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.
“I can’t stay long,” says Robyn as I join her. “I have three rehearsal dinners to go to. But I particularly wanted to see you tonight, because I have exciting news. A very talented event designer is going to be working on your wedding! Sheldon Lloyd, no less!”
“Wow!” I say, trying to match her tone even though I have no idea who Sheldon Lloyd is. “Gosh.”
“You’re bowled over, aren’t you? What I always say is, if you want to make things happen, make them happen now! So I’ve been speaking with Sheldon and we’ve been tossing around some ideas. He thought your Sleeping Beauty concept was fabulous, by the way. Really original.” She looks around and lowers her voice. “His idea is . . . we turn the Terrace Room into an enchanted forest.”
“Really?”
“Yes! I’m so thrilled, I just have to show you!”
She opens her bag and pulls out a sketch, and I stare at it in disbelief.
“We’ll have birch trees imported from Switzerland, and garlands of fairy lights. You’ll walk down an avenue of trees, with their branches hanging over you. Pine needles will give off a wonderful scent as you walk, flowers will magically blossom as you pass, and trained songbirds will sing overhead. . . . What do you think about an animatronic squirrel?”
“Erm . . .” I pull a little face.
“No, I wasn’t sure about that, either. OK . . . we’ll forget the woodland creatures.” She takes out a pen and scores out an entry. “But otherwise . . . it’s going to be fabulous. Don’t you think?”
“I . . . Well . . .”
Should I tell her I’m still not quite decided about whether to get married in New York?
Oh, but I can’t. She’ll stop all the preparations on the spot. She’ll go and tell Elinor, and there’ll be a terrible fuss.
And the thing is, I’m sure we will end up going for the Plaza in the end. Once I’ve worked out exactly how to win Mum round. I mean
, we’d be mad not to.
“You know, Sheldon has worked for many Hollywood stars,” says Robyn, lowering her voice still further. “When we meet him you can look at his portfolio. I’m telling you, it’s quite something.”
“Really?” I feel a sparkle of excitement. “It all sounds . . . fantastic!”
“Good!” She looks at her watch. “Now, I have to run. But I’ll be in touch.” She squeezes my hand, downs her champagne, and hurries toward the door—and I stare after her, still a little dazzled.
Hollywood stars! I mean, if Mum knew about that, wouldn’t she see the whole thing differently? Wouldn’t she realize what an amazing opportunity this is?
The trouble is, I can’t quite pluck up courage to bring up the subject again. I didn’t even dare tell her about this party. She’d only get all upset and say, “Doesn’t Elinor think we can throw a nice engagement party?” or something. And then I’d feel even more guilty than I already do. Oh God. I just need a way to introduce the idea into her head once more, without her immediately getting upset. Maybe if I spoke to Janice . . . if I told her about the Hollywood stars . . .
A burst of laughter nearby brings me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’m standing all alone. I take a sip of champagne and look for someone to join. The slightly weird thing is, this is supposed to be an engagement party for me and Luke. But there must be at least a hundred people here, and I don’t know any of them. At least, I dimly recognize the odd face here and there—but not really well enough to bound up and say hello. I try smiling at a woman coming in, but she eyes me suspiciously and pushes her way toward a group standing by the window. You know, whoever said Americans were friendlier than the British can’t ever have been to New York.
Danny should be here somewhere, I think, peering through the throng. I invited Erin and Christina too—but they were both still hard at it when I left Barneys. I expect they’ll be along later.
Oh come on, I’ve got to talk to someone. I should at least let Elinor know I’m here. I’m just elbowing my way past a group of women in matching black Armani when I hear someone saying “Do you know the bride?”
I freeze behind a pillar, trying to pretend I’m not eavesdropping.
“No. Does anybody?”
“Where do they live?”
“The West Village somewhere. But apparently they’re moving to this building.”
I stare at the pillar in bemusement. What’s that?
“Oh really? I thought it was impossible to get in here.”
“Not if you’re related to Elinor Sherman!” The women laugh gaily and move off into the melee, and I stare blankly at a molded curlicue.
They must have got that wrong. There’s no way we’re moving here. No way.
I wander aimlessly around for another few minutes, find myself a glass of champagne, and try to keep a cheerful smile on my face. But try as I might, it keeps slipping. This isn’t exactly how I pictured my engagement party would be. First of all the door-people try to stop me going in. Then I don’t know anybody. Then the only things to eat are low-fat, high-protein cubes of fish—and even then, the wait staff look taken aback when you actually eat them.
I can’t help thinking back slightly wistfully to Tom and Lucy’s engagement party. It wasn’t nearly as grand as this, of course. Janice made a big bowl of punch and there was a barbecue, and Martin sang “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” on the karaoke machine. But still. At least it was fun. At last I knew people. I knew more people at that party than I do at this one—
“Becky! Why are you hiding?” I look up and feel a swoosh of relief. There’s Luke.
“Luke! At last!” I say, moving forward—then gasp in joy as I see a familiar, balding, middle-aged man standing beside him, grinning cheerfully at me. “Michael!” I throw my arms around him and give him a big hug.
Michael Ellis has to be one of my favorite people in the world. He’s based in Washington, where he heads up an incredibly successful advertising agency. He’s also Luke’s partner in the American arm of Brandon Communications, and has been like a mentor figure to him. And to me, for that matter. If it weren’t for some advice Michael gave me a while ago, I’d never have moved to New York in the first place.
“Luke said you might be coming!” I say, beaming at him.
“You think I’d miss this?” Michael twinkles at me. “Congratulations!” He raises his glass toward me. “You know, Becky, I’ll bet you’re regretting not taking up my offer of a job now. You could have had real prospects in Washington. Whereas instead . . .” He shakes his head. “Look at the way things have turned out for you. Great job, got your man, a wedding at the Plaza . . .”
“Who told you about the Plaza?” I say in surprise.
“Oh, just about everybody I’ve spoken to. Sounds like it’s going to be some event.”
“Well . . .” I give a bashful shrug.
“Is your mom excited about it?”
“I . . . er . . . well . . .” I take a sip of champagne to avoid having to answer.
“She’s not here tonight, I take it?”
“No. Well, it is quite a long way!” My laugh is a little shrill, and I take another sip, draining my glass.
“Let me get you another,” says Luke, taking my glass. “And I’ll find my mother. She was asking where you were . . . I’ve just asked Michael to be best man,” he adds as he walks off. “Luckily he said yes.”
“Really?” I say, and beam at Michael in delight. “Fantastic! I can’t think of a better choice.”
“I’m very honored to be asked,” says Michael. “Unless you want me to marry you, of course. I’m a bit rusty, but I could probably remember the words . . .”
“Really?” I say in surprise. “Are you secretly a minister, as well as everything else?”
“No.” He throws back his head and laughs. “But a few years back, some friends wanted me to marry them. I pulled some strings and got registered as an officiant.”
“Well, I think you’d make a great minister! Father Michael. People would flock to your church.”
“An atheist minister.” Michael raises his eyebrows. “I guess I wouldn’t be the first.” He takes a sip of champagne. “So how’s the shopping business?”
“It’s great, thanks.” I beam at him.
“You know, I recommend you to everyone I meet. ‘You need clothes, go to Becky Bloomwood at Barneys.’ I tell busboys, businessmen, random people I meet on the street . . .”
“I wondered why I kept getting all these strange people through.” I smile at him.
“Seriously, I wanted to ask a small favor.” Michael lowers his voice slightly. “I’d be grateful if you could help out my daughter, Lucy. She just broke up with a guy and I think she’s going through a patch of lacking self-confidence. I told her I knew who could fix her up.”
“Absolutely,” I say, feeling touched. “I’d be glad to help.”
“You won’t bankrupt her, though. Because she’s only on a lawyer’s salary.”
“I’ll try not to,” I say, laughing. “How about you?”
“You think I need help?”
“To be honest, you look pretty good already.” I gesture to his immaculate dark gray suit, which I’m certain didn’t give him much change out of $3,000.
“I always dress up when I know I’m going to be seeing the beautiful people,” says Michael. He looks around the party with an amused expression, and I follow his gaze. A nearby group of six middle-aged women are talking at each other animatedly, seemingly without taking breath. “Are these your friends?”
“Not really,” I admit. “I don’t know many people here.”
“I guessed as much.” He gives me a quizzical smile and takes a sip of champagne. “So . . . how are you getting along with your future mother-in-law?” His expression is so innocent, I want to laugh.
“Oh, like a house on fire,” I say, grinning. “Can’t you tell?”
“What are you talking about?” says Luke, suddenly appearing at my
shoulder. He hands me a full glass of champagne and I shoot a glance at Michael.
“We were just talking about wedding plans,” says Michael easily. “Have you decided on a honeymoon location yet?”
“We haven’t really talked about it.” I look at Luke. “But I’ve had some ideas. We need to go somewhere really nice and hot. And glamorous. And somewhere I’ve never been before.”
“You know, I’m not sure I’ll be able to fit in much of a honeymoon,” says Luke with a small frown. “We’ve just taken on NorthWest and that means we may be looking at expanding again. So we might have to make do with a long weekend.”
“A long weekend?” I stare at him in dismay. “That’s not a honeymoon!”
“Luke,” says Michael reprovingly. “That won’t do. You have to take your wife on a nice honeymoon. As best man, I insist. Where have you never been, Becky? Venice? Rome? India? Africa?”
“I haven’t been to any of them!”
“I see.” Michael raises his eyebrows. “This could turn out to be some honeymoon.”
“Everyone has seen the world except me. I never even had a gap year. I never did Australia, or Thailand . . .”
“Neither did I,” says Luke, shrugging.
“I haven’t done anything! You know, Suze’s mother’s best friend in the whole world is a Bolivian peasant.” I look at Luke impressively. “They ground maize together on the plains of the Llanos!”
“Looks like it’s Bolivia,” says Michael to Luke.
“You want to grind maize on our honeymoon?”
“I just think maybe we should broaden our horizons a bit. Like . . . go backpacking, maybe.”
“Becky, are you aware of the concept of backpacking?” says Luke mildly. “All your possessions in one rucksack. Which you have to carry. Not FedEx.”
“I could do that!” I say indignantly. “Easily! And we’d meet loads of really interesting people—”
“I know interesting people already.”
“You know bankers and PR people! Do you know any Bolivian peasants? Do you know any homeless people?”
“I can’t say I do,” says Luke. “Do you?”
“Well . . . no,” I admit after a pause. “But that’s not the point. We should!”
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