Shopaholic Ties the Knot

Seventeen

THIS IS GETTING beyond a joke. Luke hasn’t been to work for over a week. Nor has he shaved. He keeps going out and wandering around God knows where and not coming home until the early hours of the morning. And yesterday I arrived back from work to find he’d given away half his shoes to people on the street.

I feel so helpless. Nothing I do seems to work. I’ve tried making him bowls of nourishing, homemade soup. (At least, it says they’re nourishing and homemade on the can.) I’ve tried making warm, tender love to him. Which was great as far as it went. (And that was pretty far, as it happens.) He seemed better for a little while — but in the end it didn’t change anything. Afterward, he was just the same, all moody and staring into space.

The thing I’ve tried the most is just sitting down and talking to him. Sometimes I really think I’m getting somewhere. But then he either just reverts back into depression, or says, “What’s the use?” and goes out again. The real trouble is, nothing he says seems to be making any sense. One minute he says he wants to quit his company and go into politics, that’s where his heart lies and he should never have sold out. (Politics? He’s never mentioned politics before.) The next moment he’s saying fatherhood is all he’s ever wanted, let’s have six children and he’ll stay at home and be a house-husband.

Meanwhile his assistant keeps phoning every day to see if Luke’s better, and I’m having to invent more and more lurid details. He’s practically got the plague by now.

I’m so desperate, I phoned Michael this morning and he’s promised to come over and see if he can do anything. If anyone can help, Michael can.

And as for the wedding…

I feel ill every time I think about it. It’s three weeks away. I still haven’t come up with a solution.

Mum calls me every morning and somehow I speak perfectly normally to her. Robyn calls me every afternoon and somehow I also speak perfectly normally to her. I even made a joke recently about not turning up on the day. We laughed, and Robyn quipped, “I’ll sue you!” and I managed not to sob hysterically.

I feel like I’m in free fall. Plummeting toward the ground without a parachute.

I don’t know how I’m doing it. I’ve slipped into a whole new zone, beyond normal panic, beyond normal solutions. It’s going to take a miracle to save me.

Which is basically what I’m pinning my hopes on now. I’ve lit fifty candles at St. Thomas’s, and fifty more at St. Patrick’s, and I’ve put up a petition on the prayer board at the synagogue on Sixty-fifth, and given flowers to the Hindu god Ganesh. Plus a group of people in Ohio who I found on the Internet are all praying hard for me.

At least, they’re praying that I find happiness following my struggle with alcoholism. I couldn’t quite bring myself to explain the full two-weddings story to Father Gilbert, especially after I read his sermon on how deceit is as painful to the Lord as is the Devil gouging out the eyes of the righteous. So I went with alcoholism, because they already had a page on that.

There’s no respite. I can’t even relax at home. The apartment feels like it’s closing in on me. There are wedding presents in huge cardboard boxes lining every room. Mum sends about fifty faxes a day, Robyn’s taken to popping in whenever she feels like it, and there’s a selection of veils and headdresses in the sitting room that Dream Dress sent to me without even asking.

“Becky?” I look up from my breakfast coffee to see Danny wandering into the kitchen. “The door was open. Not at work?”

“I’ve taken the day off.”

“I see.” He reaches for a piece of cinnamon toast and takes a bite. “So, how’s the patient?”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously.” For a moment Danny looks genuinely concerned, and I feel myself unbend a little. “Has Luke snapped out of it yet?”

“Not really,” I admit, and his eyes brighten.

“So are there any more items of clothing going?”

“No!” I say indignantly. “There aren’t. And don’t think you can keep those shoes!”

“Brand-new Pradas? You must be kidding! They’re mine. Luke gave them to me. If he doesn’t want them anymore—”

“He does. He will. He’s just… a bit stressed at the moment. Everyone gets stressed! It doesn’t mean you can take their shoes!”

“Everybody gets stressed. Everybody doesn’t give away hundred-dollar bills to total strangers.”

“Really?” I look up anxiously. “He did that?”

“I saw him at the subway. There was a guy there with long hair, carrying a guitar… Luke just went up to him and handed him a wad of money. The guy wasn’t even begging. In fact, he looked pretty offended.”

“Oh God—”

“You know my theory? He needs a nice, long, relaxing honeymoon. Where are you going?”

Oh no. Into free fall again. The honeymoon. I haven’t even booked one yet. How can I? I don’t know which bloody airport we’ll be flying out of.

“We’re… it’s a surprise,” I say at last. “We’ll announce it on the day.”

“So what are you cooking?” Danny looks at the stove, where a pot is bubbling away. “Twigs? Mm, tasty.”

“They’re Chinese herbs. For stress. You boil them up and then drink the liquid.”

“You think you’ll get Luke to drink this?” Danny prods the mixture.

“They’re not for Luke. They’re for me!”

“For you? What have you got to be stressed about?” The buzzer sounds and Danny reaches over and presses the entry button without even asking who it is.

“Danny!”

“Expecting anyone?” he says as he replaces the receiver.

“Oh, just that mass murderer who’s been stalking me,” I say sarcastically.

“Cool.” Danny takes another bite of cinnamon toast. “I always wanted to see someone get murdered.”

There’s a knock at the door, and I get up to answer.

“I’d change into something snappier,” says Danny. “The courtroom will see pictures of you in that outfit. You want to look your best.”

I open the door, expecting yet another delivery man. But it’s Michael, wearing a yellow cashmere jumper and a big smile. My heart lifts in relief just at the sight of him.

“Michael!” I exclaim, and give him a hug. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“I would’ve been here sooner if I’d realized how bad it was,” says Michael. He raises his eyebrows. “I was in at the Brandon Communications offices yesterday, and I heard Luke was sick. But I had no idea…”

“Yes. Well, I haven’t exactly been spreading the news. I thought it would just blow over in a couple of days.”

“So is Luke here?” Michael peers into the apartment.

“No, he went out early this morning. I don’t know where.” I shrug helplessly.

“Give him my love when he comes back,” says Danny, heading out of the door. “And remember, I’ve got dibs on his Ralph Lauren coat.”

I make a fresh pot of coffee (decaffeinated — that’s all Michael’s allowed these days) and stir the herbs dubiously, then we pick our way through the clutter of the sitting room to the sofa.

“So,” he says, removing a stack of magazines and sitting down. “Luke’s feeling the strain a little.” He watches as I pour the milk with a trembling hand. “By the looks of things, you are too.”

“I’m OK,” I say quickly. “It’s Luke. He’s completely changed, overnight. One minute he was fine, the next it was all, ‘I need some answers’ and, ‘What’s the point of life?’ and, ‘Where are we all going?’ He’s depressed, and he isn’t going to work… I just don’t know what to do.”

“You know, I’ve seen this coming for a while,” says Michael, taking his coffee from me. “That man of yours pushes himself too hard. Always has. Anyone who works at that pace for that length of time…” He gives a rueful shrug and taps his chest. “I should know. Something has to give.”

“It’s not just work. It’s… everything.” I bite my lip awkwardly. “I think he was affected more than he realized when you had your… heart thing.”

“Episode.”

“Exactly. The two of you had been fighting… it was such a jolt. It made him start thinking about… I don’t know, life and stuff. And then there’s this thing with his mother.”

“Ah.” Michael nods. “I knew Luke was upset over that piece in the New York Times. Understandably.”

“That’s nothing! It’s all got a lot worse since then.”

I explain all about Luke finding the letters from his father, and Michael winces.

“OK,” he says, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. “Now this all makes sense. His mother has been the driving force behind a lot of what he’s achieved. I think we all appreciate that.”

“It’s like… suddenly he doesn’t know why he’s doing what he’s doing. So he’s given up doing it. He won’t go to work, he won’t talk about it, Elinor’s still in Switzerland, his colleagues keep ringing up to ask how he is, and I don’t want to say, ‘Actually, Luke can’t come to the phone, he’s having a midlife crisis right now…’ ”

“Don’t worry, I’m going in to the office today. I could spin some story about a sabbatical. Gary Shepherd can take charge for a bit. He’s very able.”

“Will he be OK, though?” I look at Michael fearfully. “He won’t rip Luke off?”

The last time Luke took his eye off his company for more than three minutes, Alicia Bitchface Billington tried to poach all his clients and sabotage the entire enterprise. It was nearly the end of Brandon Communications.

“Gary will be fine,” says Michael reassuringly. “And I’m not doing much at the moment. I can keep tabs on things.”

“No!” I say in horror. “You mustn’t work too hard! You must take it easy.”

“Becky, I’m not an invalid!” says Michael with a tinge of annoyance. “You and my daughter are as bad as each other.”

The phone rings, and I leave it to click onto the machine.

“So, how are the wedding preparations going?” says Michael, glancing around the room.

“Oh… fine!” I smile brightly at him. “Thanks.”

“I had a call from your wedding planner about the rehearsal dinner. She told me your parents won’t be able to make it.”

“No,” I say after a pause. “No, they won’t.”

“That’s too bad. What day are they flying over?”

“Erm…” I take a sip of coffee, avoiding his eye. “I’m not sure of the exact day…”

“Becky?” Mum’s voice resounds through the room on the machine, and I jump, spilling some coffee on the sofa. “Becky, love, I need to talk to you about the band. They say they can’t do ‘Dancing Queen’ because their bass player can only play four chords. So they’ve sent me a list of songs they can play—”

Oh fuck. I dive across the room and grab the receiver.

“Mum!” I say breathlessly. “Hi. Listen, I’m in the middle of something, can I call you back?”

“But, love, you need to approve the list of songs! I’ll send you a fax, shall I?”

“Yes. OK, do that.”

I thrust down the receiver and return to the sofa, trying to look composed.

“Your mom’s clearly gotten involved in the wedding preparations,” says Michael with a smile.

“Oh, er… yes. She has.”

The phone starts to ring again and I ignore it.

“You know, I always meant to ask. Didn’t she mind about you getting married in the States?”

“No!” I say, twisting my fingers into a knot. “Why should she mind?”

“I know what mothers are like about weddings…”

“Sorry, love, just a quickie,” comes Mum’s voice again. “Janice was asking, how do you want the napkins folded? Like bishops’ hats or like swans?”

I grab the phone.

“Mum, listen. I’ve got company!”

“Please. Don’t worry about me,” says Michael from the sofa. “If it’s important—”

“It’s not important! I don’t give a shit what shape the napkins are in! I mean, they only look like a swan for about two seconds…”

“Becky!” exclaims Mum in shock. “How can you talk like that! Janice went on a napkin-arranging course especially for your wedding! It cost her forty-five pounds, and she had to take her own packed lunch—”

Remorse pours over me.

“Look, Mum, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit preoccupied. Let’s go for… bishops’ hats. And tell Janice I’m really grateful for all her help.” I put down the receiver just as the doorbell rings.

“Is Janice the wedding planner?” says Michael interestedly.

“Er… no. That’s Robyn.”

“You have mail!” pipes up the computer in the corner of the room.

This is getting to be too much.

“Excuse me, I’ll just get the door…”

I swing open the front door breathlessly, to see a delivery man holding a huge cardboard box.

“Parcel for Bloomwood,” he says. “Very fragile.”

“Thanks,” I say, awkwardly taking it from him.

“Sign here, please…” He hands me a pen, then sniffs. “Is something burning in your kitchen?”

Oh fuck. The Chinese herbs.

I dash into the kitchen and turn off the burner, then return to the man and take the pen. Now I can hear the phone ringing again. Why can’t everyone leave me alone?

“And here…”

I scribble on the line as best I can, and the delivery man squints suspiciously at it. “What does that say?”

“Bloomwood! It says Bloomwood!”

“Hello,” I can hear Michael saying. “No, this is Becky’s apartment. I’m Michael Ellis, a friend.”

“I need you to sign again, lady. Legibly.”

“Yes, I’m Luke’s best man. Well, hello! I’m looking forward to meeting you!”

“OK?” I say, after practically stabbing my name into the page. “Satisfied?”

“Lighten up!” says the delivery guy, raising his hands as he saunters away. I close the door with my foot and stagger into the living room just in time to hear Michael saying, “I’ve heard about the plans for the ceremony. They sound quite spectacular!”

“Who are you talking to?” I mouth.

“Your mom,” mouths back Michael with a smile.

I nearly drop the box on the floor.

“I’m sure it’ll all run smoothly on the day,” Michael’s saying reassuringly. “I was just saying to Becky, I really admire your involvement with the wedding. It can’t have been easy!”

No. Please, no.

“Well,” says Michael, looking surprised. “All I meant was, it must be difficult. What with you based in England… and Becky and Luke getting married in—”

“Michael!” I say desperately, and he looks up, startled. “Stop!”

He puts his hand over the receiver. “Stop what?”

“My mum. She… she doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

I stare at him, agonized. At last he turns to the phone. “Mrs. Bloomwood, I’m going to have to go. There’s a lot going on here. But great to talk to you and… I’ll see you at the wedding, I’m sure… Yes, you too.”

He puts down the phone and there’s a scary silence.

“Becky, what doesn’t your mom know?” he says at last.

“It… doesn’t matter.”

“I get the feeling it does.” He looks at me shrewdly. “I get the feeling something’s not right.”

“I… It’s nothing. Really…”

I stop at the sound of the fax machine whirring in the corner. Mum’s fax. I quickly dump the box on the sofa and launch myself at the fax machine.

But Michael’s too quick for me. He plucks the page from the machine and starts to read it.

“Playlist for Rebecca and Luke’s wedding. Date: 22nd June. Venue: The Pines, 43 Elton Road… Oxshott…” He looks up, a frown on his face. “Becky, what is this? You and Luke are getting married at the Plaza. Right?”

I can’t answer. Blood is pumping through my head, almost deafening me.

“Right?” repeats Michael, his voice becoming sterner.

“I don’t know,” I say at last in a tiny voice.

“How can you not know where you’re getting married?”

He surveys the fax again. I can see comprehension slowly dawning.

“Jesus Christ.” He looks up. “Your mom’s planning a wedding in England, isn’t she?”

I stare at him in mute anguish. This is even worse than Suze finding out. I mean, Suze has known me for so long. She knows how stupid I am and she always forgives me. But Michael. I swallow. Michael’s always treated me with respect. He once told me I was sharp and intuitive. He even offered me a job with his company. I can’t bear for him to find out what a complete mess I’ve got into.

“Does your mom know anything about the Plaza?”

Very slowly, I shake my head.

“Does Luke’s mother know about this?” He hits the fax.

I shake my head again.

“Does anyone know? Does Luke know?”

“Nobody knows,” I say, finally finding a voice. “And you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Not tell anyone? Are you kidding?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Becky, how could you have let this happen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“You didn’t mean to deceive two entire families? Not to mention the expense, the effort… You realize you’re in big trouble here?”

“It’ll work itself out!” I say desperately.

“How is it going to work itself out? Becky, this isn’t a double-booked dinner date! This is hundreds of people!”

“Ding-dong, ding-dong!” suddenly chimes my wedding countdown alarm clock from the bookshelf. “Ding-dong, ding-dong! Only twenty-two days to go till the Big Day!”

“Shut up!” I say tensely.

“Ding-dong, ding—”

“Shut up!” I cry, and hurl it onto the floor, where the clock face shatters.

“Twenty-two days?” says Michael. “Becky, that’s only three weeks!”

“I’ll think of something! A lot can happen in three weeks!”

“You’ll think of something? That’s your only answer?”

“Perhaps a miracle will happen!”

I try a little smile, but Michael’s face doesn’t react. He still looks just as astounded. Just as angry.

I can’t stand Michael being angry with me. My head’s pounding and I can feel tears pressing hotly at my eyes. With trembling hands I grab my bag and reach for my jacket.

“What are you going to do?” His voice sharpens. “Becky, where are you going?”

I stare back, my mind feverishly racing. I need to escape. From this apartment, from my life, from this whole hideous mess. I need a place of peace, a place of sanctuary. A place where I’ll find solace.

“I’m going to Tiffany,” I say with a half-sob, and close the door behind me.

Five seconds after I’ve crossed the threshold of Tiffany, I’m already calmer. My heart rate begins to subside. My mind begins to turn less frantically. I feel soothed, just looking around at the cases full of glittering jewelry. Audrey Hepburn was right: nothing bad could ever happen in Tiffany.

I walk to the back of the ground floor, dodging the tourists and eyeing up diamond necklaces as I go. There’s a girl about my age trying on a knuckle-duster of an engagement ring, and as I see her exhilarated face, I feel a painful pang inside.

It seems like a million years ago that Luke and I got engaged. I feel like a different person. If only I could rewind. God, if I could just have the chance. I’d do it all so differently.

There’s no point torturing myself with how it might have been. This is what I’ve done — and this is how it is.

I get into the elevator and travel up to the third floor — and as I step out, I relax even more. This really is another world. It’s different even from the crowded, touristy floor below. It’s like heaven.

The whole floor is tranquil and spacious, with silver, china, and glassware displayed on mirror-topped cabinets. It’s a world of quiet luxury. A world of glossy, cultured people who don’t have to worry about anything. I can see an immaculate girl in navy blue examining a glass candlestick. Another girl, heavily pregnant, is looking at a sterling silver baby’s rattle. No one’s got any problems here. The only major dilemma facing anyone is whether to have gold or platinum edging their dinner service.

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 Tshirts 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 lots 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.