Shopaholic Ties the Knot (35 page)

“Well . . . yes,” I say after a pause. “But still—”

“Something you said a while back has been going round and round in my head all day. And now I can’t forget it.”

“What was that?” I say nervously.

“You said . . .” He pauses, as though trying to get the words just right. “You said that we’re on this planet for too short a time. And at the end of the day, what’s more important? Knowing that a few meaningless figures balanced—or knowing that you were the person you wanted to be?”

I gape at him.“But . . . but that was just stuff I made up! I wasn’t being
serious
—”

“I’m not the person I want to be, Becky. I don’t think I’ve ever been the person I wanted to be. I’ve been blinkered. I’ve been obsessed by all the wrong things—”

“Come on!” I say, squeezing his hand encouragingly. “You’re Luke Brandon! You’re successful and handsome and rich . . .”

“I’m not the person I should have become. The trouble is, now I don’t know who that person is. I don’t know who I want to be . . . what I want to do with my life . . . which path I want to take . . .” He slumps forward and buries his head in his hands. “Becky, I need some answers.”

I don’t believe it. At age thirty-four Luke is having a midlife crisis.

May 23, 2002

 

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

Apt. B

251 W. 11th Street

New York, NY 10014

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of May 21. I am glad you are starting to think of me as a good friend, and in answer to your question, my birthday is October 31.

I also appreciate that weddings are expensive affairs. Unfortunately, however, I am unable to extend your credit limit from $5,000 to $105,000 at the current time.

I can instead offer you an increased limit of $6,000, and hope this goes some way to help.

Yours sincerely,

Walt Pitman

Director of Customer Relations

49 Drakeford Road
Potters Bar
Hertfordshire

27 May 2002

Mr. Malcolm Bloomwood thanks Mrs. Elinor Sherman very much for her kind invitation to Becky and Luke’s wedding at the Plaza on 22nd June. Unfortunately he must decline, as he has broken his leg.

 

 

The Oaks
43 Elton Road
Oxshott, Surrey

27 May 2002

Mr. and Mrs. Martin Webster thank Mrs. Elinor Sherman very much for her kind invitation to Becky and Luke’s wedding at the Plaza on 22nd June. Unfortunately they must decline, as they have both contracted glandular fever.

 

 

9 Foxtrot Way
Reigate
Surrey

27 May 2002

Mr. and Mrs. Tom Webster thank Mrs. Elinor Sherman very much for her kind invitation to Becky and Luke’s wedding at the Plaza on 22nd June. Unfortunately they must decline, as their dog has just died.

THIS IS GETTING beyond a joke. Luke hasn’t been to work for over a week. Nor has he shaved. He keeps going out and wandering around God knows where and not coming home until the early hours of the morning. And yesterday I arrived back from work to find he’d given away half his shoes to people on the street.

I feel so helpless. Nothing I do seems to work. I’ve tried making him bowls of nourishing, homemade soup. (At least, it says they’re nourishing and homemade on the can.) I’ve tried making warm, tender love to him. Which was great as far as it went. (And that was pretty far, as it happens.) He seemed better for a little while—but in the end it didn’t change anything. Afterward, he was just the same, all moody and staring into space.

The thing I’ve tried the most is just sitting down and talking to him. Sometimes I really think I’m getting somewhere. But then he either just reverts back into depression, or says, “What’s the use?” and goes out again. The real trouble is, nothing he says seems to be making any sense. One minute he says he wants to quit his company and go into politics, that’s where his heart lies and he should never have sold out. (Politics? He’s never mentioned politics before.) The next moment he’s saying fatherhood is all he’s ever wanted, let’s have six children and he’ll stay at home and be a house-husband.

Meanwhile his assistant keeps phoning every day to see if Luke’s better, and I’m having to invent more and more lurid details. He’s practically got the plague by now.

I’m so desperate, I phoned Michael this morning and he’s promised to come over and see if he can do anything. If anyone can help, Michael can.

And as for the wedding . . .

I feel ill every time I think about it. It’s three weeks away. I still haven’t come up with a solution.

Mum calls me every morning and somehow I speak perfectly normally to her. Robyn calls me every afternoon and somehow I also speak perfectly normally to her. I even made a joke recently about not turning up on the day. We laughed, and Robyn quipped, “I’ll sue you!” and I managed not to sob hysterically.

I feel like I’m in free fall. Plummeting toward the ground without a parachute.

I don’t know how I’m doing it. I’ve slipped into a whole new zone, beyond normal panic, beyond normal solutions. It’s going to take a miracle to save me.

Which is basically what I’m pinning my hopes on now. I’ve lit fifty candles at St. Thomas’s, and fifty more at St. Patrick’s, and I’ve put up a petition on the prayer board at the synagogue on Sixty-fifth, and given flowers to the Hindu god Ganesh. Plus a group of people in Ohio who I found on the Internet are all praying hard for me.

At least, they’re praying that I find happiness following my struggle with alcoholism. I couldn’t quite bring myself to explain the full two-weddings story to Father Gilbert, especially after I read his sermon on how deceit is as painful to the Lord as is the Devil gouging out the eyes of the righteous. So I went with alcoholism, because they already had a page on that.

There’s no respite. I can’t even relax at home. The apartment feels like it’s closing in on me. There are wedding presents in huge cardboard boxes lining every room. Mum sends about fifty faxes a day, Robyn’s taken to popping in whenever she feels like it, and there’s a selection of veils and headdresses in the sitting room that Dream Dress sent to me without even asking.

“Becky?” I look up from my breakfast coffee to see Danny wandering into the kitchen. “The door was open. Not at work?”

“I’ve taken the day off.”

“I see.” He reaches for a piece of cinnamon toast and takes a bite. “So, how’s the patient?”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously.” For a moment Danny looks genuinely concerned, and I feel myself unbend a little. “Has Luke snapped out of it yet?”

“Not really,” I admit, and his eyes brighten.

“So are there any more items of clothing going?”

“No!” I say indignantly. “There aren’t. And don’t think you can keep those shoes!”

“Brand-new Pradas? You must be kidding! They’re mine. Luke gave them to me. If he doesn’t want them anymore—”

“He does. He will. He’s just . . . a bit stressed at the moment. Everyone gets stressed! It doesn’t mean you can take their shoes!”

“Everybody gets stressed. Everybody doesn’t give away hundred-dollar bills to total strangers.”

“Really?” I look up anxiously. “He did that?”

“I saw him at the subway. There was a guy there with long hair, carrying a guitar . . . Luke just went up to him and handed him a wad of money. The guy wasn’t even begging. In fact, he looked pretty offended.”

“Oh God—”

“You know my theory? He needs a nice, long, relaxing honeymoon. Where are you going?”

Oh no. Into free fall again. The honeymoon. I haven’t even booked one yet. How can I? I don’t know which bloody airport we’ll be flying out of.

“We’re . . . it’s a surprise,” I say at last. “We’ll announce it on the day.”

“So what are you cooking?” Danny looks at the stove, where a pot is bubbling away. “Twigs? Mm, tasty.”

“They’re Chinese herbs. For stress. You boil them up and then drink the liquid.”

“You think you’ll get Luke to drink this?” Danny prods the mixture.

“They’re not for Luke. They’re for me!”

“For you? What have you got to be stressed about?” The buzzer sounds and Danny reaches over and presses the entry button without even asking who it is.

“Danny!”

“Expecting anyone?” he says as he replaces the receiver.

“Oh, just that mass murderer who’s been stalking me,” I say sarcastically.

“Cool.” Danny takes another bite of cinnamon toast. “I always wanted to see someone get murdered.”

There’s a knock at the door, and I get up to answer.

“I’d change into something snappier,” says Danny. “The courtroom will see pictures of you in that outfit. You want to look your best.”

I open the door, expecting yet another delivery man. But it’s Michael, wearing a yellow cashmere jumper and a big smile. My heart lifts in relief just at the sight of him.

“Michael!” I exclaim, and give him a hug. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“I would’ve been here sooner if I’d realized how bad it was,” says Michael. He raises his eyebrows. “I was in at the Brandon Communications offices yesterday, and I heard Luke was sick. But I had no idea . . .”

“Yes. Well, I haven’t exactly been spreading the news. I thought it would just blow over in a couple of days.”

“So is Luke here?” Michael peers into the apartment.

“No, he went out early this morning. I don’t know where.” I shrug helplessly.

“Give him my love when he comes back,” says Danny, heading out of the door. “And remember, I’ve got dibs on his Ralph Lauren coat.”

I make a fresh pot of coffee (decaffeinated—that’s all Michael’s allowed these days) and stir the herbs dubiously, then we pick our way through the clutter of the sitting room to the sofa.

“So,” he says, removing a stack of magazines and sitting down. “Luke’s feeling the strain a little.” He watches as I pour the milk with a trembling hand. “By the looks of things, you are too.”

“I’m OK,” I say quickly. “It’s Luke. He’s completely changed, overnight. One minute he was fine, the next it was all, ‘I need some answers’ and, ‘What’s the point of life?’ and, ‘Where are we all going?’ He’s depressed, and he isn’t going to work . . . I just don’t know what to do.”

“You know, I’ve seen this coming for a while,” says Michael, taking his coffee from me. “That man of yours pushes himself too hard. Always has. Anyone who works at that pace for that length of time . . .” He gives a rueful shrug and taps his chest. “I should know. Something has to give.”

“It’s not just work. It’s . . . everything.” I bite my lip awkwardly. “I think he was affected more than he realized when you had your . . . heart thing.”

“Episode.”

“Exactly. The two of you had been fighting . . . it was such a jolt. It made him start thinking about . . . I don’t know, life and stuff. And then there’s this thing with his mother.”

“Ah.” Michael nods. “I knew Luke was upset over that piece in the
New York Times
. Understandably.”

“That’s nothing! It’s all got a lot worse since then.”

I explain all about Luke finding the letters from his father, and Michael winces.

“OK,” he says, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. “Now this all makes sense. His mother has been the driving force behind a lot of what he’s achieved. I think we all appreciate that.”

“It’s like . . . suddenly he doesn’t know why he’s doing what he’s doing. So he’s given up doing it. He won’t go to work, he won’t talk about it, Elinor’s still in Switzerland, his colleagues keep ringing up to ask how he is, and I don’t want to say, ‘Actually, Luke can’t come to the phone, he’s having a midlife crisis right now . . .’ ”

“Don’t worry, I’m going in to the office today. I could spin some story about a sabbatical. Gary Shepherd can take charge for a bit. He’s very able.”

“Will he be OK, though?” I look at Michael fearfully. “He won’t rip Luke off?”

The last time Luke took his eye off his company for more than three minutes, Alicia Bitchface Billington tried to poach all his clients and sabotage the entire enterprise. It was nearly the end of Brandon Communications.

“Gary will be fine,” says Michael reassuringly. “And I’m not doing much at the moment. I can keep tabs on things.”

“No!” I say in horror. “You mustn’t work too hard! You must take it easy.”

“Becky, I’m not an invalid!” says Michael with a tinge of annoyance. “You and my daughter are as bad as each other.”

The phone rings, and I leave it to click onto the machine.

“So, how are the wedding preparations going?” says Michael, glancing around the room.

“Oh . . . fine!” I smile brightly at him. “Thanks.”

“I had a call from your wedding planner about the rehearsal dinner. She told me your parents won’t be able to make it.”

“No,” I say after a pause. “No, they won’t.”

“That’s too bad. What day are they flying over?”

“Erm . . .” I take a sip of coffee, avoiding his eye. “I’m not sure of the
exact
day . . .”

“Becky?” Mum’s voice resounds through the room on the machine, and I jump, spilling some coffee on the sofa. “Becky, love, I need to talk to you about the band. They say they can’t do ‘Dancing Queen’ because their bass player can only play four chords. So they’ve sent me a list of songs they
can
play—”

Oh fuck. I dive across the room and grab the receiver.

“Mum!” I say breathlessly. “Hi. Listen, I’m in the middle of something, can I call you back?”

“But, love, you need to approve the list of songs! I’ll send you a fax, shall I?”

“Yes. OK, do that.”

I thrust down the receiver and return to the sofa, trying to look composed.

“Your mom’s clearly gotten involved in the wedding preparations,” says Michael with a smile.

“Oh, er . . . yes. She has.”

The phone starts to ring again and I ignore it.

“You know, I always meant to ask. Didn’t she mind about you getting married in the States?”