Shopaholic ties the knot s-3

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Becky?” Luke’s voice penetrates my thoughts. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I say, realizing with a start that I’m blundering into the coffee table. “Yes, I’m fine!”

  I sit down next to him on the sofa, Elinor hands me a glass of icy-cold wine, and I sip it, gazing out the window over the glittering Manhattan lights stretching into the distance. Elinor and Luke are in the middle of some discussion about the foundation, and I nibble a salted almond and tune out. Somehow I’ve arrived in the middle of a dreamlike picture in which Elinor is saying to a crowded room, “Becky Bloomwood is not only a model daughter-in-law, but a valued friend,” and I’m smiling modestly as people start applauding, when there’s a snapping sound, and I come to, slightly spilling my drink.

  Elinor has closed the crocodile notebook she’s been writing in. She puts it away, turns down the music slightly, and looks directly at me.

  “Rebecca,” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “I asked you here tonight because there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” She refreshes my drink and I smile at her.

  “Oh yes?”

  “As you know, Luke is a very wealthy young man.”

  “Oh. Right,” I say, a little embarrassed. “Well… yes, I suppose so.”

  “I’ve been speaking with my lawyers… and with Luke’s lawyers… and we are all agreed. So if I could just give you this…” She gives me a glittering smile and hands over a thick white envelope — then hands another to Luke.

  As I take it I feel a tingle of anticipation. You see? Elinor’s already becoming friendlier. This is just like Dallas. She’s probably making me an associate of some family company or something, to welcome me into the dynasty. God, yes! And I’ll get to go to board meetings and everything and we’ll mount some amazing takeover together and I’ll wear big earrings…

  Excitedly, I open the envelope and pull out a thick, typed document. But as I read the words I can feel my excitement ebb away.

  Memorandum of Agreement

  Between Luke James Brandon (hereinafter called “The Groom”)

  and Rebecca Jane Bloomwood (hereinafter called “The Bride”) of—

  I don’t get it. Memorandum of what agreement? Is this—

  Surely this isn’t a—

  I look bewilderedly at Luke, but he’s flipping over the pages, looking as taken aback as me.

  “Mother, what’s this?” he says.

  “It’s simply a precaution,” says Elinor with a distant smile. “A form of insurance.”

  Oh my God. It is. It’s a prenuptial contract.

  Feeling slightly sick, I flip through the contract. It’s about ten pages long, with headings like “Property Settlement in the Case of Divorce.”

  “Insurance against what, exactly?” Luke’s voice is unreadable.

  “Let’s not pretend we’re living in a fairy-tale world,” says Elinor crisply. “We all know what might happen.”

  “What’s that, exactly?”

  “Don’t be obstructive, Luke. You know perfectly well what I mean. And bearing in mind Rebecca’s… shall we say, history of spending?” She glances meaningfully at my shoes — and with a start of humiliation I realize why she asked me about them.

  She wasn’t trying to be nice. She was gathering ammunition to attack me.

  Oh, how could I be so stupid? There is no soft center to Elinor. It just doesn’t exist.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say, breathing hard. “You think I’m just after Luke for his money.”

  “Becky, of course she doesn’t,” exclaims Luke.

  “Yes, she does!”

  “A prenuptial contract is simply a sensible premarital step.”

  “Well, it’s a step I really don’t think we need to take,” says Luke with a little laugh.

  “I would beg to differ,” says Elinor. “I’m only trying to protect you. Both of you,” she adds unconvincingly.

  “What do you think, I’m going to… divorce Luke and get all his money?”

  Just like you did with your husbands, I’m about to add, but stop myself just in time. “You think that’s why I want to marry him?”

  “Becky—”

  “You may, of course, look the contract over in your own time—”

  “I don’t need to look it over.”

  “Do I take it you’re refusing to sign?” Elinor gives me a triumphant look as though I’ve confirmed every suspicion she had.

  “No!” I say in a trembling voice. “I’m not refusing to sign! I’ll sign whatever you like! I’m not going to have you think I want Luke’s money!” I grab the pen off the table and furiously start scrawling my signature on the first page, so hard I rip the paper.

  “Becky, don’t be stupid!” exclaims Luke. “Mother—”

  “It’s fine! I’ll sign every single… bloody…”

  My face is hot and my eyes a little blurry as I turn the pages, signing again and again without even looking at the text above. Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca Bloomwood.

  “Well, I’m not signing it,” says Luke. “I never wanted a prenup! And I’m certainly not going to sign something I’ve never seen before in my life.”

  “There. Done.” I put down my pen and pick up my bag. “I think I’ll go now. Bye, Elinor.”

  “Becky—” says Luke. “Mother, what on earth possessed you to do this?”

  As I head out of Elinor’s apartment my head is still pounding. I wait for the lift for a few seconds — but when it doesn’t come, head for the stairs instead. I feel shaky with fury, with mortification. She thinks I’m a gold digger.

  Is that what everyone thinks?

  “Becky!” Luke is coming down the stairs after me, three at a time. “Becky, wait. I’m so sorry. I had no idea…” As we reach the ground floor he envelops me in his arms and I stand there rigidly.

  “Believe me. That was as much of a shock for me as it was for you.”

  “Well… you know… I think you should sign it,” I say, staring at the floor. “You should protect yourself. It’s only sensible.”

  “Becky. This is me. This is us.” Gently he lifts my chin until I haven’t got anywhere to look except into his dark eyes. “I know you’re angry. Of course you are. But you have to excuse my mother. She’s lived in America a long time. Prenups are standard issue here. She didn’t mean—”

  “She did,” I say, feeling a fresh surge of humiliation. “That’s exactly what she meant. She thinks I’ve got some plan to… to take all your money and spend the whole lot on shoes!”

  “That’s not your plan?” Luke feigns shock. “You’re telling me this now? Well, if you’re going to change the ground rules, perhaps we should have a prenup—”

  I give a half-smile — but I’m still raw inside.

  “I know loads of people have prenups here,” I say. “I know that. But she shouldn’t just… draw one up without consulting either of us! Do you know how she made me feel?”

  “I know.” Luke strokes my back soothingly. “I’m furious with her.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “No, you’re not! You’re never furious with her! That’s the trouble.” I break away from his arms, trying to keep calm.

  “Becky?” Luke stares at me. “Is something else wrong?”

  “It’s not just this. It’s… everything! The way she’s taken over the wedding. The way she was so supercilious and horrible with my parents…”

  “She’s naturally a very formal person,” says Luke defensively. “It doesn’t mean she’s trying to be supercilious. If your parents really got to know her—”

  “And the way she uses you!” I know I’m on dangerous ground — but now I’ve started, I can’t stop everything pouring out. “You’ve given her hours and hours of your time. You’ve provided staff for her charity. You’ve even fallen out with Michael because of her. I just don’t understand it! You know Michael cares about you. You know he’s only got your best i
nterests at heart. But because of your mother, you’re not even talking to him.”

  Luke’s face flinches, and I can see I’ve touched a nerve.

  “And now she wants us to move to this building. Don’t you see? She just wants to get her claws into you! She’ll have you running errands for her all day long, and she’ll never leave us alone… Luke, you’re already giving her so much!”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Luke’s expression is gradually becoming tighter. “She’s my mother.”

  “I know she is! But come on. She was never even interested in you before you became a success over here. Remember our first trip to New York? You were so desperate to impress her — and she didn’t even make the effort to see you! But now that you’ve made it here, you’ve got a name, you’ve got contacts in the media, you’ve got resources — and all of a sudden she wants to get all the credit and just use you…”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true! You just can’t see it! You’re too dazzled by her!”

  “Look, Becky, it’s easy for you to criticize,” says Luke hotly. “You have a fantastic relationship with your mother. I barely saw mine when I was growing up—”

  “Exactly!” I cry, before I can stop myself. “That proves my point! She didn’t give a shit about you then either!”

  Oh, bugger. I shouldn’t have said that. A flash of pain passes through Luke’s eyes and suddenly he looks about ten years old.

  “You know that’s not true,” he says. “My mother wanted me. It wasn’t her fault.”

  “I know. I’m sorry—” I move toward him, but he jerks away.

  “Put yourself in her shoes for a change, Becky. Think about what she’s gone through. Having to leave behind her child; having to put on a brave face. She’s been used to hiding her feelings for so long, no wonder her manner can be a little awkward.”

  Listening to him, I almost want to cry. He’s got it all worked out. He’s still like the boy who made every excuse in the world for why his mother never came to see him.

  “But now we’re having a chance to forge our relationship once again,” Luke is saying. “Maybe she is a bit tactless now and then. But she’s doing her best.”

  Yeah, right, I want to say. She’s really trying hard with me.

  Instead I give a tiny shrug and mumble, “I suppose so.”

  Luke walks over and takes hold of my hand. “Come back upstairs. We’ll have another drink. Forget this ever happened.”

  “No.” I exhale sharply. “I think I’ll… go home. You go. I’ll see you later.”

  As I make my way home it starts to rain, big splashy drops that puddle in the gutters and drip off canopies. They spatter on my hot cheeks and wet my hair and make marks on my new suede-trimmed shoes. But I barely notice them. I’m still too wound up by the evening; by Elinor’s gimlet gaze; by my own humiliation; by my frustration with Luke.

  The moment I get inside the apartment there’s a crack of thunder outside. I switch all the lights on and the television, and pick up the post. There’s an envelope from Mum and I open it first. A swatch of fabric falls out and a long letter smelling faintly of her perfume.

  Darling Becky,

  Hope all’s well in the Big Apple!Here’s the color we were thinking of for the table napkins. Janice says we should have pink but I think this pale plum is very pretty, especially with the colors we were thinking of for the flowers. But let me know what you think, you’re the bride, darling!The photographer that Dennis recommended came round yesterday and we were all very impressed. Dad has heard good things about him at the golf club, which is always a good sign. He can do color and black-and-white, and includes a photograph album in the price, which seems a very good deal. Also, he can turn the picture you like best into one hundred mini jigsaw puzzles to send to all the guests as a little thank-you!The most important thing of all, I told him, is that we have lots of pictures of you by the flowering cherry tree. We planted that when you were born, and it’s always been my secret dream that our little baby Rebecca would grow up and one day stand beside it on her wedding day. You are our only child and this day is so important to us.

  Yours with lots of love,

  Mum

  By the end, I’m crying. I don’t know why I ever thought I wanted to get married in New York. I don’t know why I let Elinor even show me the stupid Plaza. Home is where I want to get married. With Mum and Dad, and the cherry tree, and my friends, and everything that really matters to me.

  That’s it, I’ve made my choice.

  “Becky?”

  I give a startled jump and turn round. There’s Luke, standing at the door, out of breath and drenched from head to foot. His hair is plastered to his head and raindrops are still running down his face. “Becky…” he says urgently. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go like that. I saw the rain… I don’t know what I was thinking—” He breaks off as he sees my tear-stained face. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I wipe my eyes. “And Luke… I’m sorry too.”

  Luke gazes at me for a long time, his face trembling, his eyes burning.

  “Becky Bloomwood,” he says at last. “You’re the most generous-spirited… giving… loving… I don’t deserve…”

  He breaks off and comes toward me, his face almost fierce with intent. As he kisses me, raindrops spatter from his hair onto my mouth and mingle with the warm salty taste of him. I close my eyes and let my body gradually unwind, the pleasure gradually begin. I can already feel him hard and determined, gripping my hips and wanting me right now, right this minute, to say sorry, to say he loves me, to say he’ll do anything for me…

  God, I love make-up sex.

  Nine

  I WAKE UP THE next morning all snug and contented and happy with myself. As I lie in bed, curled up against Luke, I’m full of a strong inner resolve. I’ve sorted out my priorities. Nothing will change my mind now.

  “Luke?” I say, as he makes a move to get out of bed.

  “Mmm?” He turns and kisses me, and he’s all warm and delicious and lovely.

  “Don’t go. Stay here. All day.”

  “All day?”

  “We could pretend we were ill.” I stretch luxuriously out on the pillows. “Actually, I do feel rather ill.”

  “Oh, really? Which bit?”

  “My… tummy.”

  “Looks fine to me,” says Luke, peeking under the duvet. “Feels fine… Sorry. You don’t get a note.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  I watch as he gets out of bed, puts on a robe, and heads for the bathroom.

  “Luke?” I say again as he reaches the door.

  “What?”

  I open my mouth to tell him I made a big decision last night. That I want to get married in Oxshott, just like we originally planned. That I’m going to cancel the Plaza. That if Elinor is furious, then so be it.

  Then I close it again.

  “What is it?” says Luke.

  “Just… don’t use up all my shampoo,” I say at last.

  I can’t face bringing up the subject of the wedding. Not now, when everything’s so lovely and happy between us. And anyway, Luke doesn’t care where we get married. He said so himself.

  I’ve taken the morning off work for the cake-tasting meeting with Robyn, but our appointment’s not until ten. So after Luke’s gone I slowly pad around the apartment, making myself some breakfast and thinking about what I’m going to say to Elinor.

  The thing is to be direct. Firm and direct but pleasant. Grown-up and professional, like businesspeople who have to fire other businesspeople. Stay calm and use phrases like “We chose to go another way.”

  “Hello, Elinor,” I say to my reflection. “I have something I need to say to you. I have chosen to go another way.”

  No. She’ll think I’m becoming a lesbian.

  “Hello, Elinor,” I try again. “I’ve been bouncing around your wedding-scenario proposal. And while it has many merits…”

>   OK, come on. Just do it.

  Ignoring my butterflies, I pick up the phone and dial Elinor’s number.

  “Elinor Sherman is unable to take your call…”

  She’s out.

  I can’t just leave her a message saying the wedding’s off. Can I?

  Could I?

  No.

  I put the phone down hurriedly, before the bleep sounds. OK. What shall I do now?

  Well, it’s obvious. I’ll call Robyn. The important thing is that I tell someone, before anything else gets done.

  I gather my thoughts for a moment, then dial Robyn’s number.

  “Hello! Do I hear wedding bells? I hope so, because this is Robyn de Bendern, the answer to your wedding planning prayers. I’m afraid I’m unavailable at present, but your call is so important to me…”

  Robyn’s probably already on her way to meet me at the cake-maker’s studio, it occurs to me. I could call her there. Or I could leave a message.

  But as I hear her bright, chirruping voice, I feel a pang of guilt. Robyn’s already put so much into this. In fact, I’ve already become quite fond of her. I just can’t tell her it’s all off over the phone. Feeling suddenly firm, I put down the phone and reach for my bag.

  I’ll be a grown-up, go along to the cake studio, and break the news to her face-to-face.

  And I’ll deal with Elinor later.

  To be honest, I don’t really like wedding cake. I always take a piece because it’s bad luck or something if you don’t, but actually all that fruitcake and marzipan and icing like blocks of chalk makes me feel a bit sick. And I’m so nervous at the thought of telling Robyn it’s all off that I can’t imagine eating anything.

  Even so, my mouth can’t help watering as I arrive at the cake studio. It’s big and light, with huge windows and the sweetest, most delicious sugary-buttery smell wafting through the air. There are huge mounted cakes on display, and rows of flower decorations in transparent boxes, and people at marble tables, carefully making roses out of icing and painting strands of sugar ivy.