“She is,” I agree. “She adores him. Even when he screams.”
“They seem bonded already.” He stares at a photo of Suze laughing as Ernie grabs her hair.
“Oh, they are. Even by the time I left, he yelled if I tried to take him away from her.”
I look at Luke, feeling touched. He’s completely transfixed by these photographs. Which actually quite surprises me. I never thought he’d be particularly into babies. I mean, most men, if you handed them a load of baby pictures—
“I don’t have any pictures of myself as a tiny baby,” he says, turning to a picture of Ernie peacefully asleep on Suze.
“Don’t you? Oh well . . .”
“My mother took them all with her.”
His face is unreadable, and tiny alarm bells start to ring inside my head.
“Really?” I say casually. “Well, anyway—”
“Maybe she wanted to keep them nearby.”
“Yes,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe she did.”
Oh God. I should have realized these pictures would set Luke off brooding about his mother again.
I’m not quite sure what happened between them while I was away. All I know is that eventually Luke managed to get through to her at the clinic. And apparently she came up with some lame explanation for why that newspaper article didn’t mention Luke. Something about the journalist wasn’t interested.
I don’t know whether Luke believed her. I don’t know whether he’s forgiven her or not. To be honest, I don’t think he knows. Every so often he goes all blank and withdrawn, and I can tell he’s thinking about it.
Part of me wants to say, “Look, Luke, just forget it! She’s a complete cow and she doesn’t love you and you’re better off without her.”
Then I remember something his stepmother, Annabel, said—when we had that chat, all those months ago. As we were saying good-bye, she said, “As hard as it may be to believe, Luke needs Elinor.”
“No, he doesn’t!” I replied indignantly. “He’s got you, he’s got his dad, he’s got me . . .”
But Annabel shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s had this longing for Elinor ever since he was a child. It’s driven him to work so hard; it’s sent him to America; it’s part of who he is now. Like a vine twisted round an apple tree.” And she gave me this rather penetrating look and said, “Be careful, Becky. Don’t try to chop her out of his life. Because you’ll damage him too.”
How did she read my mind? How did she know that I was exactly picturing myself, and Elinor, and an ax . . .
I look at Luke, and he’s staring, mesmerized, at a picture of Suze kissing Ernie on the tummy.
“Anyway!” I say brightly, gathering up the photos and shoving them back into the envelopes. “You know, the bond is just as strong between Tarquin and Ernie. You should have seen them together. Tarquin’s making a wonderful dad. He changes nappies and everything! In fact, I often think a mother’s love is overrated . . .”
Oh, it’s no good. Luke isn’t even listening.
The phone rings, and he doesn’t move, so I go into the sitting room to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is that Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange man’s voice.
“Yes it is,” I say, noticing a new catalogue from Pottery Barn on the table. Perhaps I should register there too. “Who’s this?”
“This is Garson Low, from Low and Associates.”
My whole body freezes. Garson Low himself? Calling me at home?
“I apologize for calling so early,” he’s saying.
“No! Not at all!” I say, coming to life and quickly kicking the door shut so Luke can’t hear. “Thanks for calling!”
Thank God. He must think I have a case. He must want to help me take on Robyn. We’ll probably make groundbreaking legal history or something, and stand outside the courtroom while cameras flash and it’ll be like Erin Brockovich!
“I received your letter yesterday,” says Garson Low. “And I was intrigued by your dilemma. That’s quite a bind you’ve got yourself in.”
“I know it is,” I say. “That’s why I came to you.”
“Is your fiancé aware of the situation?”
“Not yet.” I lower my voice. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find a solution first—and then tell him. You understand, Mr. Low.”
“I certainly do.”
This is great. We’ve got rapport and everything.
“In that case,” says Garson Low, “let’s get down to business.”
“Absolutely!” I feel a swell of relief. You see, this is what you get when you consult the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. You get quick results.
“First of all, the contract has been very cleverly drawn up,” says Garson Low.
“Right.” I nod.
“There are several extremely ingenious clauses, covering all eventualities.”
“I see.”
“I’ve examined it thoroughly. And as far as I can see, there is no way you can get married in Britain without incurring the penalty.”
“Right.” I nod expectantly.
There’s a short silence.
“So . . . what’s the loophole?” I ask eventually.
“There is no loophole. Those are the facts.”
“What?” I stare confusedly at the phone. “But . . . that’s why you rang, isn’t it? To tell me you’d found a loophole. To tell me we could win!”
“No, Miss Bloomwood. I called to tell you that if I were you, I would start making arrangements to cancel your British wedding.”
I feel a stab of shock. “But . . . but I can’t. That’s the whole point. My mum’s had the house done up, and everything. It would kill her.”
“Then I’m afraid you will have to pay Wedding Events Ltd. the full penalty.”
“But . . .” My throat is tight. “I can’t do that either. I haven’t got a hundred thousand dollars! There must be another way!”
“I’m afraid—”
“There must be some brilliant solution!” I push back my hair, trying not to panic. “Come on! You’re supposed to be the cleverest person in America or something! You must be able to think of some way out!”
“Miss Bloomwood, let me assure you. I have looked at this from all angles and there is no brilliant solution. There is no way out.” Garson Low sighs. “May I give you three small pieces of advice?”
“What are they?” I say with a flicker of hope.
“The first is, never sign any document before reading it first.”
“I know that!” I cry before I can stop myself. “What’s the good of everyone telling me that now?”
“The second is—and I strongly recommend this—tell your fiancé.”
“And what’s the third?”
“Hope for the best.”
Is that all a million-pound lawyer can come up with? Tell your fiancé and hope for the best? Bloody stupid . . . expensive . . . complete rip-off . . .
OK, keep calm. I’m cleverer than him. I can think of something. I know I can. I just know I—
Hang on.
I saunter casually into the kitchen, where Luke has stopped gazing at the pictures of Suze and is staring broodingly into space instead.
“Hi,” I say, running a hand along the back of his chair. “Hey, Luke. You’ve got loads of money, haven’t you?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” I say, slightly affronted. “Of course you have!”
“I’ve got assets,” says Luke. “I’ve got a company. That’s not necessarily the same as money.”
“Whatever.” I wave my hand impatiently. “And we’re getting married. You know, ‘All thy worldly goods’ and everything. So in a way . . .” I pause carefully, “it’s mine, too.”
“Yeee-s. Is this going anywhere?”
“So . . . if I asked you for some money, would you give it to me?”
“I expect so. How much?”
“Er . . . a hundred thousand dollars,” I say, tr
ying to sound nonchalant.
Luke raises his head. “A hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yes! I mean, it’s not that much really—”
Luke sighs. “OK, Becky. What have you seen? Because if it’s another customized leather coat—”
“It’s not a coat! It’s a . . . a surprise.”
“A hundred-thousand-dollar surprise.”
“Yes,” I say after a pause. But even I don’t sound that convinced.
Maybe this isn’t a brilliant solution after all.
“Becky, a hundred thousand dollars is that much. It’s a lot of money!”
“I know,” I say. “I know. Look . . . OK . . . it doesn’t matter.” And I hurry out before he can question me further.
OK, forget the lawyers. Forget the money. There has to be another solution to this. I just need to think laterally.
I mean, we could always elope. Get married on a beach and change our names and never see our families again.
No, this is it. I go to the Oxshott wedding. And Luke goes to the New York wedding. And we each say we’ve been jilted . . . and then we secretly meet up . . .
No! I have it! We hire stand-ins! Genius!
I’m riding up the escalator to work as this idea comes to me—and I’m so gripped, I almost forget to step off. This is it. We hire look-alikes, and they stand in for us at the Plaza wedding, and no one ever realizes. I mean, all the guests there are going to be Elinor’s friends. People Luke and I barely know. We could get the bride look-alike to wear a really thick veil . . . and the Luke look-alike could say he’d cut his face shaving, and wear a huge bandage . . . and meanwhile we’d have flown back to England . . .
“Watch out, Becky!” says Christina with a smile, and I look up, startled. I was about to walk right into a mannequin.
“Busy thinking about the wedding?” she adds as I go into the personal shopping department.
“That’s right,” I say brightly.
“You know, you look so much more relaxed these days,” says Christina approvingly. “Your break obviously did you the world of good. Seeing your mom . . . catching up with home . . .”
“Yes, it was . . . great!”
“I think it’s admirable the way you’re so laid-back.” Christina takes a sip of coffee. “You’ve barely mentioned the wedding to any of us since you’ve been back! In fact, you’ve almost seemed to be avoiding the subject!”
“I’m not avoiding it!” I say, my smile fixed. “Why would I do that?”
“Some brides seem to make so much of a wedding. Almost let it take over their life. But you seem to have it all under control—”
“Absolutely!” I say, even more brightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get ready for my first client—”
“Oh, I had to switch your appointments around,” says Christina as I open the door of my room. “You have a first-timer at ten. Amy Forrester.”
“I don’t like yellow or orange.” Amy Forrester’s voice is still droning on. “And when I say dressy, I mean not too dressy. Just kind of formal . . . but sexy. You know what I mean?” She snaps her gum and looks at me expectantly.
“Er . . . yes!” I say, not having a clue what she’s talking about. I can’t even remember what she wants. Come on, Becky. Concentrate.
“So, just to recap, you’re after . . . an evening dress?” I risk, scribbling on my notebook.
“Or a pantsuit. Whatever. I can pretty much wear any shape.” Amy Forrester gazes complacently at herself in the mirror, and I give her a surreptitious Manhattan Onceover, taking in her tight lilac top and turquoise stirrup leggings. She looks like a model in an ad for some dodgy piece of home exercise equipment. Same tacky blond haircut and everything.
“You have a wonderful figure!” I say, realizing a bit late that she’s waiting for a compliment.
“Thank you! I do my best.”
With the help of Rollaflab! Just roll away that flab . . .
“I already bought my vacation wardrobe.” She snaps her gum again. “But then my boyfriend said, why not buy a few more little things? He loves to treat me. He’s a wonderful man. So—do you have any ideas?”
“Yes,” I say, finally forcing myself to concentrate. “Yes, I do. I’ll just go and fetch some pieces that I think might suit you.”
I go out onto the floor and start gathering up dresses. Gradually, as I wander from rail to rail, I begin to relax. It’s a relief to focus on something else; to think about something other than weddings . . .
“Hi, Becky!” says Erin, passing by with Mrs. Zaleskie, one of her regular clients. “Hey, I was just saying to Christina, we have to plan your shower!”
Oh God.
“You know, my daughter works at the Plaza,” puts in Mrs. Zaleskie. “She says everyone’s talking about your wedding.”
“Are they?” I say after a pause. “Well, it’s really no big deal—”
“No big deal? Are you kidding? The staff is fighting over who’s going to serve! They all want to see the enchanted woodland!” She peers at me through her spectacles. “Is it true you’re having a string orchestra, a DJ, and a ten-piece band?”
“Er . . . yes.”
“My friends are so jealous I’m going,” says Erin, her face all lit up. “They’re like, you have to show us the pictures afterward! We are allowed to take pictures, right?”
“I . . . don’t know. I guess so.”
“You must be excited,” says Mrs. Zaleskie. “You’re a lucky girl.”
“I . . . I know.”
I can’t bear this.
“I have to go,” I mutter, and hurry back to the personal shopping department.
I can’t win. Whatever I do. Either way, I’m going to let down a whole load of people.
As Amy wriggles into the first dress, I stand, staring blankly at the floor, my heart thumping hard. I’ve been in trouble before. I’ve been stupid before. But never on this level. Never so large, so expensive, so important . . .
“I like this,” says Amy, staring at herself critically. “But is there enough cleavage?”
“Er . . .” I look at her. It’s a black chiffon dress, slashed practically to the navel. “I think so. But we could always have it altered . . .”
“Oh, I don’t have time for that!” says Amy. “I’m only in New York for one more day. We go on vacation tomorrow and then we’re moving to Atlanta. That’s why I came out shopping. They’re packing up the apartment and it’s driving me nuts.”
“I see,” I say absently.
“My boyfriend adores my body,” she says smugly as she clambers out of it. “But then, his wife never bothered with her appearance at all. Ex-wife, I should say. They’re getting a divorce.”
“Right,” I say politely, handing her a white and silver sheath dress.
“I can’t believe he put up with her for so long. She’s this completely jealous harridan. I’m having to take legal action!” Amy steps into the sheath dress. “You know, she mailed me this really offensive letter. It was like a list of completely insulting stuff about me! Our lawyer says we have an excellent case.”
That sounds familiar. I look up, my brain starting to tweak. “You’re sure it was her who sent it?”
“Oh yes! I mean, she signed it and everything. Plus it was definitely her writing. William recognized it.”
I stare at her, my skin prickling. “What . . . what did you say your boyfriend’s name was?”
“William.” Her lip curls scornfully. “She called him Bill.”
Oh my God.
It is. It’s the blond intern. Right here in front of me.
OK. Just . . . keep smiling. Don’t let her know you suspect anything.
Inside I’m hot with outrage. This is the woman Laurel was cast aside for? This stupid, tacky airhead?
“That’s why we’re moving to Atlanta,” Amy says, examining her reflection complacently. “We want to start a new life together, so William asked the firm for a transfer. You know, discreetly. We don’t want
the old witch following us.” She frowns. “Now, I like this one better.”
She bends down farther and I freeze. Hang on. She’s wearing a pendant. A pendant with a . . . is that green stone an emerald?
“Amy, I just have to make a call,” I say casually. “Keep trying on the dresses!” And I slide out of the room.
When I eventually get through to Laurel’s office, her assistant, Gina, tells me she’s in a meeting with American Airlines and can’t be disturbed.
“Please,” I say. “Get her out. It’s important.”
“So is American Airlines,” says Gina. “You’ll have to wait.”
“But you don’t understand! It really is crucial!”
“Becky, a new skirt length from Prada is not crucial,” says Gina a little wearily. “Not in the world of airplane leasing.”
“It’s not clothes!” I say indignantly—then hesitate for a second, wondering how much Laurel confides in Gina. “It’s Amy Forrester,” I say at last in a lowered voice. “You know who I mean?”
“Yes, I know,” says Gina in a voice that makes me thinks she knows even more than I do. “What about her?”
“I have her.”
“You have her? What do you—”
“She’s in my fitting room right now!” I glance behind me to make sure no one can hear. “Gina, she’s wearing this pendant with an emerald in it! I’m sure it’s Laurel’s grandmother’s! The one the police couldn’t find.”
There’s a long pause.
“OK,” says Gina at last. “I’ll get Laurel out of the meeting. She’ll probably come right over. Just don’t let . . . her leave.”
“I won’t. Thanks, Gina.”
I put down the phone and stand still for a moment, thinking. Then I head back to my fitting room, trying to look as natural as possible.
“So!” I say breezily as I go in. “Let’s get back to trying on dresses! And remember, Amy, just take your time over each one. As long as you like. We can take all day, if we need to—”
“I don’t need to try on any more,” says Amy, turning round in a tight red sequined dress. “I’ll take this one.”
“What?” I say blankly.
“It’s great! Look, it fits me perfectly.” She does a little twirl, admiring herself in the mirror.
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle Page 88
