, I’ve sent it off to Garson Low, the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. I read about him in
People
magazine, and it said he has the sharpest mind in the legal world. It said he can find a loophole in a piece of concrete. So I’m kind of pinning all my hopes on him—and meanwhile, trying very hard to act normally and not crumple into a gibbering wreck.

“I’m having lunch with Michael today,” says Luke, coming into the kitchen with a couple of boxes in his arms. “He seems to have settled into his new place well.”

Michael’s taken the plunge and moved to New York, which is fantastic for us. He’s working part time as a consultant at Brandon Communications, and the rest of the time, as he put it, he’s “reclaiming his life.” He’s taken up painting, and has joined a group that power-walks in Central Park, and last time we saw him he was talking about taking a course in Italian cookery.

“That’s great!” I say.

“He said we must come over soon . . .” He peers at me. “Becky, are you all right?”

Abruptly I realize I’m drumming a pencil so hard it’s making indentations in the kitchen table.

“I’m absolutely fine,” I say with an overbright smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I haven’t said a word about anything to Luke. In
The Realistic Bride
it says the way to stop your fiancé from getting bored with wedding details is to feed them to him on a need-to-know basis.

I don’t feel Luke needs to know anything just yet.

“A couple more wedding presents,” he says. He dumps the boxes on the counter and grins at me. “It’s getting closer, isn’t it?”

“Yes! Yes it is!” I attempt a laugh, not very successfully.

“Another toaster . . . this time from Bloomingdale’s.” He frowns. “Becky, exactly how many wedding lists have we got?”

“I don’t know. A few.”

“I thought the whole point of a wedding list was that we
didn’t
end up with seven toasters.”

“We haven’t got seven toasters!” I point to the box. “This is a
brioche grill
.”

“And we also have . . . a Gucci handbag.” He raises his eyebrows quizzically at me. “A Gucci handbag for a wedding present?”

“It’s his-and-hers luggage!” I say defensively. “I put down a briefcase for you . . .”

“Which no one’s bought for me.”

“That’s not my fault! I don’t tell them what to buy!”

Luke shakes his head incredulously. “Did you put down his-and-hers Jimmy Choos too?”

“Did someone get the Jimmy Choos?” I say joyfully—then stop as I see his face. “I’m . . . joking.” I clear my throat. “Here. Look at Suze’s baby.”

I’ve just had three rolls of film developed, mostly of Suze and Ernie.

“That’s Ernie in the bath . . .” I point out, handing him photographs. “And that’s Ernie asleep . . . and Suze asleep . . . and Suze . . . hang on a minute . . .” Hastily I pass over the ones of Suze breast-feeding with nothing on except a pair of knickers. She had actually bought a special breast-feeding top from a catalogue, which promised “discretion and ease at home and in public.” But she got so pissed off with the stupid concealed zip, she threw it away after one day. “And look! That’s the first day we brought him home!”

Luke sits down at the table, and as he leafs through the pictures, a strange expression comes over his face.

“She looks . . . blissful,” he says.

“She is,” I agree. “She adores him. Even when he screams.”

“They seem bonded already.” He stares at a photo of Suze laughing as Ernie grabs her hair.

“Oh, they are. Even by the time I left, he yelled if I tried to take him away from her.”

I look at Luke, feeling touched. He’s completely transfixed by these photographs. Which actually quite surprises me. I never thought he’d be particularly into babies. I mean, most men, if you handed them a load of baby pictures—

“I don’t have any pictures of myself as a tiny baby,” he says, turning to a picture of Ernie peacefully asleep on Suze.

“Don’t you? Oh well . . .”

“My mother took them all with her.”

His face is unreadable, and tiny alarm bells start to ring inside my head.

“Really?” I say casually. “Well, anyway—”

“Maybe she wanted to keep them nearby.”

“Yes,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe she did.”

Oh God. I should have realized these pictures would set Luke off brooding about his mother again.

I’m not quite sure what happened between them while I was away. All I know is that eventually Luke managed to get through to her at the clinic. And apparently she came up with some lame explanation for why that newspaper article didn’t mention Luke. Something about the journalist wasn’t interested.

I don’t know whether Luke believed her. I don’t know whether he’s forgiven her or not. To be honest, I don’t think
he
knows. Every so often he goes all blank and withdrawn, and I can tell he’s thinking about it.

Part of me wants to say, “Look, Luke, just forget it! She’s a complete cow and she doesn’t love you and you’re better off without her.”

Then I remember something his stepmother, Annabel, said—when we had that chat, all those months ago. As we were saying good-bye, she said, “As hard as it may be to believe, Luke needs Elinor.”

“No, he doesn’t!” I replied indignantly. “He’s got you, he’s got his dad, he’s got me . . .”

But Annabel shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s had this longing for Elinor ever since he was a child. It’s driven him to work so hard; it’s sent him to America; it’s part of who he is now. Like a vine twisted round an apple tree.” And she gave me this rather penetrating look and said, “Be careful, Becky. Don’t try to chop her out of his life. Because you’ll damage him too.”

How did she read my mind? How did she know that I was exactly picturing myself, and Elinor, and an ax . . .

I look at Luke, and he’s staring, mesmerized, at a picture of Suze kissing Ernie on the tummy.

“Anyway!” I say brightly, gathering up the photos and shoving them back into the envelopes. “You know, the bond is just as strong between Tarquin and Ernie. You should have seen them together. Tarquin’s making a wonderful dad. He changes nappies and everything! In fact, I often think a mother’s love is overrated . . .”

Oh, it’s no good. Luke isn’t even listening.

The phone rings, and he doesn’t move, so I go into the sitting room to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is that Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange man’s voice.

“Yes it is,” I say, noticing a new catalogue from Pottery Barn on the table. Perhaps I should register there too. “Who’s this?”

“This is Garson Low, from Low and Associates.”

My whole body freezes. Garson Low himself? Calling me at home?

“I apologize for calling so early,” he’s saying.

“No! Not at all!” I say, coming to life and quickly kicking the door shut so Luke can’t hear. “Thanks for calling!”

Thank God. He must think I have a case. He must want to help me take on Robyn. We’ll probably make groundbreaking legal history or something, and stand outside the courtroom while cameras flash and it’ll be like
Erin Brockovich
!

“I received your letter yesterday,” says Garson Low. “And I was intrigued by your dilemma. That’s quite a bind you’ve got yourself in.”

“I know it is,” I say. “That’s why I came to you.”

“Is your fiancé aware of the situation?”

“Not yet.” I lower my voice. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find a solution first—and then tell him. You understand, Mr. Low.”

“I certainly do.”

This is great. We’ve got rapport and everything.

“In that case,” says Garson Low, “let’s get down to business.”

“Absolutely!” I feel a swell of relief. You see, this is what you get when you consult the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. You get quick results.

“First of all, the contract has been very cleverly drawn up,” says Garson Low.

“Right.” I nod.

“There are several extremely ingenious clauses, covering all eventualities.”

“I see.”

“I’ve examined it thoroughly. And as far as I can see, there is no way you can get married in Britain without incurring the penalty.”