Shopaholic Ties the Knot (36 page)

“No!” I say, twisting my fingers into a knot. “Why should she mind?”

“I know what mothers are like about weddings . . .”

“Sorry, love, just a quickie,” comes Mum’s voice again. “Janice was asking, how do you want the napkins folded? Like bishops’ hats or like swans?”

I grab the phone.

“Mum, listen. I’ve got company!”

“Please. Don’t worry about me,” says Michael from the sofa. “If it’s important—”

“It’s not important! I don’t give a shit what shape the napkins are in! I mean, they only look like a swan for about two seconds . . .”

“Becky!” exclaims Mum in shock. “How can you talk like that! Janice went on a napkin-arranging course especially for your wedding! It cost her forty-five pounds, and she had to take her own packed lunch—”

Remorse pours over me.

“Look, Mum, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit preoccupied. Let’s go for . . . bishops’ hats. And tell Janice I’m really grateful for all her help.” I put down the receiver just as the doorbell rings.

“Is Janice the wedding planner?” says Michael interestedly.

“Er . . . no. That’s Robyn.”

“You have mail!” pipes up the computer in the corner of the room.

This is getting to be too much.

“Excuse me, I’ll just get the door . . .”

I swing open the front door breathlessly, to see a delivery man holding a huge cardboard box.

“Parcel for Bloomwood,” he says. “Very fragile.”

“Thanks,” I say, awkwardly taking it from him.

“Sign here, please . . .” He hands me a pen, then sniffs. “Is something burning in your kitchen?”

Oh fuck. The Chinese herbs.

I dash into the kitchen and turn off the burner, then return to the man and take the pen. Now I can hear the phone ringing again. Why can’t everyone leave me alone?

“And here . . .”

I scribble on the line as best I can, and the delivery man squints suspiciously at it. “What does that say?”

“Bloomwood! It says Bloomwood!”

“Hello,” I can hear Michael saying. “No, this is Becky’s apartment. I’m Michael Ellis, a friend.”

“I need you to sign again, lady. Legibly.”

“Yes, I’m Luke’s best man. Well, hello! I’m looking forward to meeting you!”

“OK?” I say, after practically stabbing my name into the page. “Satisfied?”

“Lighten up!” says the delivery guy, raising his hands as he saunters away. I close the door with my foot and stagger into the living room just in time to hear Michael saying, “I’ve heard about the plans for the ceremony. They sound quite spectacular!”

“
Who are you talking to
?” I mouth.

“
Your mom
,” mouths back Michael with a smile.

I nearly drop the box on the floor.

“I’m sure it’ll all run smoothly on the day,” Michael’s saying reassuringly. “I was just saying to Becky, I really admire your involvement with the wedding. It can’t have been easy!”

No. Please, no.

“Well,” says Michael, looking surprised. “All I meant was, it must be difficult. What with you based in England . . . and Becky and Luke getting married in—”

“Michael!” I say desperately, and he looks up, startled. “Stop!”

He puts his hand over the receiver. “Stop what?”

“My mum. She . . . she doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

I stare at him, agonized. At last he turns to the phone. “Mrs. Bloomwood, I’m going to have to go. There’s a lot going on here. But great to talk to you and . . . I’ll see you at the wedding, I’m sure . . . Yes, you too.”

He puts down the phone and there’s a scary silence.

“Becky, what doesn’t your mom know?” he says at last.

“It . . . doesn’t matter.”

“I get the feeling it does.” He looks at me shrewdly. “I get the feeling something’s not right.”

“I . . . It’s nothing. Really . . .”

I stop at the sound of the fax machine whirring in the corner. Mum’s fax. I quickly dump the box on the sofa and launch myself at the fax machine.

But Michael’s too quick for me. He plucks the page from the machine and starts to read it.

“Playlist for Rebecca and Luke’s wedding. Date: 22nd June. Venue: The Pines, 43 Elton Road . . . Oxshott . . .” He looks up, a frown on his face. “Becky, what is this? You and Luke are getting married at the Plaza. Right?”

I can’t answer. Blood is pumping through my head, almost deafening me.

“Right?” repeats Michael, his voice becoming sterner.

“I don’t know,” I say at last in a tiny voice.

“How can you not know where you’re getting married?”

He surveys the fax again. I can see comprehension slowly dawning.

“Jesus Christ.” He looks up. “Your mom’s planning a wedding in England, isn’t she?”

I stare at him in mute anguish. This is even worse than Suze finding out. I mean, Suze has known me for so long. She knows how stupid I am and she always forgives me. But Michael. I swallow. Michael’s always treated me with respect. He once told me I was sharp and intuitive. He even offered me a job with his company. I can’t bear for him to find out what a complete mess I’ve got into.

“Does your mom know
anything
about the Plaza?”

Very slowly, I shake my head.

“Does Luke’s mother know about this?” He hits the fax.

I shake my head again.

“Does anyone know? Does
Luke
know?”

“Nobody knows,” I say, finally finding a voice. “And you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Not
tell
anyone? Are you kidding?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Becky, how could you have let this happen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I didn’t
mean
for it to happen—”

“You didn’t mean to deceive two entire families? Not to mention the expense, the effort . . . You realize you’re in big trouble here?”

“It’ll work itself out!” I say desperately.

“How is it going to work itself out? Becky, this isn’t a double-booked dinner date! This is hundreds of people!”

“Ding-dong, ding-dong!” suddenly chimes my wedding countdown alarm clock from the bookshelf. “Ding-dong, ding-dong! Only twenty-two days to go till the Big Day!”

“Shut up!” I say tensely.

“Ding-dong, ding—”

“Shut
up
!” I cry, and hurl it onto the floor, where the clock face shatters.

“Twenty-two days?” says Michael. “Becky, that’s only three weeks!”

“I’ll think of something! A lot can happen in three weeks!”

“You’ll think of something? That’s your only answer?”

“Perhaps a miracle will happen!”

I try a little smile, but Michael’s face doesn’t react. He still looks just as astounded. Just as angry.

I can’t stand Michael being angry with me. My head’s pounding and I can feel tears pressing hotly at my eyes. With trembling hands I grab my bag and reach for my jacket.

“What are you going to do?” His voice sharpens. “Becky, where are you going?”

I stare back, my mind feverishly racing. I need to escape. From this apartment, from my life, from this whole hideous mess. I need a place of peace, a place of sanctuary. A place where I’ll find solace.

“I’m going to Tiffany,” I say with a half-sob, and close the door behind me.

Five seconds after I’ve crossed the threshold of Tiffany, I’m already calmer. My heart rate begins to subside. My mind begins to turn less frantically. I feel soothed, just looking around at the cases full of glittering jewelry. Audrey Hepburn was right: nothing bad could ever happen in Tiffany.

I walk to the back of the ground floor, dodging the tourists and eyeing up diamond necklaces as I go. There’s a girl about my age trying on a knuckle-duster of an engagement ring, and as I see her exhilarated face, I feel a painful pang inside.

It seems like a million years ago that Luke and I got engaged. I feel like a different person. If only I could rewind. God, if I could just have the chance. I’d do it all so differently.

There’s no point torturing myself with how it might have been. This is what I’ve done—and this is how it is.

I get into the elevator and travel up to the third floor—and as I step out, I relax even more. This really is another world. It’s different even from the crowded, touristy floor below. It’s like heaven.

The whole floor is tranquil and spacious, with silver, china, and glassware displayed on mirror-topped cabinets. It’s a world of quiet luxury. A world of glossy, cultured people who don’t have to worry about anything. I can see an immaculate girl in navy blue examining a glass candlestick. Another girl, heavily pregnant, is looking at a sterling silver baby’s rattle. No one’s got any problems here. The only major dilemma facing anyone is whether to have gold or platinum edging their dinner service.

As long as I stay here I’ll be safe.

“Becky? Is that you?” My heart gives a little flicker and I turn round, to see Eileen Morgan beaming at me. Eileen is the lady who showed me around the floor when I registered my list here. She’s an elderly lady with her hair in a bun, and reminds me of the ballet teacher I used to have when I was little.

“Hi, Eileen,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m well. And I have good news for you!”

“Good news?” I say stupidly.

I can’t remember the last time I heard a piece of good news.

“Your list has been going very well.”

“Really?” In spite of myself I feel the same twinge of pride I used to when Miss Phipps said my pliés were going well.

“Very well, indeed. In fact, I was planning to call you. I think the time has come . . .” Eileen pauses momentously, “. . . to go for some larger items. A silver bowl. A platter. Some antique hollowware.”

I stare at her in slight disbelief. In wedding list terms, this is as though she’s said I should try for the Royal Ballet.

“You honestly think I’m in that . . . league?”

“Becky, the performance of your list has been very impressive. You’re right up there with our top brides.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say. I never thought . . .”

“Never underestimate yourself!” says Eileen with a warm smile, and gestures around the floor. “Browse for as long as you like and let me know what you’d like to add. If you need any help, you know where I am.” She squeezes my arm. “Well done, Becky.”

As she walks away, I feel my eyes pricking with grateful tears.
Someone
doesn’t think I’m a disaster.
Someone
doesn’t think I’ve ruined everything. In one area, at least, I’m a success.

I head toward the antiques cabinet and gaze up at a silver tray, filled with emotion. I won’t let Eileen down. I’ll register the best damn antique hollowware I possibly can. I’ll put down a teapot, and a sugar bowl . . .

“Rebecca.”

“Yes?” I say, turning round. “I haven’t quite decided—”

And then I stop, my words shriveling on my lips. It’s not Eileen.

It’s Alicia Bitch Longlegs.

Out of the blue, like a bad fairy. She’s wearing a pink suit and holding a Tiffany carrier bag and hostility is crackling all around her.

Of all the times.

“So,” she says. “So, Becky. I suppose you’re feeling pretty pleased with yourself, are you?”

“Er . . . no. Not really.”

“Miss Bride of the Year. Miss Enchanted Bloody Forest.”

I gaze at her puzzledly. I know Alicia and I aren’t exactly best buddies—but isn’t this a bit extreme?

“Alicia,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Her voice rises shrilly. “What could be wrong? Maybe the fact that my wedding planner has dumped me with no warning. Maybe that’s irking me a little!”

“What?”

“And why has she dumped me? So she can concentrate on her big, important, Plaza-wedding client. Her extra-special, spare-no-expense client Miss Becky Bloomwood.”

I stare at her in horror. “Alicia, I had no idea—”

“My whole wedding’s in pieces. I couldn’t get another wedding planner. She’s bad-mouthed me all over town. Apparently the rumor is I’m ‘difficult.’ Fucking ‘
difficult’
! The caterers aren’t returning my calls, my dress is too short, the florist is an idiot . . .”

“I’m so sorry,” I say helplessly. “I honestly didn’t know about this—”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure you weren’t sniggering in Robyn’s office while she made the call.”

“I wasn’t! I wouldn’t! Look . . . I’m sure it’ll all turn out OK.” I take a deep breath. “To be honest, my wedding isn’t going that smoothly either . . .”

“Give me a break. I’ve heard all about your wedding. The whole bloody world has.” She turns on her heel and stalks away, and I gaze after her, shaken.

I haven’t just ruined my own wedding, I’ve ruined Alicia’s too.

I try to turn my attention back to the antiques cabinet but I feel upset and jittery. OK, come on. Let’s pick a few things. That might cheer me up. A nineteenth-century tea strainer. And a sugar bowl with inlaid mother-of-pearl. I mean, that’ll always come in handy, won’t it?

And look at this silver teapot. Only $5,000. I scribble it down on my list and then look up to see if there’s a matching cream jug. A young couple in jeans and T-shirts have wandered over to the same cabinet, and suddenly I notice they’re staring up at the same teapot.

“Look at that,” says the girl. “A five-thousand-dollar teapot. What would anyone want with that?”

“Don’t you like tea?” says her boyfriend with a grin.

“Sure! But I mean, if you had five thousand dollars, would you spend it on a
teapot
?”

“When I have five thousand dollars I’ll let you know,” says the boyfriend. They both laugh and walk off, hand in hand, light and happy with each other.

Suddenly, standing there in front of the cabinet, I feel ridiculous. Like a child playing with grown-up clothes. What do I want a $5,000 teapot for?

I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I’m doing.

I want Luke.

It hits me like a tidal wave, overwhelming everything else. Brushing all the clutter and rubbish away.

That’s all I want. Luke normal and happy again.

The two of us normal and happy. I have a sudden vision of us on a deserted beach somewhere. Watching the sunset. No baggage, no fuss. Just the two of us, being together.