“Well,” she says. “I’ll be off then.”
“Au revoir,” says Antoine, without even looking up.
“Bye, Alicia,” I say innocently. “Have a lovely wedding.”
As she stalks out, I subside back in my seat, heart still pumping wth exhilaration. That was one of the best moments of my life. Finally getting the better of Alicia Bitch Longlegs. Finally! I mean, how often has she been horrible to me? Answer: approximately one thousand times. And how often have I had the perfect put-down at my lips? Answer: never.
Until today!
I can see Robyn and Antoine exchanging looks, and I’m dying to ask them what they think of Alicia. But . . . it wouldn’t be becoming in a bride-to-be.
Plus if they bitch about her, they might bitch about me too.
“Now!” says Robyn. “On to something more pleasant. You’ve seen the details of Becky’s wedding, Antoine.”
“Indeed,” says Antoine, beaming at me. “Eet will be a most beautiful event.”
“I know,” I hear myself saying happily. “I’m so looking forward to it!”
“So . . . we discuss the cake . . . I must fetch some pictures for you . . . meanwhile, can I offer you some more champagne, perhaps?”
“Yes, please,” I say, and hold out my glass. “That would be lovely!”
The champagne fizzes, pale and delicious, into my glass. Then Antoine disappears off again and I take a sip, smiling to hide the fact that inside, I’m feeling a slight unease.
Now that Alicia’s gone, there’s no need to pretend anymore. What I should do is put my glass down, take Robyn aside, apologize for having wasted her time—and inform her that the wedding is off and I’m getting married in Oxshott. Quite simple and straightforward.
That’s what I should do.
But . . . something very strange has happened since this morning. I can’t quite explain it—but somehow, sitting here, drinking champagne and eating thousand-dollar cake, I just don’t feel like someone who’s going to get married in a garden in Oxshott.
If I’m really honest, hand on heart—I feel exactly like someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza.
More than that, I want to be someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza. I want to be that girl who swans around expensive cake shops and has people running after her and gets treated like a princess. If I call off the wedding, then it’ll all stop. Everyone will stop making a fuss. I’ll stop being that special, glossy person.
Oh God, what’s happened to me? I was so resolved this morning.
Determinedly I close my eyes and force myself to think back to Mum and her flowering cherry tree. But even that doesn’t work. Perhaps it’s the champagne—but instead of being overcome with emotion, and thinking: I must get married at home, I find myself thinking: Maybe we can incorporate the cherry tree into the enchanted forest.
“All right, Becky?” says Robyn, beaming at me. “Penny for them!”
“Oh!” I say, my head jerking up guiltily. “I was just thinking that . . . the um . . . wedding will be fantastic.”
What am I going to do? Am I going to say something?
Am I not going to say anything?
Come on, Becky. Decide.
“So—you want to see what I have in my bag?” says Robyn brightly.
“Er . . . yes, please.”
“Ta-daah!” She pulls out a thick, embossed card, covered in swirly writing, and hands it to me.
Mrs. Elinor Sherman
requests the honour of your presence
at the marriage of
Rebecca Bloomwood
to her son
Luke Brandon
I stare at it, my heart thumping hard.
This is real. This is really real. Here it is, in black and white.
Or at least, bronze and taupe.
I take the stiff card from her and turn it over and over in my fingers.
“What do you think?” Robyn beams. “It’s exquisite, isn’t it? The card is 80 percent linen.”
“It’s . . . lovely.” I swallow. “It seems very soon to be sending out invitations, though.”
“We aren’t sending them out yet! But I always like to get the invitations done early. What I always say is, you can’t proofread too many times. We don’t want to be asking our guests to wear ‘evening press,’ like one bride I could mention . . .” She trills with laughter.
“Right.” I stare down at the words again.
Saturday June 21st at seven o’clock
at the Plaza Hotel
New York City
This is serious. If I’m going to say anything, I have to say it now. If I’m going to call this wedding off, I have to do it now. Right this minute.
My mouth remains closed.
Does this really mean I’m choosing the Plaza after all? That I’m selling out? That I’m choosing the gloss and glitter? That I’m going with Elinor instead of Mum and Dad?
“I thought you’d like to send one to your mother!” says Robyn.
My head jerks up sharply—but Robyn’s face is blithely innocent. “Such a shame she isn’t here to get involved with the preparations. But she’ll love to see this, won’t she?”
“Yes,” I say after a long pause. “Yes, she’ll . . . love it.”
I put the invitation into my bag and snap the clasp shut, feeling slightly sick.
So this is it. New York it is.
Mum will understand. When I tell her all about it properly, she’ll come round. She has to.
Antoine’s new mandarin and lychee cake is fabulous. But somehow as I nibble at it, my appetite’s gone.
After I’ve tried several more flavors and am no nearer a decision, Antoine and Robyn exchange looks and suggest I probably need time to think. So with one last sugar rose for my purse, I say good-bye and head to Barneys, where I deal with all my clients perfectly pleasantly, as though nothing’s on my mind.
But all the time I’m thinking about the call I’ve got to make. About how I’m going to break the news to Mum. About how I’m going to explain to Mum.
I won’t say anything as strong as I definitely want to get married in the Plaza. Not initially. I’ll just tell her that it’s there as a possibility, if we both want it. That’s the key phrase. If we both want it.
The truth is, I didn’t present it properly to her before. She’ll probably leap at the chance once I explain it all to her fully. Once I tell her about the enchanted forest and the string orchestra, and the dance band and the thousand-dollar cake. A lovely luxury wedding, all expenses paid! I mean, who wouldn’t leap at it?
But my heart’s thumping as I climb the stairs to our apartment. I know I’m not being honest with myself. I know what Mum really wants.
I also know that if I make enough fuss, she’ll do anything I ask her.
I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. Two seconds later, the doorbell rings behind me and I jump with fright. God, I’m on edge at the moment.
“Hi,” I say, opening it. “Oh, Danny, it’s you. Listen, I need to make quite an important phone call. So if you wouldn’t mind—”
“OK, I have to ask you a favor,” he says, coming into the apartment and completely ignoring me.
“What is it?”
“Randall’s been pressuring me. He’s like, where exactly do you sell your clothes? Who exactly are your customers? Do you have a business plan? So I’m like, of course I have a business plan, Randall. I’m planning to buy up Coca-Cola next year, what do you think?”
“Danny?”
“So then he starts saying if I don’t have any genuine client base I should give up and he’s not going to subsidize me anymore. He used the word subsidize! Can you believe it?”
“Well,” I say distractedly. “He does pay your rent. And he bought you all those rolls of pink suede you wanted . . .”
“OK,” says Danny after a pause. “OK. So the pink suede was a mistake. But Jesus! He just wouldn’t leave it
alone. I told him about your dress—but he was like, Daniel, you can’t base a commercial enterprise on one customer who lives downstairs.” Danny chews the skin on his thumb nervously. “So I told him I just had a big order from a department store.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Barneys.”
I look at him, my attention finally caught.
“Barneys? Danny, why did you say Barneys?”
“So you can back me up! If he asks you, you stock me, OK? And all your clients are falling over themselves to buy my stuff, you’ve never known anything like it in the history of the store.”
“You’re mad. He’ll never fall for it. And what will you say when he wants some money?”
“I’ll have money by then!”
“What if he checks up? What if he goes to Barneys to look?”
“He won’t check up,” says Danny scornfully. “He only has time to talk to me once a month, let alone make unscheduled visits to Barneys. But if he meets you on the stairs, go along with my story. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Well . . . all right,” I say at last.
Honestly. As if I haven’t got enough to worry about already.
“Danny, I really must make this call . . .” I say helplessly.
“So did you find somewhere else to live yet?” he says, flopping down into an armchair.
“We haven’t had time.”
“You haven’t even thought about it?”
“Elinor wants us to move to her building and I’ve said no. That’s as far as we’ve got.”
“Really?” Danny stares at me. “But don’t you want to stay in the Village?”
“Of course I do! There’s no way I’m moving there.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I . . . don’t know! I’ve just got too many other things to think about at the moment. Speaking of which—”
“Pre-wedding stress,” says Danny knowingly. “The solution is a double martini.” He opens up the cocktail cabinet and a sheaf of wedding list brochures falls out onto the floor.
“Hey!” he says reproachfully, picking them up. “Did you register without me? I cannot believe that! I have been dying to register my entire life! Did you ask for a cappuccino maker?”
“Er . . . yes. I think so—”
“Big mistake. You’ll use it three times, then you’ll be back at Starbucks. Listen, if you ever want me to take delivery of any presents, you know I’m right upstairs . . .”
“Yeah, right.” I give him a look. “After Christmas.”
Christmas is still a slightly sore point with me. I thought I’d be really clever and order a load of presents off the Internet. But they never arrived, so I spent Christmas Eve rushing round the shops buying replacements. Then on Christmas morning we went upstairs to have a drink with Danny and Randall—to find Danny sitting in the silk robe I’d bought for Elinor, eating the chocolates that were meant for Samantha at work.
“Hey, what was I supposed to think?” he says defensively. “It was Christmas, they were gift-wrapped . . . it was like, Yes, Daniel, there is a Santa Claus—” He reaches for the Martini bottle and sloshes it into the cocktail shaker. “Strong? Extra strong?”
“Danny, I really have to make this phone call. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I unplug the phone and take it into the bedroom, then close the door and try to focus my thoughts again.
Right. I can do this. Calm and collected. I dial our home number and wait with slight dread as the ringing tone sounds.
“Hello?” comes a tinny-sounding voice.
“Hello?” I reply puzzledly. Even allowing for long distance, that’s not Mum’s voice.
“Becky! It’s Janice! How are you, love?”
This is bizarre. Did I dial next-door’s number by mistake?
“I’m . . . fine.”
“Oh, good! Now, while you’re on the phone, which do you prefer, Evian or Vittel?”
“Vittel,” I say automatically. “Janice—”
“Lovely. And for sparkling water? It’s only that a lot of people drink water these days, you know, what with being healthy . . . What do you think of Perrier?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Janice—” I take a deep breath. “Is Mum there?”
“Didn’t you know, love? Your parents have gone away! To the Lake District.”
I feel a plunge of frustration. How can I have forgotten about their trip to the Lake District?
“I’ve just popped in to see to the plants. If it’s an emergency I can look up the number they left—”
“No, it’s . . . it’s OK.”
My frustration has started to subside. Instead I’m feeing a tiny secret relief. This kind of lets me off the hook for the moment. I mean, it’s not my fault if they’re away, is it?
“Are you sure?” says Janice. “If it’s important, I can easily get the number . . .”
“No, honestly, it’s fine! Nothing important,” I hear myself saying. “Well, lovely to speak to you . . . bye then!” I thrust down the receiver, trembling slightly.
It’s only for a few more days. It won’t make any difference either way.
I walk back into the living room to find Danny reclining on the sofa, flipping channels.
“All OK?” he says, lifting his head.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s have that drink.”
“In the shaker,” he says, nodding his head toward the cabinet, just as the front door opens.
“Hi!” I call. “Luke, is that you? You’re just in time for a—”
I stop abruptly as Luke enters the room and stare at him in dismay. His face is pale and hollow, his eyes even darker than usual. I’ve never seen him look like this before.
Danny and I glance at each other and I feel my heart plunge in dread.
“Luke!” I gulp. “Are you OK?”
“I’ve been trying to call for an hour,” he says. “You weren’t at work, the line here was busy . . .”
“I was probably on my way home. And then I had to make a call.” Anxiously I take a step toward him. “What’s happened, Luke? Is it work?”
“It’s Michael,” says Luke. “I’ve just heard. He’s had a heart attack.”
Ten
MICHAEL’S ROOM IS on the fourth floor of the George Washington University Hospital. We walk along the corridors in silence, both staring straight ahead. We arrived in Washington last night. Our hotel bed was very big and comfortable, but even so, neither of us slept very well. In fact, I’m not sure Luke slept at all. He hasn’t said much, but I know he’s feeling eaten up with guilt.
“He could have died,” he said last night, as we were both lying awake in the darkness.
“But he didn’t,” I replied, and reached for his hand.
“But he could have.”
And when you think about it, it’s true. He could have. Every time I think about it I feel a horrible lurch in my tummy. I’ve never before known anyone close to me to be ill. I mean, there was my great-aunt Muriel, who had something wrong with her kidneys—but I only met her about twice. And all my grandparents are still alive except Grandpa Bloomwood, who died when I was two, so I never even knew him.
In fact, I’ve hardly ever been into a hospital before, unless you count ER and Terms of Endearment. As we walk along, past scary signs like “Oncology” and “Renal Unit,” I realize yet again how sheltered my life has been.
We arrive at room 465 and Luke stops.
“This is it,” he says. “Ready?” He knocks gently and, after a moment, pushes the door open.
Michael is lying asleep in a big clanky metal bed, with about six huge flower arrangements on the table next to him and more around the room. There’s a drip attached to his hand and another tube going from his chest to some machine with little lights. His face is pale and drawn and he looks . . . vulnerable.
I don’t like this. I’ve never seen Michael in anything other than an expensive suit, holding an expensive drink. Big and reassuring and i
ndestructible. Not lying in a bed in a hospital gown.
I glance at Luke and he’s staring at Michael, pale-faced. He looks like he wants to cry.
Oh God. Now I want to cry.
Then Michael opens his eyes, and I feel a swoosh of relief. His eyes, at least, are exactly the same. The same warmth. The same flash of humor.
“Now, you didn’t have to come all this way,” he says. His voice sounds dry and even more gravelly than usual.
“Michael,” says Luke, taking an eager step forward. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Better than I was feeling.” Michael’s eyes run quizzically over Luke. “How are you feeling? You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” says Luke. “I feel absolutely . . .” He breaks off and swallows.
“Really?” says Michael. “Maybe you should have some tests run. It’s a very reassuring process. I now know that I have angina. On the other hand, my lymph is fine and I’m not allergic to peanuts.” His eyes rest on the fruit basket in Luke’s hand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes!” says Luke, seeming to come to. “Just a little . . . Shall I put it here?”
He clears a space among the exotic flower arrangements, and as he does so I notice one of the attached cards has a White House heading. Gosh.
“Fruit,” says Michael, nodding. “Very thoughtful. You’ve been talking to my doctor. They’re extremely strict here. Visitors who bring candy are marched to a little room and forced to jog for ten minutes.”
“Michael . . .” Luke takes a deep breath, and I can see his hands gripping the handle of the fruit basket. “Michael, I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. About our argument.”
“It’s forgotten. Really.”
“It’s not. Not by me.”
“Luke.” Michael gives Luke a kind look. “It’s not a big deal.”
“But I just feel—”
“We had a disagreement, that’s all. Since then I’ve been thinking about what you said. You do have a point. If Brandon Communications is publicly associated with a worthy cause, it can only do the company profile good.”
“I should never have acted without consulting you,” mutters Luke.
“Well. As you said, it’s your company. You have executive control. I respect that.”
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle Page 79
