Shopaholic Ties the Knot

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.

As I hover at the entrance, a skinny girl in jeans and strappy high heels is being led out by her mother, and they’re in the middle of a row.

“You only had to taste it,” the mother is saying furiously. “How many calories could that be?”

“I don’t care,” retorts the girl tearfully. “I’m going to be a size two on my wedding day if it kills me.”

Size two!

Anxiously I glance at my thighs. Should I be aiming for size two as well? Is that the size brides are supposed to be?

“Becky!” I look up to see Robyn, who seems a little flustered. “Hello! You made it.”

“Robyn.” As I see her, I feel my stomach clench with apprehension. “Listen. I need to talk to you. I tried calling Elinor, but she was… Anyway. There’s something I need to… tell you.”

“Absolutely,” says Robyn distractedly. “Antoine and I will be with you in a moment, but we have a slight crisis on our hands.” She lowers her voice. “There was an accident with one of the cakes. Very unfortunate.”

“Miss Bloomwood?” I look up to see a man with gray hair and twinkling eyes in a white chef’s outfit. “I am Antoine Montignac. The cake maker of cake makers. Perhaps you have seen me in my television show?”

“Antoine, I don’t think we’ve quite resolved the problem with the… other client…” says Robyn anxiously.

“I come in a moment.” He dismisses her with his hand. “Miss Bloomwood. Sit down.”

“Actually, I’m not sure I really want to…” I begin. But before I know what I’m doing, I’ve been seated on a plushy chair at a polished table, and Antoine is spreading glossy portfolios in front of me.

“I can create for you the cake that will surpass all your dreams,” he announces modestly. “No image is beyond my powers of creativity.”

“Really?” I look at a photograph of a spectacular sixtier cake decorated with sugar tulips, then turn the page to see one in the shape of five different butterflies. These are the hugest cakes I’ve ever seen in my life. And the decorations!

“So, are these all fruitcakes inside?”

“Fruitcake? Non, non, non!” Antoine laughs. “This is very English notion, the fruitcake at the wedding. This particular cake…” He points to the butterfly cake. “It was a light angel sponge, each tier layered with three different fillings: burnt orange caramel, passion-fruit-mango, and hazelnut soufflé.”

Gosh.

“If you like chocolate, we can construct a cake purely from different varieties of chocolate.” He turns to another page. “This was a dark chocolate sponge layered with chocolate fondant, white chocolate cream, and a Grand Marnier truffle filling.”

I had no idea wedding cakes could be anything like this. I flip through dazedly, looking at cake after spectacular cake.

“If you do not want the traditional tiers, I can make for you a cake to represent something you love. A favorite painting… or a sculpture…” He looks at me again. “A Louis Vuitton trunk, perhaps…”

A Louis Vuitton trunk wedding cake! How cool would that be?

“Antoine? If you could just come here a moment?” Robyn pokes her head out of a small meeting room to the right — and although she’s smiling, she sounds pretty harassed.

“Excuse me, Miss Bloomwood,” says Antoine apologetically. “Davina. Some cake for Miss Bloomwood to taste.”

A smiling assistant disappears through a pair of double doors — then returns with a glass of champagne and a china plate holding two slices of cake and a sugar lily. She hands me a fork and says, “This one is passion-fruit-mango, strawberry, and tangerine mousseline, and this is caramel creme with pistachio and mocha truffle. Enjoy!”

Wow. Each slice is a light sponge, with three different pastel-colored fillings. I don’t know where to start!

OK… let’s go for mocha truffle.

I put a piece in my mouth and nearly swoon. Now this is what wedding cakes should all be like. Why don’t we have these in England?

I take a few sips of champagne and nibble the sugar lily, which is all yummy and lemony — then take a second piece and munch blissfully, watching a girl nearby as she painstakingly makes a spray of lilies of the valley.

You know, maybe I should get Suze a nice cake for her baby’s christening. I mean, I’ll get a present as well — but I could always buy a cake as a little extra.

“Do you know how much these cakes are?” I ask the girl as I polish off the second slice.

“Well… it really varies,” she says, looking up. “But I guess they start at about a thousand dollars.”

I nearly choke on my champagne. A thousand dollars? They start at $1,000?

For a cake?

I mean, how much have I eaten, just now? That must have been at least $50 worth of cake on my plate!

“Would you like another slice?” says the girl, and glances at the meeting room. “It looks like Antoine is still held up.”

“Ooh, well… Why not! And could I try one of those sugar tulips? You know. Just for research purposes.”

“Sure,” says the girl pleasantly. “Whatever you like.”

She gives me a tulip and a spray of tiny white flowers, and I crunch through them happily, washing them down with champagne.

Then I look idly around and spy a huge, elaborate flower, yellow and white with tiny drops of dew. Wow. That looks yummy. I reach over a display of sugar hearts, pick it up, and it’s almost in my mouth when I hear a yell.

“Stooooop!” A guy in whites is pounding across the studio toward me. “Don’t eat the jonquil!”

“Oops!” I say, stopping just in time. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. Is it very special?”

“It took me three hours to make,” he says, taking it gently from my hand. “No harm done, though.” He smiles at me, but I notice there’s sweat on his forehead.

Hmm. Maybe I should just stick to the champagne from now on. I take another sip, and am looking around for the bottle, when raised voices start coming from the side room where Robyn and Antoine are closeted.

“I deed not do this deliberately! Mademoiselle, I do not have a vendetta.”

“You do! You bloody hate me, don’t you?” comes a muffled voice.

I can hear Robyn’s voice, saying something soothing, which I can’t make out.

“It’s just one thing after another!” The girl’s voice is raised now — and as I hear it clearly, I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth.

I don’t believe it.

It can’t be.

“This bloody wedding is jinxed!” she’s exclaiming. “Right from the word go, everything’s gone wrong.”

The door swings open and now I can hear her properly.

It is. It’s Alicia.

I feel my whole body stiffen.

“First the Plaza couldn’t fit us in! Now this fiasco with the cake! And do you know what I just heard?”

“What?” says Robyn fearfully.

“My maid of honor dyed her hair red! She won’t match the others! Of all the bloody inconsiderate, selfish…”

The door is flung open and out stalks Alicia, her stilettos echoing like gunfire on the wooden floor. When she sees me, she stops dead and I look at her, my heart thumping hard.

“Hi, Alicia,” I say, forcing myself to sound relaxed. “Sorry to hear about your cake. That was delicious, by the way, Antoine.”

“What?” says Alicia blankly. Her eyes flash to my engagement ring, to my face, back to my ring, to my shoes, to my bag — taking in my skirt on the way — and finally back to my ring. It’s like the Manhattan Onceover in a hall of mirrors.

“You’re getting married?” she says at last. “To Luke?”

“Yes.” I glance nonchalantly at the diamond on my left hand, then smile innocently up at her.

I’m starting to relax now. I’m starting to enjoy this.

(Also, I just gave Alicia the Manhattan Onceover myself. And my ring is a teeny bit bigger than hers. Not that I’m comparing or anything.)

“How come you didn’t say?”

You didn’t ask, I want to reply, but instead I just give a little shrug.

“So where are you getting married?” Alicia’s old supercilious expression is returning and I can see her getting ready to pounce.

“Well… as it happens…” I clear my throat.

OK, this is the moment. This is the time to make the big announcement. To tell Robyn I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to get married in Oxshott.

“Actually…”

I take a deep breath. Come on. It’s like a Band-Aid. The quicker I do it, the quicker it’ll be over. Just say it.

And I really am on the brink of it — when I make the fatal mistake of looking up. Alicia’s looking as patronizing and smug as she ever did. I feel years of feeling stupid and small welling up in me like a volcano — and I just can’t help it, I hear my voice saying, “Actually, we’re getting married at the Plaza.”

Alicia’s face snaps in shock, like an elastic band. “The Plaza? Really?”

“It should be rather lovely,” I add casually. “Such a beautiful venue, the Plaza. Is that where you’re getting married?”

“No,” says Alicia, her chin rather tight. “They couldn’t fit us in at such short notice. When did you book?”

“Oh… a week or two ago,” I say, and give a vague shrug.

Yes! Yes! Her expression!

“It’s going to be wonderful,” puts in Robyn enthusiastically. “I spoke to the designer this morning, by the way. He’s ordered two hundred birch trees, and they’re going to send over some samples of pine needles…”

I can see Alicia’s brain working hard.

“You’re the one having the enchanted forest in the Plaza,” she says at last. “I’ve heard about that. Sheldon Lloyd’s designing it. Is that true?”

“That’s the one,” I say, and smile at Robyn, who beams back as though I’m an old ally.

“Mees Bloomwood.” Antoine appears from nowhere and presses my hand to his lips. “I am now completely at your service. I apologize for the delay. One of these irritating little matters…”

Alicia’s face goes rigid.

“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.”