As long as I stay here I’ll be safe.
“Becky? Is that you?” My heart gives a little flicker and I turn round, to see Eileen Morgan beaming at me. Eileen is the lady who showed me around the floor when I registered my list here. She’s an elderly lady with her hair in a bun, and reminds me of the ballet teacher I used to have when I was little.
“Hi, Eileen,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m well. And I have good news for you!”
“Good news?” I say stupidly.
I can’t remember the last time I heard a piece of good news.
“Your list has been going very well.”
“Really?” In spite of myself I feel the same twinge of pride I used to when Miss Phipps said my pliés were going well.
“Very well, indeed. In fact, I was planning to call you. I think the time has come . . .” Eileen pauses momentously, “. . . to go for some larger items. A silver bowl. A platter. Some antique hollowware.”
I stare at her in slight disbelief. In wedding list terms, this is as though she’s said I should try for the Royal Ballet.
“You honestly think I’m in that . . . league?”
“Becky, the performance of your list has been very impressive. You’re right up there with our top brides.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. I never thought . . .”
“Never underestimate yourself!” says Eileen with a warm smile, and gestures around the floor. “Browse for as long as you like and let me know what you’d like to add. If you need any help, you know where I am.” She squeezes my arm. “Well done, Becky.”
As she walks away, I feel my eyes pricking with grateful tears. Someone doesn’t think I’m a disaster. Someone doesn’t think I’ve ruined everything. In one area, at least, I’m a success.
I head toward the antiques cabinet and gaze up at a silver tray, filled with emotion. I won’t let Eileen down. I’ll register the best damn antique hollowware I possibly can. I’ll put down a teapot, and a sugar bowl . . .
“Rebecca.”
“Yes?” I say, turning round. “I haven’t quite decided—”
And then I stop, my words shriveling on my lips. It’s not Eileen.
It’s Alicia Bitch Longlegs.
Out of the blue, like a bad fairy. She’s wearing a pink suit and holding a Tiffany carrier bag and hostility is crackling all around her.
Of all the times.
“So,” she says. “So, Becky. I suppose you’re feeling pretty pleased with yourself, are you?”
“Er . . . no. Not really.”
“Miss Bride of the Year. Miss Enchanted Bloody Forest.”
I gaze at her puzzledly. I know Alicia and I aren’t exactly best buddies—but isn’t this a bit extreme?
“Alicia,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Her voice rises shrilly. “What could be wrong? Maybe the fact that my wedding planner has dumped me with no warning. Maybe that’s irking me a little!”
“What?”
“And why has she dumped me? So she can concentrate on her big, important, Plaza-wedding client. Her extra-special, spare-no-expense client Miss Becky Bloomwood.”
I stare at her in horror. “Alicia, I had no idea—”
“My whole wedding’s in pieces. I couldn’t get another wedding planner. She’s bad-mouthed me all over town. Apparently the rumor is I’m ‘difficult.’ Fucking ‘difficult’! The caterers aren’t returning my calls, my dress is too short, the florist is an idiot . . .”
“I’m so sorry,” I say helplessly. “I honestly didn’t know about this—”
“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure you weren’t sniggering in Robyn’s office while she made the call.”
“I wasn’t! I wouldn’t! Look . . . I’m sure it’ll all turn out OK.” I take a deep breath. “To be honest, my wedding isn’t going that smoothly either . . .”
“Give me a break. I’ve heard all about your wedding. The whole bloody world has.” She turns on her heel and stalks away, and I gaze after her, shaken.
I haven’t just ruined my own wedding, I’ve ruined Alicia’s too.
I try to turn my attention back to the antiques cabinet but I feel upset and jittery. OK, come on. Let’s pick a few things. That might cheer me up. A nineteenth-century tea strainer. And a sugar bowl with inlaid mother-of-pearl. I mean, that’ll always come in handy, won’t it?
And look at this silver teapot. Only $5,000. I scribble it down on my list and then look up to see if there’s a matching cream jug. A young couple in jeans and T-shirts have wandered over to the same cabinet, and suddenly I notice they’re staring up at the same teapot.
“Look at that,” says the girl. “A five-thousand-dollar teapot. What would anyone want with that?”
“Don’t you like tea?” says her boyfriend with a grin.
“Sure! But I mean, if you had five thousand dollars, would you spend it on a teapot?”
“When I have five thousand dollars I’ll let you know,” says the boyfriend. They both laugh and walk off, hand in hand, light and happy with each other.
Suddenly, standing there in front of the cabinet, I feel ridiculous. Like a child playing with grown-up clothes. What do I want a $5,000 teapot for?
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I’m doing.
I want Luke.
It hits me like a tidal wave, overwhelming everything else. Brushing all the clutter and rubbish away.
That’s all I want. Luke normal and happy again.
The two of us normal and happy. I have a sudden vision of us on a deserted beach somewhere. Watching the sunset. No baggage, no fuss. Just the two of us, being together.
Somehow I’ve lost sight of what really matters in all this, haven’t I? I’ve been distracted by all the froth. The dress, and the cake, and the presents. When all that really counts is that Luke wants to be with me, and I want to be with him. Oh, I’ve been such a stupid fool . . .
My mobile phone suddenly bleeps, and I scrabble in my bag for it, filled with sudden hope.
“Luke?”
“Becky! What the hell’s going on?” Suze’s voice shrieks in my ear so fiercely, I nearly drop the phone in fright. “I just had a call from Michael Ellis! He says you’re still getting married in New York! Bex, I can’t believe you!”
“Don’t shout at me! I’m in Tiffany!”
“What the hell are you doing in Tiffany? You should be sorting this mess out! Bex, you’re not going to get married in America. You just can’t! It would kill your mum.”
“I know! I’m not going to! At least . . .” I push a hand distractedly through my hair. “Oh God, Suze. You just don’t know what’s been going on. Luke’s having a midlife crisis . . . the wedding planner’s threatened to sue me . . . I feel like I’m all on my own . . .”
To my horror I feel my eyes welling up with tears. I creep round the back of the cabinet and sink onto the carpeted floor, where no one can see me.
“I’ve ended up with two weddings and I can’t do either of them! Either way, people are going to be furious with me. Either way it’s going to be a disaster. It’s supposed to be the best day of my life, Suze, and it’s going to be the worst! The very worst!”
“Look, Bex, don’t get into a state,” she says, relenting slightly. “Have you really gone through all the options?”
“I’ve thought of everything. I’ve thought of committing bigamy, I’ve thought of hiring look-alikes . . .”
“That’s not a bad idea,” says Suze thoughtfully.
“You know what I really want to do?” My throat tightens with emotion. “Just run away from all of this and do it on a beach. Just the two of us and a minister and the seagulls. I mean, that’s what really counts, isn’t it? The fact that I love Luke and he loves me and we want to be together forever.” As I picture Luke kissing me against a Caribbean sunset, I feel tears welling up again. “Who cares about having a posh dress? Who cares about a grand reception and getting l
ots of presents? None of it is important! I’d just wear a really simple sarong, and we’d be in bare feet, and we’d walk along the sand, and it would be so romantic—”
“Bex!” I jump in fright at Suze’s tone. She sounds as angry as I’ve ever heard her. “Just stop it! Stop right there! God, you’re a selfish cow sometimes.”
“What do you mean?” I falter. “I just meant all the trappings weren’t important . . .”
“They are important! People have made a lot of effort over those trappings! You’ve got two weddings that most people would die to have. OK, you can’t do both. But you can do one. If you don’t do either of them, then . . . you don’t deserve them. You don’t deserve any of it. Bex, these weddings aren’t just about you! They’re about all the people involved. All the people who have made an effort and put time and love and money into creating something really special. You can’t just run away from that! You have to face this out, even if it means apologizing to four hundred people individually, on bended knee. If you just run away, then . . . then you’re selfish and cowardly.”
She stops, breathing hard, and I hear Ernie begin to wail plaintively in the background. I feel completely shocked, as though she’s slapped me in the face.
“You’re right,” I say at last.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she sounds quite upset too. “But I am right.”
“I know you are.” I rub my face. “Look . . . I will face this out. I don’t know how. But I will.” Ernie’s wailing has increased to lusty screaming, and I can barely hear myself over the noise. “You’d better go,” I say. “Give my godson my love. Tell him . . . his godmother’s sorry she’s such a flake. She’s going to try and do better.”
“He sends all his love back,” says Suze. She hesitates. “And he says remember, even though we might get a bit cross with you, we’re still ready to help. If we can.”
“Thanks, Suze,” I say, my throat thick. “Tell him . . . I’ll keep you posted.”
I put my phone away and sit still, gathering my thoughts. At last I get to my feet, brush myself down, and walk back out onto the shop floor.
Alicia’s standing five yards away.
My stomach gives a little flip. How long has she been there for? What did she hear?
“Hi,” I say, my voice crackly with nerves.
“Hi,” she says. Very slowly she walks toward me, her eyes running over me appraisingly
“So,” she says pleasantly. “Does Robyn know you’re planning to run off to get married on a beach?”
Fuck.
“I’m . . .” I clear my throat. “I’m not planning to run off to a beach!”
“Sounded to me like you were.” Alicia examines a nail. “Isn’t there a clause about that in her contract?”
“I was joking! It was . . . you know, just being funny . . .”
“I wonder if Robyn would find it funny.” Alicia gives me her most ingratiating smile. “To hear that Becky Bloomwood doesn’t care about having a grand reception. To hear that her favorite, goody-two-shoes Little Miss Perfect client . . . is going to fly the coop!”
I have to keep calm. “You wouldn’t say anything to Robyn.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“You can’t! You just . . .” I break off, trying to stay composed. “Alicia, we’ve known each other a long time. And I know we haven’t always . . . seen eye to eye . . . but come on. We’re two British girls in New York. Both getting married. In a way, we’re . . . we’re practically sisters!”
I force myself to place a hand on her pink bouclé sleeve. “Surely we have to show solidarity? Surely we have to . . . support each other?”
There’s a pause as Alicia runs contemptuous eyes over me. Then she jerks her arm away from my hand and starts to stride away.
“See you, Becky,” she says over her shoulder.
I have to stop her. Quick.
“Becky!” Eileen’s voice is behind me and I turn round in a daze. “Here’s the pewterware I wanted to show you . . .”
“Thanks,” I say dazedly. “I just have to . . .”
I turn back—but Alicia’s disappeared.
Where did she go?
I hurry down the stairs to ground level, not bothering to wait for the lift. As I enter the floor I pause and look around desperately, searching for a flash of pink. But the whole place is crowded with an influx of excited, yabbering tourists. There are bright colors everywhere.
I push my way through them, breathing hard, telling myself Alicia wouldn’t really say anything to Robyn; she wouldn’t really be so vindictive. And at the same time, knowing that she would.
I can’t see her anywhere on the whole floor. At last I manage to squeeze past a group of tourists clustered round a case full of watches and reach the revolving doors. I push my way out and stand on the street, looking from left to right. I can barely see anything. It’s a blindingly bright day, with low sunlight glinting off plate-glass windows, turning everything into silhouettes and shadows.
“Rebecca.” I feel a hand suddenly pulling sharply at my shoulder. In confusion, I turn round, blinking in the brightness and look up.
As my gaze focuses, I’m gripped by pure, cold terror.
It’s Elinor.
Eighteen
I SHOULD NEVER HAVE stepped outside Tiffany.
“Rebecca, I need to talk to you,” says Elinor coldly. “At once.”
She’s wearing a long black coat and oversized black sunglasses and looks exactly like a member of the Gestapo. Oh God, she’s found out everything, hasn’t she? She’s spoken to Robyn. She’s spoken to Alicia. She’s come to haul me in front of the commandant and condemn me to hard labor.
“How did you know where I was?” I falter.
“Michael Ellis told me,” she replies crisply.
Michael told her? Doesn’t he think I’m suffering enough?
“Well, I’m er . . . busy,” I say, trying to duck back inside Tiffany. “I haven’t got time to chat.”
“This is not chat.”
“Whatever.”
“This is very important.”
“OK, look, it might seem important,” I say desperately. “But let’s get things in perspective. It’s only a wedding. Compared to things like, you know, foreign treaties . . .”
“I don’t wish to discuss the wedding.” Elinor frowns. “I wish to discuss Luke.”
“Luke?” I stare at her, taken aback. “How come . . . have you spoken to him?”
“I had several disturbing messages from him in Switzerland. And yesterday a letter. I returned home immediately.”
“What did the letter say?”
“I’m on my way to see Luke now,” says Elinor, ignoring me. “I would be glad if you accompany me.”
“Are you? Where is he?”
“Michael Ellis went to search for Luke this morning and found him at my apartment. I’m on my way there now. Apparently Luke wishes to speak to me.” She pauses. “But I wanted to talk to you first, Rebecca.”
“Me? Why?”
Before she can answer, a group of tourists comes out of Tiffany and for a moment we’re submerged by them. I could make my getaway under their cover. I could escape.
But now I’m curious. Why does Elinor want to talk to me?
The crowd melts away and we stare at each other.
“Please.” She nods toward the curb. “My car is waiting.”
“OK,” I say, and give a tiny shrug. “I’ll come.”
Once inside Elinor’s plushy limousine, my terror recedes. As I gaze at her pale, impenetrable face, I feel a slow hatred growing inside me instead.
This is the woman who screwed up Luke. This is the woman who ignored her own fourteen-year-old son. Sitting calmly in her limousine. Still behaving as though she owns the world; as though she’s done nothing wrong.
“So what did Luke write in his letter?” I say.
“It was . . . confused,” she says. “Rambling and nonsensical. He seems to be having some sort of . . .”
She gestures regally.
“Breakdown? Yes, he is.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” I retort, unable to keep a sarcastic edge out of my voice.
“He works very hard,” says Elinor. “Perhaps too hard sometimes.”
“It’s not the work!” I say, unable to stop myself. “It’s you!”
“Me.” She frowns.
“Yes, you! It’s the way you’ve treated him!”
There’s a long pause. Then Elinor says, “What do you mean?”
She sounds genuinely taken aback. Is she really that insensitive?
“OK . . . where shall I start? With your charity! The charity that he has spent all his bloody waking hours working for. The charity that you promised him would benefit the profile of his company. But funnily enough didn’t . . . because you took all the credit yourself!”
God, that felt good. Why have I never spoken my mind to Elinor before?
Her nostrils flare slightly and I can tell she’s angry, but all she says is, “That version of events is skewed.”
“It’s not skewed! You used Luke!”
“He never complained about the amount of work he was doing.”
“He wouldn’t complain! But you must have seen how much time he was giving you for nothing! You used one of his staff, for God’s sake! I mean, that alone was bound to get him into trouble—”
“I agree,” says Elinor.
“What?” I’m momentarily halted.
“To use staff from Brandon Communcations was not my idea. Indeed, I was against it. It was Luke who insisted. And as I have explained to Luke, the newspaper article was not my fault. I was given the option of a last-minute interview. Luke was unavailable. I told the journalist at great length about Luke’s involvement and gave him Brandon Communications promotional literature. The journalist promised to read it but then used none of it. I assure you, Rebecca, it was out of my control.”
“Rubbish!” I say at once. “A decent journalist wouldn’t completely ignore something like . . .”
Hmm. Actually . . . maybe they would. Now that I think about it, when I was a journalist I always ignored half the stuff the interviewees told me. I certainly never read any of the stupid heavy literature they gave me.
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