Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (82 page)

I meet her eyes—and it’s like an electric shock all over my body. Inside my tailored gray trousers, I can feel my legs starting to tremble. I haven’t laid eyes on Alicia Billington for well over a year. I should be able to deal with this. But it’s as though that time has concertinaed into nothing. The memories of all our encounters are as strong and sore as ever. What she did to me. What she tried to do to Luke.

She’s looking at me with the same patronizing air she used to use when she was a PR girl and I was a brand-new financial reporter. And although I tell myself firmly that I’ve grown up a lot since then, that I’m a strong woman with a successful career and nothing to prove . . . I can still feel myself shrinking inside. Turning back into the girl who always felt a bit of a flake, who never knew quite what to say.

“Rebecca!” she says, looking at me as though highly amused. “Well, I never!”

“Hi, Alicia,” I say, and somehow force myself to smile courteously. “How are you?”

“I had heard you were working in a shop, but I thought that must be a joke.” She gives a little laugh. “Yet . . . here you are. Makes sense, really.”

I don’t just “work in a shop”! I want to yell furiously. I’m a personal shopper! It’s a skilled profession! I help people!

“And you’re still with Luke, are you?” She gives me mock concerned look. “Is his company finally back on track? I know he went through a rough time.”

I cannot believe this girl. It was she who tried to sabotage Luke’s company. It was she who set up a rival PR company that went bust. It was she who lost all her boyfriend’s money—and apparently had to be bailed out by her dad.

And now she’s behaving as though she won.

I swallow several times, trying to find the right response. I know I’m worth more than Alicia. I should be able to come up with the perfect, polite, yet witty retort. But somehow it doesn’t come.

“I’m living in New York myself,” she says airily. “So I expect we’ll see each other again. Maybe you’ll sell me a pair of shoes.” She gives me a final patronizing smile, hoists her Chanel bag on her shoulder, and walks out of the department.

When she’s left, there’s silence all around.

“Who was
that
?” says Laurel at last, who has come out of the fitting room only half dressed, without me noticing.

“That was . . . Alicia Bitch Longlegs,” I say, half dazed.

“Alicia Bitch Fatass more like,” says Laurel. “I always say, there’s no bitch like an English bitch.” She gives me a hug. “Don’t worry about it. Whoever she is, she’s just jealous.”

“Thanks,” I say, and rub my head, trying to clear my thoughts. But I’m still a bit shell-shocked, to be honest. I never thought I’d have to set eyes on Alicia again.

“Becky, I’m so sorry!” says Erin, as Laurel goes back into the fitting room. “I had no idea you and Alicia knew each other!”

“I had no idea she was a client of yours!”

“She doesn’t show up very often.” Erin pulls a face. “I never met anyone so fussy. So what’s the story between you two?”

Oh, nothing! I want to say. She just trashed me to the tabloids and nearly ruined Luke’s career, and has been a complete bitch to me from the very first moment I met her. Nothing to speak of.

“We just have a bit of a history,” I say at last.

“You know she’s engaged too? To Peter Blake. Very old money.”

“I don’t understand.” My brow wrinkles. “I thought she got married last year. To a British guy. Ed . . . somebody?”

“She did! Except she didn’t. Oh my God, didn’t you hear the story?” A pair of customers are wandering past the personal shopping area, and Erin lowers her voice. “They had the wedding and they were at the reception—when in walks Peter Blake as someone’s date. Alicia hadn’t known he was coming, but apparently the minute she found out who he was, she totally zeroed in on him. So they started chatting and were really getting on—like,
really
getting on . . . but what can Alicia do, she’s married!” Erin’s face is shiny with glee. “So she went up to the priest and said she wanted an annulment.”

“She did
what
?”

“She asked for an annulment! At her own wedding reception! She said they hadn’t consummated it so it didn’t count.” Erin gives a little gurgle of laughter. “Can you believe it?”

I can’t help giving a halfhearted laugh in response. “I can believe anything of Alicia.”

“She said she always gets what she wants. Apparently the wedding is going to be to
die
for. But she’s a complete bridezilla. Like, she’s practically forced one of the ushers to have a nose job, and she’s sacked every florist in New York . . . the wedding planner’s going nuts! Who’s your wedding planner?”

“My mum,” I reply, and Erin’s eyes widen.

“Your mom’s a wedding planner? I never knew that!”

“No, you moron!” I giggle, starting to cheer up. “My mum’s organizing the wedding. She’s got it all under control already.”

“Oh right.” Erin nods. “Well—that probably makes things easier. So you can keep your distance.”

“Yes. It should be really simple. Cross fingers!” I add, and we both laugh.

Five

I
ARRIVE AT
L
A
Goulue at one o’clock on the dot, but Elinor isn’t there yet. I’m shown to a table and sip my mineral water while I wait for her. The place is busy, as it always is at this time, mostly with smartly dressed women. All around me is chatter and the gleam of expensive teeth and jewels, and I take the opportunity to eavesdrop shamelessly. At the table next to mine, a woman wearing heavy eyeliner and an enormous brooch is saying emphatically, “You simply cannot furnish an apartment these days under one hundred thousand dollars.”

“So I said to Edgar, ‘I am a human being,’ ” says a red-haired girl on my other side.

Her friend chews on a celery stick and looks at her with bright, avid eyes. “So what did he say?”

“One room, you’re talking thirty thousand.”

“He said, ‘Hilary—’ ”

“Rebecca?”

I look up, a bit annoyed to miss what Edgar said, to see Elinor approaching the table, wearing a cream jacket with large black buttons and carrying a matching clutch bag. To my surprise she’s not alone. A woman with a shiny chestnut bob, wearing a navy blue suit and holding a large Coach bag, is with her.

“Rebecca, may I present Robyn de Bendern,” says Elinor. “One of New York’s finest wedding planners.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well . . . Hello!”

“Rebecca,” says Robyn, taking both my hands and gazing intently into my eyes. “We meet at last. I’m so delighted to meet you.
So
delighted!”

“Me too!” I say, trying to match her vivacity while simultaneously racking my brain. Did Elinor mention meeting a wedding planner? Am I supposed to know about this?

“Such a pretty face!” says Robyn, without letting go of my hands. She’s taking in every inch of me, and I find myself reciprocating. She looks in her forties, immaculately made up with bright hazel eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a wide smile exposing a row of immaculate teeth. Her air of enthusiasm is infectious, but her eyes are appraising as she takes a step back and sweeps over the rest of me.

“Such a young, fresh look. My dear, you’ll make a stunning bride. Do you know yet what you’ll be wearing on the day?”

“Er . . . a wedding dress?” I say stupidly, and Robyn bursts into peals of laughter.

“That humor!” she cries. “You British girls! You were quite right,” she adds to Elinor, who gives a gracious nod.

Elinor was right? What about?

Have they been talking about me?

“Thanks!” I say, trying to take an unobtrusive step backward. “Shall we . . .” I nod toward the table.

“Let’s,” says Robyn, as though I’ve made the most genius suggestion she’s ever heard. “Let’s do that.” As she sits down I notice she’s wearing a brooch of two intertwined wedding rings, encrusted with diamonds.

“You like this?” says Robyn. “The Gilbrooks gave it to me after I planned their daughter’s wedding. Now
that
was a drama! Poor Bitty Gilbrook’s nail broke at the last minute and we had to fly her manicurist in by helicopter . . .” She pauses as though lost in memories, then snaps to. “So, Rebecca.” She beams at me and I can’t help beaming back. “Lucky, lucky girl. Tell me, are you enjoying every moment?”

“Well—”

“What I always say is, the first week after you’re engaged is the most precious time of all. You have to
savor
it.”

“Actually, it’s been a couple of weeks now—”

“Savor it,” says Robyn, lifting a finger. “Wallow in it. What I always say is, no one else can have those memories for you.”

“Well, OK!” I say with a grin. “I’ll . . . wallow in it!”

“Before we start,” says Elinor, “I must give you one of these.” She reaches into her bag and puts an invitation down on the table.

What’s this?

Mrs. Elinor Sherman requests the pleasure of your company . . .

Wow. Elinor’s holding an engagement party! For us!

“Gosh!” I look up. “Well . . . thanks. I didn’t know we were having an engagement party!”

“I discussed the matter with Luke.”

“Really? He never mentioned it to me.”

“It must have slipped his mind.” Elinor gives me a cold, gracious smile. “I will have a stack of these delivered to your apartment and you can invite some friends of your own. Say . . . ten.”

“Well . . . er . . . thanks.”

“Now, shall we have some champagne, to celebrate?”

“What a lovely idea!” says Robyn. “What I always say is, if you can’t celebrate a wedding, what can you celebrate?” She gives me a twinkling smile and I smile back. I’m warming to this woman. But I still don’t know what she’s doing here.

“Erm . . . I was just wondering, Robyn,” I say hesitantly. “Are you here in a . . . professional capacity?”

“Oh no. No, no, nooooo.” Robyn shakes her head. “It’s not a profession. It’s a
calling.
The hours I put in . . . the sheer love I put into my job . . .”

“Right.” I glance uncertainly at Elinor. “Well, the thing is—I’m not sure I’m going to need any help. Although it’s very kind of you—”

“No help?” Robyn throws back her head and peals with laughter. “You’re not going to need any help? Please! Do you know how much organization a wedding takes?”

“Well—”

“Have you ever done it before?”

“No, but—”

“A lot of girls think your way,” says Robyn, nodding. “Do you know who those girls are?”

“Um—”

“They’re the girls who end up
weeping
into their wedding cake, because they’re too stressed out to enjoy the fun! Do you want to be those girls?”

“No!” I say in alarm.

“Right! Of course you don’t!” She sits back, looking like a teacher whose class has finally cracked two plus two. “Rebecca, I will take that strain off you. I will take on the headaches, the hard work, the sheer
stress
of the situation . . . Ah, here’s the champagne!”

Maybe she has got a point, I think as a waiter pours champagne into three flutes. Maybe it would be a good idea to get a little extra help. Although how exactly she’ll coordinate with Mum . . .

“I will become your best friend, Becky,” Robyn’s saying, beaming at me. “By the time of your wedding, I’ll know you
better
than your best friend does. People call my methods unorthodox; they say I get too close. But when they see the results . . .”

“Robyn is unparalleled in this city,” says Elinor, taking a sip of champagne, and Robyn gives a modest smile.

“So let’s start with the basics,” she says, and takes out a large, leather-bound notebook. “The wedding’s on June 22nd . . .”

“Yes.”

“Rebecca and Luke . . .”

“Yes.”

“At the Plaza Hotel . . .”

“What?” I stare at her. “No, that’s not—”

“I’m taking it that both the ceremony and reception will take place there?” She looks up at Elinor.

“I think so,” says Elinor, nodding. “Much easier that way.”

“Excuse me—”

“So—the ceremony in the Terrace Room?” She scribbles for a moment. “And then the reception in the Ballroom. Lovely. And how many?”

“Wait a minute!” I say, planting a hand on her notebook. “What are you talking about?”

“Your wedding,” says Elinor. “To my son.”

“At the Plaza Hotel,” says Robyn with a beam. “I don’t need to tell you how lucky you are, getting the date you wanted! Luckily it was a client of mine who made the cancellation, so I was able to snap it right up for you then and there . . .”

“I’m not getting married at the Plaza Hotel!”

Robyn looks sharply at Elinor, concern creasing her brow. “I thought you’d spoken to John Ferguson?”

“I have,” replies Elinor crisply. “I spoke with him yesterday.”

“Good! Because as you know, we’re on a very tight schedule. A Plaza wedding in less than five months? There are some wedding planners who would simply say, impossible! I am not that wedding planner. I did a wedding once in three days. Three days! Of course, that was on a beach, so it was a little different—”

“What do you mean, the Plaza’s booked?” I turn in my chair. “Elinor, we’re getting married in Oxshott. You know we are.”

“Oxshott?” Robyn wrinkles her brow. “I don’t know it. Is it upstate?”

“Some provisional arrangements have been made,” says Elinor dismissively. “They can easily be cancelled.”

“They’re not provisional!” I stare at Elinor in fury. “And they can’t be cancelled!”

“You know, I sense some tension here,” says Robyn brightly. “So I’ll just go make a few calls . . .” She picks up her mobile and moves off to the side of the restaurant, and Elinor and I are left glaring at each other.

I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Elinor, I’m not getting married in New York. I’m getting married at home. Mum’s already started organizing it. You know she has!”

“You are not getting married in some unknown backyard in England,” says Elinor crisply. “Do you know who Luke is? Do you know who
I
am?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“For someone with a modicum of intelligence, you’re very naive.” Elinor takes a sip of champagne. “This is the most important social event in all our lives. It must be done properly. Lavishly. The Plaza is unsurpassed for weddings. You must be aware of that.”

“But Mum’s already started planning!”

“Then she can stop planning. Rebecca, your mother will be grateful to have the wedding taken off her hands. It goes without saying, I will fund the entire event. She can attend as a guest.”

“She won’t want to attend as some guest! It’s her daughter’s wedding! She wants to be the hostess! She wants to organize it!”

“So!” A cheerful voice interrupts us. “Are we resolved?” Robyn appears back at the table, putting her mobile away.

“I’ve booked an appointment for us to see the Terrace Room after lunch,” says Elinor frostily. “I would be glad if you would at least be courteous enough to come and view it with us.”

I stare at her mutinously, tempted to throw down my napkin and say no way. I can’t believe Luke knows anything about this. In fact, I feel like ringing him up right now and telling him exactly what I think.

But then I remember he’s at a board lunch . . . and I also remember him asking me to give his mother a chance. Well, fine. I’ll give her a chance. I’ll go along and see the room, and walk around and nod politely and say nothing. And then tonight I’ll tell her equally politely that I’m still getting married in Oxshott.

“All right,” I say at last.

“Good.” Elinor’s mouth moves a few millimeters. “Shall we order?”

Throughout lunch, Elinor and Robyn talk about all the New York weddings they’ve ever been to, and I eat my food silently, resisting their attempts to draw me into the conversation. Outwardly I’m calm, but inside I can’t stop seething. How dare Elinor try and take over? How dare she just hire a wedding planner without even consulting me? How dare she call Mum’s garden an “unknown backyard”?

She’s just an interfering cow, and if she thinks I’m going to get married in some huge anonymous New York hotel instead of at home with all my friends and family, she can just think again.

We finish lunch and decline coffee, and head outside. It’s a brisk, breezy day with clouds scudding along the blue sky.

As we walk toward the Plaza, Robyn smiles at me. “I can understand if you’re a little tense. It can be very stressful, planning a New York wedding. Some of my clients get very . . . wound up, shall we say.”

I’m not planning a New York wedding! I want to yell. I’m planning an Oxshott wedding! But instead I just smile and say, “I suppose.”

“I have one client in particular who’s really quite demanding . . .” Robyn exhales sharply. “But as I say, it is a stressful business . . . Ah. Here we are! Isn’t it an impressive sight?”

As I look up at the opulent facade of the Plaza I grudgingly have to admit it looks pretty good. It stretches up above Plaza Square like a wedding cake, with flags flying above a grand porticoed entrance.

“Have you been to a wedding here before?” asks Robyn.

“No. I’ve never been inside at all.”

“Ah! Well . . . In we go . . .” says Robyn, ushering Elinor and me up the steps, past uniformed porters, through a revolving door, and into an enormous reception hall with a high, ornate ceiling, a marble floor, and huge gilded pillars. Directly in front of us is a light, bright area filled with palms and trellises where people are drinking coffee and a harp is playing and waiters in gray uniforms are hurrying around with silver coffeepots.

I suppose, if I’m honest, this is quite impressive too.

“Along here,” says Robyn, taking my arm and leading us to a cordoned-off staircase. She unclasps a heavy rope cordon and we head up a grand staircase, and through another vast marble hall. Everywhere I look are ornate carvings, antiques, wall hangings, the hugest chandeliers I’ve ever seen . . .

“This is Mr. Ferguson, the executive director of catering.”

Out of nowhere, a dapper man in a jacket has appeared. He shakes my hand and beams at me.

“Welcome to the Plaza, Rebecca! And may I say, you’ve made a very wise choice. There’s nothing in the world like a Plaza wedding.”

“Right!” I say politely. “Well, it seems a very nice hotel . . .”

“Whatever your fantasy, whatever your cherished dream, we’ll do everything we can to create it for you. Isn’t that right, Robyn?”

“That’s right!” says Robyn fondly. “You simply couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Shall we go and look at the Terrace Room first?” Mr. Ferguson’s eyes twinkle. “This is the room where the ceremony will take place. I think you’ll like it.”

We sweep back through the vast marble hall and he opens a pair of double doors, and we walk into an enormous room, surrounded by a white balustraded terrace. At one end is a marble fountain, at the other steps up to a raised area. Everywhere I look, people are scurrying around, arranging flowers and draping chiffon and placing gilt chairs in angled rows on the richly patterned carpet.

Wow.

This is actually . . . quite nice.

Oh, sod it. It’s amazing.

“You’re in luck!” says Mr. Ferguson with a beam. “We have a wedding on Saturday, so you can see the room ‘in action,’ as it were.”