Oh, I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I take that down, at least?
As she reads it, her expression changes. She looks up and meets my eye, and I feel my whole body prickle with fear. I’ve never been in trouble with Christina before. But I’ve heard her telling people off over the phone, and I know she can be pretty fierce.
“Do you know anything about this, Becky?” she asks pleasantly.
“I . . .” I clear my throat. “The thing is . . .”
“I see. Lisa, I’m afraid there’s been a little confusion.” She gives Lisa a professional smile. “These items are not for sale. Becky—I think I’d better see you in my office.”
“Christina, I’m . . . sorry,” I say, feeling my face flush beetroot. “I really am . . .”
“What happened?” says Tracy. “Why aren’t they for sale?”
“Is Becky in trouble?” says Lisa in dismay. “Will she get fired? Don’t fire Becky! We like her better than Erin . . . Oh.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Erin. I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s all right,” says Erin, giving a rather pinched smile.
“Christina, all I can do is apologize,” I say humbly. “I never meant to cause any trouble. I never meant to mislead the customers . . .”
“In my office,” says Christina, lifting a hand to stop me. “If you have anything to say, Becky, then you can say it—”
“Stop!” comes a melodramatic voice behind us, and we all whip round, to see Danny heading toward us, his eyes even wilder than usual. “Just stop right there! Don’t blame Becky for this!” he says, placing himself in front of me. “She had nothing to do with it. If you’re going to fire anyone—fire me!”
“Danny, she can’t fire you,” I mutter. “You’re not employed by Barneys.”
“And you would be?” inquires Christina.
“Danny Kovitz.”
“Danny Kovitz. Ah.” Light dawns on Christina’s face. “So it was you who . . . assembled these garments. And planted them on our racks.”
“What? He’s not a real designer?” says Tracy in horror. “I knew it! I wasn’t fooled.” She thrusts the hanger she’s holding back onto the rack as though she’s been contaminated.
“Isn’t that breaking the law?” says Lisa, wide-eyed.
“It may well be,” says Danny defensively. “But shall I tell you why I’m reduced to criminal measures? Do you know the impossibility of getting a break in this so-called business of fashion?” He glances around to make sure his audience is listening. “I put every ounce of my life-force into my work. I weep, I cry out in pain, I squeeze myself dry of creative blood. But the fashion establishment isn’t interested in new talent! They aren’t interested in nurturing the newcomer who dares to be a little different!” His voice rises impassionedly. “If I have to take desperate measures, can you blame me? If you cut me, do I not bleed?”
“Wow,” breathes Lisa. “I had no idea it was so tough out there.”
“You did cut me,” puts in Tracy, who looks far less impressed by Danny’s speech. “With your stupid pin.”
“Christina, you have to give him a chance!” exclaims Lisa. “Look! He’s so dedicated!”
“I just want to bring my ideas to people who will love them,” begins Danny again. “My only desire is that someone, someday, will wear one of my garments and feel themselves transformed. But as I crawl toward them on my hands and knees, the doors keep being slammed in my face—”
“Enough already!” says Christina, half exasperated, half amused. “You want your big break? Let me have a look at these clothes.”
There’s a sudden intrigued quiet. I glance quickly at Danny. Perhaps this is going to be it! Christina will spot his genius and Barneys will buy his entire collection and he’ll be made! Then Gwyneth Paltrow will wear one of his T-shirts on Leno, and there’ll be a rush for them, and suddenly he’ll be famous and have his own boutique!
Christina reaches for a T-shirt with spattered dye and rhinestones on the front, and as she runs her eye up and down it, I hold my breath. Lisa and Tracy raise their eyebrows at each other, and although Danny is motionless, I can see his face tightening with hope. There’s dead silence as she puts it down—and as she reaches for a second T-shirt we all give an intake of breath, as though the Russian judge’s hand has hovered over the perfect six scorecard. With a critical frown, she stretches it out to look at it properly . . . and as she does so, one of the sleeves comes off in her hand, leaving a ragged seam behind.
Everyone stares at it speechlessly.
“That’s the look,” says Danny, a little too late. “It’s a . . . a deconstructive approach to design . . .”
Christina is shaking her head and putting the T-shirt back. “Young man. You certainly have flair. You may even have talent. Unfortunately these are not enough. Until you can finish off your work properly, you’re not going to get very far.”
“My designs are usually immaculately finished!” says Danny at once. “Perhaps this particular collection was a little hurried . . .”
“I suggest you go back to the beginning, make a few pieces, very carefully . . .”
“Are you saying I’m careless?”
“I’m saying you need to learn how to follow a project through to the end.” Christina smiles kindly at him. “Then we’ll see.”
“I can follow a project through!” says Danny indignantly. “It’s one of my strengths! It’s one of my— Would I be making Becky’s wedding dress otherwise?” He grabs me, as though we’re about to sing a duet. “The most important outfit of her whole life? She believes in me, even if nobody else does. When Becky Bloomwood walks down the aisle at the Plaza Hotel in a Danny Kovitz creation, you won’t be calling me careless then. And when the phones start ringing off their hooks—”
“What?” I say stupidly. “Danny—”
“You’re making Becky’s wedding dress?” Christina turns to me. “I thought you were wearing Richard Tyler.”
“Richard Tyler?” echoes Danny blankly.
“I thought you were wearing Vera Wang,” says Erin, who wandered over to the little scene two minutes ago and has been staring agog ever since.
“I heard you were wearing your mother’s dress,” chips in Lisa.
“I’m making your dress!” says Danny, his eyes wide with shock. “Aren’t I? You promised me, Becky! We had an agreement!”
“The Vera Wang sounds perfect,” says Erin. “You have to have that.”
“I’d go for Richard Tyler,” says Tracy.
“What about the dress your mother was married in, though?” says Lisa. “Wouldn’t that be so romantic?”
“The Vera Wang would be divine,” says Erin determinedly.
“But how can you pass up your own mother’s wedding dress?” demands Lisa. “How can you set aside a whole family tradition like that? Becky, don’t you agree?”
“The point is to look good!” says Erin.
“The point is to be romantic!” retorts Lisa.
“But what about my dress?” comes Danny’s plaintive voice. “What about loyalty to your best friend? What about that, Becky?”
Their voices seem to be drilling into my head, and they’re all staring at me avidly, waiting for an answer . . . and with no warning I feel myself snap.
“I don’t know, OK?” I cry desperately. “I just . . . don’t know what I’m going to do!”
Suddenly I feel almost tearful—which is completely ridiculous. I mean, it’s not like I won’t have a dress.
“Becky, I think we need to have a little chat,” says Christina, giving me a shrewd look. “Erin, clear all this up, please, and apologize to Carla, would you? Becky, come with me.”
We go into Christina’s smart beige suede office and she closes the door. She turns round—and for an awful moment I think she’s going to yell at me. But instead she gestures for me to sit down and gives me a long, penetrating look through her tortoiseshell glasses.
“How are you, Becky?”
“I’m fine!”
“You’re fine. I see.” Christina gives a skeptical nod. “What’s going on in your life at the moment?”
“Nothing much,” I say brightly. “You know! Same old same old . . .”
“Wedding plans going all right?”
“Yes!” I say at once. “Yes! Absolutely no problems there.”
“I see.” Christina is silent for a moment, tapping her teeth with a pen. “You visited a friend in the hospital recently. Who was that?”
“Oh, yes. That was . . . a friend of Luke’s, actually. Michael. He had a heart attack.”
“That must have been a shock for you.”
For a moment I’m silent.
“Well . . . yes, I suppose it was,” I say at last, running a finger along the arm of my chair. “Especially for Luke. The two of them have always been really close, but they’d had a falling out, and Luke was already feeling really guilty. Then we got the call about Michael—I mean, if he’d died, Luke never would have been able to . . .” I break off and rub my face, feeling emotion rising. “And then of course, there’s all this tension between Luke and his mother at the moment, which doesn’t help. She completely used him. In fact, she more than used him, she abused him. He feels utterly betrayed by her. But he won’t talk to me about it.” My voice starts to tremble. “He won’t talk to me about anything at the moment. Not the wedding, not the honeymoon . . . Not even where we’re going to live! We’re being chucked out of our apartment, and we haven’t found anywhere else to go yet, and I don’t know when we’re even going to start looking . . .”
To my astonishment a tear starts trickling down the side of my nose. Where did that come from?
“But you’re fine, apart from that,” says Christina.
“Oh, yes!” I brush at my face. “Apart from that, everything’s great!”
“Becky!” Christina shakes her head. “This is no good. I want you to take some vacation days. You’re due some, anyway.”
“I don’t need a vacation!”
“I’d noticed you’ve been tense recently, but I had no idea it was this bad. It was only when Laurel talked to me this morning—”
“Laurel?” I say, taken aback.
“She’s worried too. She told me she thought you’d lost your sparkle. Even Erin has noticed it. She says she told you about a Kate Spade sample sale yesterday, and you barely looked up. This is not the Becky I hired.”
“Are you firing me?” I say dolefully.
“I’m not firing you! I’m worried about you. Becky, that’s some combination of events you just told me about. Your friend . . . and Luke . . . and your apartment . . .”
She reaches for a bottle of mineral water, pours out two glasses, and hands one to me. “And that’s not all. Is it, Becky?”
“What do you mean?” I say apprehensively.
“I think there’s another complication you’re not telling me about. To do with the wedding.” She meets my eyes. “Am I right?”
Oh my God.
How did she find out? I’ve been so careful, I’ve been so—
“Am I right?” repeats Christina gently.
For a few more moments I’m completely motionless. Then, very slowly I nod.
It’s almost a relief to think that the secret’s out.
“How did you find out?” I say, sinking back into my chair.
“Laurel told me.”
“Laurel?” A fresh shock runs through me. “But I never—”
“She said it was obvious. Plus you let a few little things slip out . . . You know, keeping a secret is never as easy as you might think.”
“I just . . . can’t believe you know. I haven’t dared tell anybody!” I push my hair back off my hot face. “God knows what you think of me now.”
“Nobody thinks any the worse of you,” says Christina. “Really.”
“I never meant things to get this far.”
“Of course you didn’t! Don’t blame yourself.”
“But it’s all my fault!”
“No it’s not. It’s perfectly normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes! All brides argue with their mothers over the wedding. You’re not the only one, Becky!”
I stare at her confusedly. What did she just say?
“I can understand the strain it’s been putting you under.” Christina looks at me sympathetically. “Especially if you and your mother have always been close in the past?”
Christina thinks . . .
Suddenly I realize she’s waiting for an answer.
“Er . . . yes!” I gulp. “It has been . . . rather difficult.”
Christina nods, as though I’ve confirmed every suspicion she had. “Becky, I don’t often give you advice, do I?”
“Well . . . no.”
“But I want you to listen to me on this. I want you to remember, this is your wedding. Not your mother’s. It’s yours and Luke’s, and you only get one shot. So do it the way you want to. Believe me, if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”
“Mmm. The thing is . . .” I swallow. “It’s not quite that simple—”
“It is that simple. It’s exactly that simple. Becky, it’s your wedding. It’s your wedding.”
Her voice is clear and emphatic and I stare at her, glass halfway to my lips, feeling as though a shaft of light is cutting through the cloud.
It’s my wedding. I’ve never thought of it like that before.
It’s not Mum’s wedding. It’s not Elinor’s wedding. It’s mine.
“It’s easy to fall into the trap of wanting to please your mother too much,” Christina is saying. “It’s a natural, generous instinct. But sometimes you have to put yourself first. When I got married—”
“You were married?” I say in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”
“A long time ago. It didn’t work out. Maybe it didn’t work out because I hated every moment of the wedding. From the processional music to the vows that my mother insisted on writing.” Her hand tenses around a plastic water stirrer. “From the lurid blue cocktails to that tacky, tacky dress . . .”
“Really? That’s awful!”
“It’s water under the bridge now.” The water stirrer snaps and she gives me a slightly brittle smile. “But just bear my words in mind. It’s your day. Yours and Luke’s. Do it the way you want, and don’t feel guilty about it. And Becky?”
“Yes?”
“Remember, you and your mother are both adults now. So have an adult conversation.” She raises her eyebrows. “You might be surprised at how it turns out.”
Christina is so right.
As I make my way home, I can suddenly see everything clearly. My whole approach to the wedding has changed. I feel full of a fresh, clean determination. This is my wedding. It’s my day. And if I want to get married in New York, then that’s where I’ll get married. If I want to wear a Vera Wang dress, then that’s what I’ll wear. It’s ridiculous to feel guilty about it.
I’ve been putting off talking to Mum for far too long. I mean, what am I expecting her to do, burst into tears? We’re both adults. We’ll have a sensible, mature conversation and I’ll put forward my point of view calmly, and the whole thing will be sorted out, once and for all. God, I feel liberated. I’m going to call her straight away.
I march into the bedroom, dump my bag on the bed, and dial the number.
“Hi, Dad,” I say as he answers. “Is Mum there? There’s something I need to talk to her about. It’s rather important.”
As I glance at my face in the mirror, I feel like a newsreader on NBC, all crisp and cool and in charge.
“Becky?” says Dad puzzledly. “Are you all right?”
“I’m very well,” I say. “I just have to discuss a . . . a couple of issues with Mum.”
As Dad disappears off the line I take a deep breath and push my hair back, feeling suddenly very grown-up. Here I am, about to have an adult-to-adult, straight-down-the-line conversation with my mother, for probably the f
irst time in my life.
You know, maybe this is the beginning of a whole new relationship with my parents. A new mutual respect. A shared understanding of life.
“Hello, darling?”
“Hi, Mum.” I take a deep breath. Here goes. Calm and mature. “Mum—”
“Oh, Becky, I was going to give you a ring. You’ll never guess who we saw up in the Lake District!”
“Who?”
“Auntie Zannie! You used to dress up in all her old necklaces, do you remember? And her shoes. We were laughing about it, the sight you made, tottering around . . .”
“Mum. There’s something important I need to discuss with you.”
“And they’ve still got the same grocer in the village. The one who used to sell you strawberry ice-cream cones. Do you remember the time you ate too many and weren’t very well? We laughed about that too!”
“Mum—”
“And the Tivertons still live in the same house . . . but . . .”
“What?”
“I’m afraid, love . . . Carrot the donkey has . . .” Mum lowers her voice. “Gone to donkey heaven. But he was very old, darling, and he’ll be very happy up there . . .”
This is impossible. I don’t feel like a grown-up. I feel about six years old.
“They all send you their love,” Mum says, eventually coming to the end of her reminiscences, “and of course they’ll all be at the wedding! So, Dad said you wanted to talk about something?”
“I . . .” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of the echoey silence on the line; of the distance between us. “Well, I wanted to . . . um . . .”
Oh God. My mouth is trembling and my newsreader voice has turned into a nervous squeak.
“What is it, Becky?” Mum’s voice rises in concern. “Is something wrong?”
“No! It’s just that . . . that . . .”
It’s no good.
I know what Christina said is right. I know there’s no need to feel guilty. It’s my wedding, and I’m a grown-up, and I should have it wherever I like. I’m not asking Mum and Dad to pay. I’m not asking them to make any effort.
But even so.
I can’t tell Mum I want to get married in the Plaza over the phone. I just can’t do it.
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