Shopaholic Ties the Knot (34 page)

“She isn’t.” He gives me a tiny half-smile. “I should just give up.”

“No!” I say, a little too late. I reach out and take Luke’s arm, feeling completely helpless. Completely sheltered and pampered in comparison. I grew up knowing that Mum and Dad thought I was the best thing in the whole wide world; knowing that they loved me, and always would, whatever I did.

“I’m sorry,” says Luke at last. “I’ve gone on too much about this. Let’s forget it. What did you want to talk about?”

“Nothing,” I say at once. “It . . . doesn’t matter. It can wait.”

The wedding seems a million miles away, suddenly. I screw up my notes into a tight ball and throw them in the bin. Then I look around the cluttered room. Letters spread out on the table, wedding presents stacked up in the corner, paraphernalia everywhere. It’s impossible to escape your own life when you live in a Manhattan apartment.

“Let’s go out and eat,” I say, standing up abruptly. “And see a movie or something.”

“I’m not hungry,” says Luke.

“That’s not the point. This is place is just too . . . crowded.” I take Luke’s hand and tug at it. “Come on, let’s get out of here. And just forget about everything. All of it.”

We go out and walk, arm in arm, down to the cinema and lose ourselves in a movie about the Mafia. Then when it’s over we walk a couple of blocks to a small, warm restaurant we know, and order red wine and risotto.

We don’t mention Elinor once. Instead, we talk about Luke’s childhood in Devon. He tells me about picnics on the beach, and a tree house his father built for him in the garden, and how his little half-sister Zoe always used to tag along with all her friends and drive him mad. Then he tells me about Annabel. About how fantastic she’s always been to him, and how kind she is to everyone; and how he never ever felt she loved him any less than Zoe, who was truly hers.

We talk tentatively about things we’ve never even touched on. Like having children ourselves. Luke wants to have three. I want . . . well after having watched Suze go through labor, I don’t think I want any, but I don’t tell him that. I nod when he says “or perhaps even four” and wonder whether maybe I could pretend to be pregnant and secretly adopt them.

By the end of the evening, I think Luke is a lot better. We walk home and fall into bed and both go straight to sleep. During the night I half wake, and I think I see Luke standing by the window, staring out into the night. But I’m asleep again before I’m sure.

I wake up the next morning with a dry mouth and an aching head. Luke’s already got up and I can hear clattering from the kitchen, so maybe he’s making me a nice breakfast. I could do with some coffee, and maybe some toast. And then . . .

My stomach gives a nervous flip. I’ve got to bite the bullet. I’ve got to tell him about the weddings.

Last night was last night. Of course I couldn’t do anything about it then. But now it’s the morning and I can’t wait any longer. I know it’s terrible timing, I know it’s the last thing he’ll want to hear right now. But I just have to tell him.

I can hear him coming along the corridor, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.

“Luke, listen,” I say as the door swings open. “I know this is a bad time. But I really need to talk to you. We’ve got a problem.”

“What’s that?” says Robyn, coming into the room. “Nothing to do with the wedding, I hope!” She’s wearing a powder-blue suit and patent leather pumps and carrying a tray of breakfast things. “Here you go, sweetheart. Some coffee to wake you up!”

Am I dreaming? What’s Robyn doing in my bedroom?

“I’ll just get the muffins,” she says brightly, and disappears out of the room. I subside weakly onto my pillow, my head pounding, trying to work out what she might be doing here.

Suddenly last night’s Mafia film jumps into my mind and I’m struck with terror. Oh my God. It’s obvious.

She’s found out about the other wedding—and she’s come to murder me.

Robyn appears through the door again, with a basket of muffins, and smiles as she puts it down. I stare back, transfixed with fear.

“Robyn!” I say huskily. “I . . . didn’t expect to see you. Isn’t it a bit . . . early?”

“When it comes to my clients, there is no such thing as too early,” says Robyn, with a twinkle. “I am at your service, day and night.” She sits down on the armchair next to the bed and pours me out a cup of coffee.

“But how did you get in?”

“I picked the lock. Only kidding! Luke let me in on his way out!”

I’m alone in the apartment with her. She’s got me trapped.

“Luke’s gone to work already?”

“I’m not sure he was going to work.” Robyn pauses thoughtfully. “It looked more like he was going jogging.”

“Jogging?”

Luke doesn’t jog.

“Now, drink up your coffee—and then I’ll show you what you’ve been waiting for. What we’ve all been waiting for.” She looks at her watch. “I have to be gone in twenty minutes, remember!”

I stare at her dumbly.

“Becky, are you all right? You do
remember
we have an appointment?”

Dimly a memory starts filtering back into my mind, like a shadow through gauze. Robyn. Breakfast meeting. Oh yes.

Why
did I agree to a breakfast meeting?

“Of course I remember!” I say at last. “I’m just a bit . . . you know, hung over.”

“You don’t have to explain!” says Robyn cheerily. “Fresh orange juice is what you need. And a good breakfast. I say the same thing to all my brides: you must take care of yourself! There’s no point starving yourself and then fainting at the altar. Have a muffin.” She rummages in her bag. “And look! At last we have it!”

I look blankly at the scrap of shimmering silver material she’s holding up.

“What is it?”

“It’s the fabric for the cushion pads!” says Robyn. “Flown in especially from China. The one we had all the problems with over customs! You can’t have forgotten, surely?”

“Oh! No, of course not,” I say hastily. “Yes, it looks . . . lovely. Really beautiful.”

“Now, Becky, there was something else,” says Robyn. She puts the fabric away and looks up with a serious expression. “The truth is . . . I’m getting a little concerned.”

I feel a fresh spasm of nerves and take a sip of coffee to hide it. “Really? What . . . what are you concerned about?”

“We haven’t had a single reply from your British guests. Isn’t that strange?”

For a moment I’m unable to speak.

“Er . . . yes,” I manage at last. “Very.”

“Except Luke’s parents, who accepted a while ago. Of course they were on Elinor’s guest list, so they got their invitation a little earlier, but even so . . .” She reaches for my coffee cup and takes a sip. “Mmm. This is good, if I do say so myself! Now, I don’t want to accuse anyone of lacking manners. But we need to start getting some numbers in. So is it OK if I make a few tactful calls to England? I have all the phone numbers in my database . . .”

“No!” I say, suddenly waking up. “Don’t call anybody! I mean . . . you’ll get the replies, I promise.”

“It’s just so odd!” Robyn muses. “To have heard nothing . . . They did all receive their invitations, didn’t they?”

“Of course they did! I’m sure it’s just an oversight.” I start pleating the sheet between finger and thumb. “You’ll have some replies within a week. I can . . . guarantee it.”

“Well, I certainly hope so! Because time is ticking on! We’ve only got four weeks to go!”

“I know!” I say shrilly, and take another gulp of coffee, wishing desperately it were vodka.

Four weeks.

Oh God.

“Shall I refresh your cup, sweetheart?” Robyn stands up—then bends down again. “What’s this?” she says with interest, and picks up a piece of paper lying on the floor. “Is this a menu?”

I look up—and my heart stops. She’s got one of Mum’s faxes.

The menu for the other wedding.

Everything’s right there, under the bed. If she starts looking . . .

“It’s nothing!” I say, grabbing it from her. “Just a . . . um . . . a menu for a . . . a party . . .”

“You’re holding a party?”

“We’re . . . thinking about it.”

“Well, if you want any help planning it, just say the word!” Robyn lowers her voice confidentially. “And a tiny tip?” She gestures to Mum’s menu. “I think you’ll find filo parcels are a little passé.”

“Right. Er . . . thanks.”

I have to get this woman out of here. At once. Before she finds anything else.

Abruptly I throw back the sheets and leap out of bed.

“Actually, Robyn, I’m still not feeling quite right. Maybe we could . . . could reschedule the rest of this meeting?”

“I understand.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

“By the way,” I say casually as we reach the front door. “I was just wondering . . . You know that financial penalty clause in your contract?”

“Yes!” Robyn beams at me.

“Out of interest.” I give a little laugh. “Have you ever actually collected it?”

“Oh, only a few times!” says Robyn. She pauses reminiscently. “One silly girl tried to run off to Poland . . . but we found her in the end . . . See you, Becky!”

“See you!” I say, matching her bright tone, and close the door, my heart thumping hard.

She’ll get me. It’s only a matter of time.

As soon as I get to work, I call Luke at work and get his assistant, Julia.

“Hi,” I say, “can I speak to Luke?”

“Luke called in sick,” says Julia, sounding surprised. “Didn’t you know?”

I stare at the phone, taken aback. Luke’s taken a sickie? Blimey. Maybe his hangover was even worse than mine.

Shit, and I’ve nearly given the game away.

“Oh, right!” I say quickly. “Yes! Now you mention it . . . of course I knew! He’s dreadfully sick, actually. He’s got a terrible fever. And his . . . er . . . stomach. I just forgot for a moment, that’s all.”

“Well, give him all the best from us.”

“I will!”

As I put the phone down, I realize I might have overreacted a teeny bit. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to give Luke the sack, is it? After all, it’s his company.

In fact, I’m
pleased
he’s having a day off.

But still. Luke getting sick. He never gets sick.

And he never jogs. What’s going on?

I’m supposed to be going out for a drink after work with Erin, but I make an excuse and hurry home instead. When I let myself in, the apartment’s dim, and for a moment I think Luke isn’t back. But then I see him, sitting at the table in the gloom, wearing track pants and an old sweatshirt.

At last. We’ve got the evening to ourselves. OK, this is it. I’m finally going to tell him everything.

“Hi,” I say, sliding into a chair next to him. “Are you feeling better? I called your work and they said you were ill.”

There’s silence.

“I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to go to work,” says Luke at last.

“What did you do all day? Did you really go jogging?”

“I went for a long walk,” says Luke. “And I thought a great deal.”

“About . . . your mother?” I say tentatively.

“Yes. About my mother. About a lot of other things too.” He turns for the first time and to my surprise I see he hasn’t shaved. Mmm. I quite like him unshaven, actually.

“But you’re OK?”

“That’s the question,” he says after a pause. “Am I?”

“You probably just drank a bit too much last night.” I take off my coat, marshaling my words. “Luke, listen. There’s something really important I need to tell you. I’ve been putting it off for weeks now—”

“Becky, have you ever thought about the grid of Manhattan?” says Luke, interrupting me. “Really
thought
about it?”

“Er . . . no,” I say, momentarily halted. “I can’t say I have.”

“It’s like . . . a metaphor for life. You think you have the freedom to walk anywhere. But in fact . . .” He draws a line with his finger on the table. “You’re strictly controlled. Up or down. Left or right. No other options.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Absolutely. The thing is, Luke—”

“Life should be an open space, Becky. You should be able to walk in whichever direction you choose.”

“I suppose—”

“I walked from one end of the island to the other today.”

“Really?” I stare at him. “Er . . . why?”

“I looked up at one point, and I was surrounded by office blocks. Sunlight was bouncing off the plate-glass windows. Reflected backward and forward.”

“That sounds nice,” I say inadequately.

“Do you see what I’m saying?” He fixes me with an intense stare, and I suddenly notice the purple shadows beneath his eyes. God, he looks exhausted. “The light enters Manhattan . . . and becomes trapped. Trapped in its own world, bouncing backward and forward with no escape.”

“Well . . . yes, I suppose. Except . . . sometimes it rains, doesn’t it?”

“And people are the same.”

“Are they?”

“This is the world we’re living in now. Self-reflecting. Self-obsessed. Ultimately pointless. Look at that guy in the hospital. Thirty-three years old—and he has a heart attack. What if he’d died? Would he have had a fulfilled life?”

“Er—”

“Have
I
had a fulfilled life? Be honest, Becky. Look at me, and tell me.”

“Well . . . um . . . of course you have!”

“Bullshit.” He picks up a nearby Brandon Communications press release and gazes at it. “This is what my life has been about. Meaningless pieces of information.” To my shock, he starts to rip it up. “Meaningless fucking bits of paper.”

Suddenly I notice he’s tearing up our joint bank statement too.

“Luke! That’s our bank statement!”

“So what? What does it matter? It’s only a few pointless numbers. Who cares?”

“But . . . but . . .”

Something is wrong here.

“What does any of it matter?” He scatters the shreds of paper on the floor, and I force myself not to bend down and pick any of them up. “Becky, you’re so right.”

“
I’m
right?” I say in alarm.

Something is very wrong here.

“We’re all too driven by materialism. With success. With money. With trying to impress people who’ll never be impressed, whatever you . . .” He breaks off, breathing hard. “It’s humanity that matters. We
should
know homeless people. We
should
know Bolivian peasants.”