Shopaholic Ties the Knot (40 page)

“Hello?” Mum’s voice breaks my thoughts, and my head jolts upward. For a moment I’m paralyzed with nerves. I can’t do this.

But I have to.

I have no choice.

“Hi, Mum,” I say at last, digging my nails into the palm of my hand. “It’s . . . it’s Becky. Listen, I’ve got something to tell you. And I’m afraid you’re not going to like it—”

2 June 2002

Dear Becky,

We were a little bewildered by your phone call. Despite your assurances that all will be clear when you have explained it to us, and that we must trust you, we do not really understand what is going on.

However, James and I have talked long and hard and have at last decided to do as you ask. We have canceled our flights to New York and alerted the rest of the family.

Becky dear, I do hope this all works out.

With very best wishes, and with all our love to Luke—

Annabel

June 10, 2002

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

Apt. B

251 W. 11th Street

New York, NY 10014

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

Thank you very much for your wedding invitation addressed to Walt Pitman.

After some discussion we have decided to take you into our confidence. Walt Pitman does not in fact exist. It is a generic name, used to represent all our customer care operatives.

The name “Walt Pitman” was chosen after extensive focus group research to suggest an approachable yet competent figure. Customer feedback has shown that the continual presence of Walt in our customers’ lives has increased confidence and loyalty by over 50 percent.

We would be grateful if you would keep this fact to yourself. If you would still like a representative from Second Union Bank at your wedding, I would be glad to attend. My birthday is March 5th and my favorite color is blue.

Yours sincerely,

Bernard Lieberman

Senior Vice-President

OK. DON’T PANIC. This is going to work. If I just keep my head and remain calm, it’ll work.

“It’ll never work,” says Suze’s voice in my ear.

“Shut up!” I say crossly.

“It’ll never work in a million years. I’m just warning you.”

“You’re not supposed to be warning me! You’re supposed to be encouraging me!” I lower my voice. “And as long as everyone does what they’re supposed to, it will work. It has to.”

I’m standing at the window of a twelfth-floor suite at the Plaza, staring at Plaza Square below. Outside, it’s a hot sunny day. People are milling around in T-shirts and shorts, doing normal things like hiring horse carriages to go round the park and tossing coins into the fountain.

And here am I, dressed in a towel, with my hair teased beyond recognition into a
Sleeping Beauty
style, and makeup an inch thick, walking around in the highest white satin shoes I’ve ever come across in my life. (Christian Louboutin, from Barneys. I get a discount.)

“What are you doing now?” comes Suze’s voice again.

“I’m looking out the window.”

“What are you doing that for?”

“I don’t know.” I watch a woman with denim shorts sit down on a bench and snap open a can of Coke, completely unaware she’s being watched. “To try to get a grip on normality, I suppose.”

“Normality?” I hear Suze splutter down the phone. “Bex, it’s a bit late for normality!”

“That’s not fair!”

“If normality is planet earth, do you know where you are right now?”

“Er . . . the moon?” I hazard.

“You’re fifty million light-years away. You’re . . . in another galaxy. A long long time ago.”

“I do feel a bit like I’m in a different world,” I admit, and turn to survey the palatial suite behind me.

The atmosphere is hushed and heavy with scent and hairspray and expectation. Everywhere I look there are lavish flower arrangements, baskets of fruit and chocolates, and bottles of champagne on ice. Over by the dressing table the hairdresser and makeup girl are chatting to one another while they work on Erin. Meanwhile the reportage photographer is changing his film, his assistant is watching Madonna on MTV, and a room-service waiter is clearing away yet another round of cups and glasses.

It’s all so glamorous, so expensive. But at the same time, what I’m reminded of most of all is getting ready for the summer school play. The windows would be covered in black material, and we’d all crowd round a mirror getting all overexcited, and out the front we’d hear the parents filing in, but we wouldn’t be allowed to peek out and see them . . .

“What are you doing now?” comes Suze’s voice again.

“Still looking out the window.”

“Well, stop looking out the window! You’ve got less than an hour to go!”

“Suze, relax.”

“How can I relax?”

“It’s all fine. It’s under control.”

“And you haven’t told anyone,” she says for the millionth time. “You haven’t told Danny.”

“Of course not! I’m not that stupid!” I edge casually into a corner where no one can hear me. “Only Michael knows. And Laurel. That’s it.”

“And no one suspects anything?”

“Not a thing,” I say, just as Robyn comes into the room. “Hi, Robyn! Suze, I’ll talk to you later, OK—”

I put the phone down and smile at Robyn, who’s wearing a bright pink suit and a headset and carrying a walkie-talkie.

“OK, Becky,” she says in a serious, businesslike way. “Stage one is complete. Stage two is under way. But we have a problem.”

“Really?” I swallow. “What’s that?”

“None of Luke’s family have arrived yet. His father, his stepmother, some cousins who are on the list . . . You told me they’d spoken to you?”

“Yes, they did.” I clear my throat. “Actually . . . they just called again. I’m afraid there’s a problem with their plane. They said to seat other people in their places.”

“Really?” Robyn’s face falls. “This is too bad! I’ve never known a wedding to have so many last-minute alterations! A new maid of honor . . . a new best man . . . a new officiant . . . it seems like everything’s changed!”

“I know,” I say apologetically. “I’m really sorry, and I know it’s meant a lot of work.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “It just suddenly seemed so obvious that Michael should marry us, rather than some stranger. I mean, since he’s such an old friend and he’s qualified to do it and everything. So then Luke had to have a new best man . . .”

“But to change your minds three weeks before the wedding! And you know, Father Simon was quite upset to be rejected. He wondered if it was something to do with his hair.”

“No! Of course not! It’s nothing to do with him, honestly—”

“And then your parents both catching the measles. I mean, what kind of odds is that?”

“I know!” I pull a rueful face. “Sheer bad luck.”

There’s a crackle from the walkie-talkie and Robyn turns away.

“Yes,” she says. “What’s that? No! I said radiant
yellow
light! Not blue! OK, I’m coming . . .” As she reaches the door she looks back.

“Becky, I have to go. I just needed to say, it’s been so hectic, what with all the changes, there are a couple of tiny additional details we didn’t have time to discuss. So I just went ahead with them. OK?”

“Whatever,” I say. “I trust your judgment. Thanks, Robyn.”

As Robyn leaves, there’s a tapping on the door and in comes Christina, looking absolutely amazing in pale gold Issey Miyake and holding a champagne glass.

“How’s the bride?” she says with a smile. “Feeling nervous?”

“Not really!” I say.

Which is kind of true.

In fact, it’s completely true. I’m beyond nervous. Either everything goes to plan and this all works out. Or it doesn’t and it’s a complete disaster. There’s not much I can do about it.

“I just spoke to Laurel,” she says, taking a sip of champagne. “I didn’t know she was so involved with the wedding.”

“Oh, she’s not really,” I say. “There’s just this tiny little favor she’s doing for me—”

“So I understand.” Christina eyes me over her glass, and I suddenly wonder how much Laurel has said to her.

“Did she tell you . . . what the favor was?” I say casually.

“She gave me the gist. Becky, if you pull this off . . .” says Christina. She shakes her head. “If you pull this off, you deserve the Nobel Prize for chutzpah.” She raises her glass. “Here’s to you. And good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, Christina!” We both look round to see Erin coming toward us. She’s already in her long violet maid-of-honor dress, her hair up in a medieval knot, eyes lit up with excitement. “Isn’t this
Sleeping Beauty
theme cool? Have you seen Becky’s wedding dress yet? I can’t believe I’m the maid of honor! I was never a maid of honor before!”

I think Erin’s a tad excited about her promotion. When I told her my best friend, Suze, couldn’t make it, and would she like to be maid of honor, she actually burst into tears.

“I haven’t seen Becky’s wedding dress yet,” says Christina. “I hardly dare to.”

“It’s really nice!” I protest. “Come and look.”

I lead her into the sumptuous dressing area, where Danny’s dress is hanging up.

“It’s all in one piece,” observes Christina laconically. “That’s a good start.”

“Christina,” I say. “This isn’t like the T-shirts. This is in a different league. Take a look!”

I just can’t believe what a fantastic job Danny has done. Although I’d never admit it to Christina, I wasn’t exactly counting on wearing his dress. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I was having secret Vera Wang fittings right up until a week ago.

But then one night Danny knocked on the door, his whole face lit up with excitement. He dragged me upstairs to his apartment, pulled me down the corridor, and flung open the door to his room. And I was speechless.

From a distance it looks like a traditional white wedding dress, with a tight bodice, full, romantic skirt, and long train. But the closer you get, you more you start spotting the fantastic customized details everywhere. The white denim ruffles at the back. The trademark Danny little pleats and gatherings at the waistline. The white sequins and diamante and glitter scattered all over the train, like someone’s emptied a candy box over it.

I’ve never seen a wedding dress like it. It’s a work of art.

“Well,” says Christina. “I’ll be honest. When you told me you were wearing a creation by young Mr. Kovitz, I was a little worried. But this . . .” She touches a tiny bead. “I’m impressed. Assuming the train doesn’t fall off as you walk down the aisle.”

“It won’t,” I assure her. “I walked around our apartment in it for half an hour. Not even one sequin fell off!”

“You’re going to look amazing,” says Erin dreamily. “Just like a princess. And in that room . . .”

“The room is spectacular,” says Christina. “I think a lot of jaws are going to be dropping.”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” I say. “Robyn didn’t want me going in.”

“Oh, you should take a look,” says Erin. “Just have a peek. Before it gets filled up with people.”

“I can’t! What if someone sees me?”

“Go on,” says Erin. “Put on a scarf. No one’ll know it’s you.”

I creep downstairs in a borrowed hooded jacket, averting my face when I pass anyone, feeling ridiculously naughty. I’ve seen the designer’s plans, and as I push open the double doors to the Terrace Room, I think I know roughly what I’m expecting to see. Something spectacular. Something theatrical.

Nothing could have prepared me for walking into that room.

It’s like walking into another land.

A silvery, sparkling, magical forest. Branches are arching high above me as I look up. Flowers seem to be growing out of clumps of earth. There are vines and fruits and an apple tree covered with silver apples, and a spider’s web covered with dewdrops . . . and are those
real
birds flying around up there?

Colored lights are dappling the branches and falling on the rows of chairs. A pair of women are methodically brushing lint off every upholstered seat. A man in jeans is taping a cable to the carpet. A man on a lighting rig is adjusting a silvery branch. A violinist is playing little runs and trills, and there’s the dull thud of timpani being tuned up.

This is like being backstage at a Broadway show.

I stand at the side, staring around, trying to take in every detail. I have never seen anything like this in my life before, and I don’t think I ever will again.

Suddenly I see Robyn entering the room at the far end, talking into her headpiece. Her eyes scan the room, and I shrink into my hooded jacket. Before she can spot me, I back out of the Terrace Room and get into the lift to go up to the Grand Ballroom.

As the doors are about to close, a couple of elderly women in dark skirts and white shirts get in.

“Did you see the cake?” says one of them. “Three thousand dollars minimum.”

“Who’s the family?”

“Sherman,” says the first woman. “Elinor Sherman.”

“Oh,
this
is the Elinor Sherman wedding.”

The doors open and they walk out.

“Bloomwood,” I say, too late. “I think the bride’s name is Becky . . .”

They weren’t listening, anyway.

I cautiously follow them into the Grand Ballroom. The enormous white and gold room where Luke and I will lead the dancing.

Oh my God. It’s even huger than I remember. It’s even more gilded and grandiose. Spotlights are circling the room, lighting up the balconies and chandeliers. They suddenly switch to strobe effects, then flashing disco lights, playing on the faces of waiters putting finishing touches to the tables. Every circular table has an ornate centerpiece of cascading white flowers. The ceiling has been tented with muslin, festooned with fairy lights like strings of pearls. The dance floor is vast and polished. Up on the stage, a ten-piece band is doing a sound check. I look round dazedly and see two assistants from Antoine’s cake studio balancing on chairs, sticking the last few sugar tulips into the eight-foot cake. Everywhere is the smell of flowers and candle wax and anticipation.