Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (83 page)

“Nice flowers,” says Robyn politely, then leans toward me and whispers, “We’ll have something far more special than these.”

More special than these? They’re the hugest, most spectacular flower arrangements I’ve ever seen in my life! Cascading roses, and tulips, and lilies . . . and are those orchids?

“So, you’ll come in through these double doors,” says Robyn, leading me along the terrace, “and then the bugles will play . . . or trumpets . . . whatever you wish . . . You’ll pause in front of the grotto, arrange your train, have some photographs. And then the string orchestra will begin . . .”

“String orchestra?” I echo dazedly.

“I’ve spoken to the New York Phil,” she adds to Elinor. “They’re checking their tour schedule, so, fingers crossed . . .”

The
New York Phil
?

“The bride on Saturday is having seven harpists,” says Mr. Ferguson. “And a soprano soloist from the Met.”

Robyn and Elinor look at each other.

“Now
that’s
an idea,” says Robyn, and reaches for her notebook. “I’ll get onto it.”

“Shall we go and look at the Baroque Room now?” suggests Mr. Ferguson, and leads us to a large, old-fashioned elevator.

“The night before the wedding, you’ll probably want to take a suite upstairs and enjoy the spa facilities,” he says pleasantly as we travel upward. “Then on the day, you can bring in your own professional hair and makeup people.” He smiles. “But I expect you’ve already thought of that.”

“I . . . er . . .” My mind flicks madly back to Janice and Radiant Spring Bride. “Kind of . . .”

“The guests will be served cocktails as they pass along the corridor,” explains Robyn as we leave the elevator. “Then this is the Baroque Room, where hors d’oeuvres will be served before we go into the Grand Ballroom. I expect you haven’t even given hors d’oeuvres a thought yet!”

“Well . . . um . . . you know . . .” I’m about to say that everyone likes minisausages.

“But for example,” she continues, “you could consider a caviar bar, an oyster bar, a Mediterranean meze table, sushi, perhaps . . .”

“Right,” I gulp. “That . . . sounds good.”

“And of course, the space itself can be themed however you like.” She gestures around the room. “We can transform it into a Venetian carnival, a Japanese garden, a medieval banqueting hall . . . wherever your imagination takes you!”

“And then into the Grand Ballroom for the main reception!” says Mr. Ferguson cheerfully. He throws open a pair of double doors and . . . oh my God. This room is the most spectacular of all. It’s all white and gold, with a high ceiling and theatrical boxes, and tables set around the vast, polished dance floor.

“That’s where you and Luke will lead the dancing,” says Robyn with a happy sigh. “I always say, that’s the moment of a wedding I love the most. The first dance.”

I gaze at the shining floor, and have a sudden vision of Luke and me whirling round among the candlelight and everyone looking on.

And seven harps.

And the New York Phil.

And caviar . . . and oysters . . . and cocktails . . .

“Rebecca, are you all right?” says Mr. Ferguson, suddenly seeing my expression.

“I think she’s a little overwhelmed,” says Robyn with a little laugh. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

“Well . . . yes. I suppose so.”

I take a deep breath and turn away for a moment. OK, let’s not get carried away. This may all be very glitzy, but I am
not
going to be swayed by any of it. I’ve decided I’m going to get married in England—and that’s what I’m going to do. End of story.

Except . . . just look at it all.

“Come and sit down,” says Robyn, patting a gilt chair beside her. “Now, I know from your point of view it still seems far off. But we’re on a pretty tight schedule . . . so I just wanted to talk to you about your overall view of the wedding. What’s your fantasy? What, for you, is the image of pure romance? A lot of my clients say Scarlett and Rhett, or Fred and Ginger . . .” She looks at me with sparkling eyes, her pen poised expectantly over the page.

This has gone far enough. I have to tell this woman that none of this is actually going to happen. Come on, Becky. Get back to reality.

“I . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ve always loved the end of
Sleeping Beauty,
when they dance together,” I hear myself saying.

“The ballet,” says Elinor approvingly.

“No, actually, I meant . . . the Disney film.”

“Oh!” Robyn looks momentarily puzzled. “I’ll have to catch that again! Well . . . I’m sure that will be inspirational too . . .”

She starts writing in her book and I bite my inner lip.

I have to call a halt to all this. Come on. Say something!

For some reason my mouth stays closed. I look around, taking in the molded ceiling; the gilding; the twinkling chandeliers.

Robyn follows my gaze and smiles at me. “Becky, you know, you’re a very lucky girl.” She squeezes my arm affectionately. “We’re going to have so much fun!”

Please summarize here why you are suitable for recommendation as a nonparty political peer and how you, personally, would make an effective contribution to the work of the House of Lords. Please support this with a CV clearly showing your major achievements and highlighting relevant skills and experience.

A
PPLICATION TO
B
E A
L
IFE
P
EER

Name:
Rebecca Bloomwood

Address:
 Apt. B
251 W. 11th Street
New York, NY 10014

Preferred title:
Baroness Rebecca Bloomwood of Harvey Nichols

Major achievements:

Patriotism

I have served Great Britain for many years, bolstering the economy through the medium of retail.

Trade Relations

Since living in New York I have promoted international trade between Britain and America, e.g., I always buy imported Twinings tea and Marmite.

Public Speaking

I have appeared on television chairing debates on current affairs (in the world of fashion).

Cultural Expertise

I am a collector of antiques and fine art, most notably 1930s cocktail cabinets and barware.

Personal contribution if appointed:

As a new member of the House of Lords, I would personally be very willing to take on the role of fashion consultant, an area hitherto neglected—yet vital to the very lifeblood of democracy.

February 21, 2002

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

Apt. B

251 W. 11th Street

New York, NY 10014

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of February 20.

I am afraid I could not comment on whether or not a Miù Miù skirt is a household expense.

Yours sincerely,

Walt Pitman

Director of Customer Relations

Six

I
’
M NOT GOING
to get married in New York. Of course I’m not. It’s unthinkable. I’m going to get married at home, just like I planned, with a nice marquee in the garden. There’s absolutely no reason to change my plans. None at all.

Except . . . it would be amazing. Walking down that aisle in front of four hundred people, to the sound of a string orchestra, with amazing flower arrangements everywhere. Having the huge, dreamy, Lady Di wedding I always fantasized about but thought was beyond my grasp. I mean, it’d be
Becky’s Big Day
come to life.

Then we’d all sit down to some incredible dinner . . . Robyn gave me some sample dinner menus, and the food! Rosace of Maine Lobster . . . Fowl Consommé with Quenelles of Pheasant . . . Wild Rice with Pignoli Nuts . . .

I know Oxshott and Ashtead Quality Caterers are good—but I’m not sure they even know what a pignoli nut is. (To be honest, I don’t either. But that’s not the point.)

And maybe Elinor’s right, Mum would be
grateful
if we took the whole thing off her hands. Yes. Maybe she’s finding the organization more of a strain than she’s letting on. Maybe she’s already wishing she hadn’t volunteered to do the whole thing. Whereas if we get married at the Plaza, she won’t have to do anything, just turn up. Plus Mum and Dad wouldn’t have to pay for a thing . . . I mean, it would be doing them a favor!

So as I’m walking back to Barneys, I take out my mobile and dial the number for home. As Mum answers I can hear the closing music of
Crimewatch
in the background, and I suddenly feel a wave of nostalgia for home. I can just imagine Mum and Dad sitting there, with the curtains drawn and the gas-effect fire flickering cozily.

“Hi, Mum?”

“Becky!” exclaims Mum. “I’m so glad you’ve phoned! I’ve been trying to fax you through some menus from the catering company, but your machine won’t work. Dad says, have you checked your paper recently?”

“Um . . . I don’t know. Listen, Mum—”

“And listen to this! Janice’s sister-in-law knows someone who works at a balloon printing company! She says if we order two hundred or more balloons we can have the helium for free!”

“Great! Look, I was just thinking about the wedding, actually . . .”

Why do I suddenly feel nervous?

“Oh yes? Graham, turn the television down.”

“It was just occurring to me . . . just as a possibility”—I give a shrill laugh—“that Luke and I could get married in America!”

“America?” There’s a long pause. “What do you mean, America?”

“It was just a thought! You know, since Luke and I live here already . . .”

“You’ve lived there for one year, Becky!” Mum sounds quite shocked. “This is your home!”

“Well, yes . . . but I was just thinking . . .” I say feebly.

Somehow I was hoping that Mum would say “What a fantastic idea!” and make it really easy.

“How would we organize a wedding in America?”

“I don’t know!” I swallow. “Maybe we could have it at a . . . a big hotel.”

“A
hotel
?” Mum sounds as though I’ve gone mad.

“And maybe Elinor would help . . .” I plow on. “I’m sure she’d contribute . . . you know, if it was more expensive . . .”

There’s a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone and I wince. Damn. I should never have mentioned Elinor.

“Yes, well. We don’t want her contributions, thank you. We can manage very well by ourselves. Is this Elinor’s idea, then, a hotel? Does she think we can’t put on a nice wedding?”

“No!” I say hastily. “It’s just . . . it’s nothing! I was just . . .”

“Dad says, if she’s so keen on hotels, she can stay at one instead of with us.”

Oh God. I’m just making everything worse.

“Look . . . forget it. It was a silly idea.” I rub my face. “So—how are the plans going?”

We chat for a few more minutes, and I hear all about the nice man from the marquee company and how his quote was very reasonable, and how his son was at school with cousin Alex, isn’t it a small world? By the end of our conversation Mum sounds completely mollified and all talk of American hotels has been forgotten.

I say good-bye, turn off the phone, and exhale sharply. Right. Well, that’s decided. I might as well call Elinor and tell her. No point in hanging around.

I turn on my mobile again, dial two digits, and then stop.

On the other hand—is there any point in rushing straight into a decision?

I mean, you never know. Maybe Mum and Dad will talk it over this evening and change their minds. Maybe they’ll come out to have a look. Maybe if they actually
saw
the Plaza . . . if they saw how magical it was all going to be . . . how luxurious . . . how glamorous . . . I can’t quite bear to give it up. Not quite yet.

When I get home, Luke is sitting at the table, frowning over some papers.

“You came home early!” I say, pleased.

“I had some papers to go over,” says Luke. “Thought I’d get some peace and quiet here.”

“Oh, right.”

As I get near I see that they’re all headed “The Elinor Sherman Foundation.” I open my mouth to say something—then close it again.

“So,” he says, looking up with a little smile, “what did you think of the Plaza?”

“You
knew
about it?” I stare at him.

“Yes. Of course I did. I would have come along too if I hadn’t had a lunch appointment.”

“But, Luke . . .” I take a deep breath, trying not to overreact. “You know my mother’s planning a wedding in England.”

“It’s early days, surely?”

“You shouldn’t have just fixed up a meeting like that!”

“My mother thought it would be a good way to surprise you. So did I.”

“Spring it on me, you mean!” I retort crossly, and Luke looks at me, puzzled.

“Didn’t you like the Plaza? I thought you’d be overwhelmed!”

“Of course I
liked
it. That’s not the point.”

“I know how much you’ve always wanted a big, magnificent wedding. When my mother offered to host a wedding at the Plaza, it seemed like a gift. In fact, it was my idea to surprise you. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

He looks a bit deflated and immediately guilt pours over me. It hadn’t occurred to me that Luke might have been in on the whole thing.

“Luke, I am thrilled! It’s just . . . I don’t think Mum would be very happy, us getting married in America.”

“Can’t you talk her round?”

“It’s not that easy. Your mother’s been pretty high-handed, you know—”

“High-handed? She’s only trying to give us a wonderful wedding.”

“If she really wanted to, she could give us a wonderful wedding in England,” I point out. “Or she could help Mum and Dad—and they could
all
give us a wonderful wedding! But instead, she talks about their garden as an ‘unknown backyard’!” Resentment flares up inside me again as I remember Elinor’s dismissive voice.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

“Just because it isn’t in the middle of New York! I mean, she doesn’t know anything about it!”

“OK, fine,” says Luke shortly. “You’ve made your point. You don’t want the wedding. But if you ask me, my mother’s being incredibly generous. Offering to pay for a wedding at the Plaza, plus she’s arranged us a pretty lavish engagement party . . .”

“Who said I want a lavish engagement party?” I retort before I can stop myself.

“That’s a bit churlish, isn’t it?”

“Maybe I don’t care about all the glitz and the glamour and the . . . the material things! Maybe my family is more important to me! And tradition . . . and . . . and honor. You know, Luke, we’re only on this planet for a short time . . .”

“Enough!” says Luke in exasperation. “You win! If it’s really going to be a problem, forget it! You don’t have to come to the engagement party if you don’t want to—and we’ll get married in Oxshott. Happy now?”

“I . . .” I break off, and rub my nose. Of course, it is a fairly amazing offer. And if I
could
somehow persuade Mum and Dad, maybe we’d all have the most fantastic time of our lives.

“It’s not necessarily a question of getting married in Oxshott,” I say at last. “It’s a question of . . . of . . . coming to the right decision. Look, you were the one saying we didn’t have to rush into anything . . .”

Luke’s expression softens, and he gets up.

“I know.” He sighs. “Look, Becky, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” I mumble.

“Oh, this is ridiculous.” He puts his arms around me and kisses my forehead. “All I wanted to do was give you the wedding you’ve always dreamed of. If you really don’t want to get married at the Plaza, then of course we won’t.”

“What about your mother?”

“We’ll just explain to her how you feel.” Luke gazes at me for a few moments. “Becky, it doesn’t matter to me where we get married. It doesn’t matter to me whether we have pink flowers or blue flowers. What matters to me is we’re going to become a couple—and the whole world is going to know it.”

He sounds so sure and steady, I feel a sudden lump in my throat.

“That’s what matters to me too,” I say, and swallow hard. “That’s the most important thing.”

“OK. So let’s agree. You can make the decision. Just tell me where to turn up—and I’ll turn up.”

“OK.” I smile back at him. “I promise to give you at least forty-eight hours’ notice.”

“Twenty-four will do.” He kisses me again, then points to the sideboard. “That arrived, by the way. An engagement present.”

I look over and gape. It’s a robin’s-egg-blue box, tied up with white ribbon. A present from Tiffany!

“Shall I open it?”

“Go ahead.”

Excitedly I untie the ribbon and open the box to find a blue glass bowl nestling in tissue paper, and a card reading “With best wishes from Marty and Alison Gerber.”

“Wow! This is nice! Who are the Gerbers?”

“I don’t know. Friends of my mother’s.”

“So . . . will everyone who comes to the party bring us a present?”

“I expect so.”

“Oh . . . right.”

Gosh. When Tom and Lucy had their engagement party, only about three people brought presents. And they certainly weren’t from Tiffany. I stare at the bowl thoughtfully, running my finger over its gleaming surface.

You know, maybe Luke does have a point. Maybe it would be churlish to throw Elinor’s generosity back in her face.

OK, what I’ll do is, I’ll wait until the engagement party’s over. And
then
I’ll decide.

The engagement party is at six o’clock the following Friday. I mean to get there early, but we have a frantic day at work, with three big emergencies—one of which involves our most demanding celebrity client, who clearly has
not
got over her recent breakup, whatever she may say in
People
magazine. Anyway, so I don’t arrive until ten past six, feeling a little flustered. On the plus side, I’m wearing a completely fabulous black strapless dress, which fits me perfectly. (Actually, it was earmarked for Regan Hartman, one of my clients. But I’ll just tell her I don’t think it would suit her after all.)

Elinor’s duplex is in a grand building on Park Avenue, with the most enormous marble-floored foyer and walnut-lined elevators that always smell of expensive scent. As I step out at the sixth floor I can hear the hubbub and tinkle of piano music. There’s a queue of people waiting at the door, and I wait politely behind an elderly couple in matching fur coats. I can just see through to the apartment, which is dimly lit and already seems to be full of people.

To be honest, I’ve never really liked Elinor’s apartment. It’s all done in pale blue, with silk sofas and heavy curtains and the dullest pictures in the world hanging on the walls. I can’t believe she really likes any of them. In fact, I can’t believe she ever
looks
at any of them.

“Good evening.” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I realize I’ve reached the head of the queue. A woman in a black trouser suit, holding a clipboard, is giving me a professional smile.

“May I have your name?”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say modestly, expecting her to gasp, or at least light up with recognition.

“Bloomwood . . . Bloomwood . . .” The woman looks down the list, turns a page, and runs her finger to the bottom before looking up. “I don’t see it.”

“Really?” I stare at her. “It must be there somewhere!”

“I’ll look again . . .” The woman goes up to the top and runs her eyes down more slowly. “No,” she says at last. “I’m afraid not. Sorry.” She turns to a blond woman who has just arrived. “Good evening! May I take your name?”

“But . . . but . . . the party’s for me!”

“Vanessa Dillon.”

“Ah yes,” says the door woman, and crosses off her name with a smile. “Please go in. Serge will take your coat. Could you please step aside, miss?” she adds coldly to me. “You’re blocking the doorway.”

“You have to let me in! I must be on the list!” I peer inside the door, hoping to see Luke, or even Elinor—but it’s just a load of people I don’t recognize. “Please! Honestly, I’m supposed to be here!”

The woman in black sighs. “Do you have your invitation with you?”

“No! I don’t have one. I’m the . . . the engagee!”

“The what?” She stares at me blankly.

“The party’s for
me
! And Luke . . . oh God . . .” I peer again into the party and suddenly spot Robyn, dressed in a silver beaded top and floaty skirt.

“Robyn!” I call, as discreetly as I can. “Robyn! They won’t let me in!”

“Becky!” Robyn’s face lights up. “At last!” She beckons gaily with her champagne glass with one hand, while with the other she moves a pair of men in dinner jackets out of my path. “Come on, belle of the ball!”

“You see?” I say desperately. “I’m not gate-crashing! The party’s being given
for me
!”

The blond woman stares at me for a long time—then shrugs. “OK. You can go in. Serge will take your coat. Do you have a gift?”

A gift? Has she listened to anything I’ve been saying?

“No, I don’t.”

The woman rolls her eyes as though to say, “That figures”—then turns to the next person in the queue, and I hurry in before she changes her mind.