“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.”
“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 a
n 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.
APPLICATION TO BE A LIFE PEER
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 . . .”
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