12 September 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Further to my letter of 8 September, I have conducted a thorough examination of your account. Your current overdraft limit vastly exceeds the bank's approved ratios. I cannot see any need for this excessive level of debt, nor that any genuine attempts have been made to reduce it. The situation is little short of a disgrace.
Whatever special status you have enjoyed in the past will not be continuing in the future. I will certainly not be increasing your overdraft limit as you request, and would ask as a matter of urgency that you make an appointment with me to discuss your position.
Yours sincerely,
John Gavin
Overdraft Facilities Director
Six
I ARRIVE AT MY PARENTS' house at ten o'clock on Saturday, to find the street full of festivity. There are balloons tied to every tree, our drive is full of cars, and a billowing marquee is just visible from next door's garden. I get out of my car, reach for my overnight bag, then just stand still for a few moments, staring at the Websters' house. God, this is strange. Tom Webster getting married. I can hardly believe it. To be honest—and this may sound a bit mean—I can hardly believe that anyone would want to marry Tom Webster. He has smartened up his act recently, admittedly. He's got a few new clothes, and a better hairstyle. But his hands are still all huge and clammy—and frankly, he's not Brad Pitt.
Still, that's the point of love, I think, closing my car door with a bang. You love people despite their flaws. Lucy obviously doesn't mind that Tom's got clammy hands—and he obviously doesn't mind that her hair's all flat and boring. It's quite romantic, I suppose.
As I'm standing there, gazing at the house, a girl in jeans with a circlet of flowers in her hair appears at the Websters' front door. She gives me an odd, almost aggressive look, then disappears inside the house again. One of Lucy's bridesmaids, obviously. I expect she's a bit nervous, being seen in her jeans.
Lucy's probably in there too, it occurs to me—and instinctively I turn away. I know she's the bride and everything, but to be honest, I'm not desperately looking forward to seeing Lucy again. I've only met her a couple of times and we've never jelled. Probably because she had the idea I was in love with Tom. Still, at least when Luke arrives I'll finally be able to prove them all wrong.
At the thought of Luke, there's a painful stab in my chest, and I take a deep, slow breath to calm myself. I'm determined I'm not going to put the cart before the horse this time. I'm going to keep an open mind, and see what he says today. And if he does tell me he's moving away to New York then I'll just . . . deal with it. Somehow.
Anyway. Don't think about it now. Briskly I head for the front door and let myself in. I head for the kitchen and find my dad drinking coffee in his waistcoat, while Mum, dressed in a nylon cape with her hair in curlers, is buttering a round of sandwiches.
“I just don't think it's right,” she's saying as I walk in. “It's not right. They're supposed to be leading our country, and look at them. They're a mess! Dowdy jackets, dreadful ties . . .”
“You really think the ability to govern is affected by what you wear, do you?”
“Hi, Mum,” I say, dumping my bag on the floor. “Hi, Dad.”
“It's the principle of the thing!” says Mum. “If they're not prepared to make an effort with their dress, then why should they make any effort with the economy?”
“It's hardly the same thing!”
“It's exactly the same thing. Becky, you think the chancellor should dress more smartly, don't you? All this lounge suit nonsense.”
“I don't know,” I say vaguely. “Maybe.”
“You see? Becky agrees with me. Now, let me have a look at you, darling.” She puts down her knife and surveys me properly, and I feel myself glowing a little, because I know I look good. I'm wearing a shocking pink dress and jacket, a Philip Treacy feathered hat, and the most beautiful black satin shoes, each decorated with a single gossamer butterfly. “Oh, Becky,” says Mum at last. “You look lovely. You'll upstage the bride!” She reaches for my hat and looks at it. “This is very unusual! How much did it cost?”
“Erm . . . I can't remember,” I say vaguely. “Maybe . . . fifty quid?”
This is not quite true. It was actually more like . . . Well, anyway, quite a lot. Still, it was worth it.
“So, where's Luke?” says Mum, popping my hat back on my head. “Parking the car?”
“Yes, where's Luke?” says my father, looking up, and gives a jocular laugh. “We've been looking forward to meeting this young man of yours at last.”
“Luke's coming separately,” I say—and flinch slightly as I see their faces fall.
“Separately?” says Mum at last. “Why's that?”
“He's flying back from Zurich this morning,” I explain. “He had to go there for business. But he'll be here, I promise.”
“He does know the service starts at twelve?” says Mum anxiously. “And you've told him where the church is?”
“Yes!” I say. “Honestly, he'll be here.”
I'm aware that I sound slightly snappy, but I can't help it. To be honest, I'm a bit stressed out myself about where Luke's got to. He was supposed to be ringing me when he landed at the airport—and that was supposed to be half an hour ago. But so far I haven't heard anything.
Still. He said he'd be here.
“Can I do anything to help?” I ask, to change the subject.
“Be a darling, and take these upstairs for me,” says Mum, cutting the sandwiches briskly into triangles. “I've got to pack away the patio cushions.”
“Who's upstairs?” I say, picking up the plate.
“Maureen's come over to blow-dry Janice's hair,” says Mum. “They wanted to keep out of Lucy's way. You know, while she's getting ready.”
“Have you seen her yet?” I ask interestedly. “Has she got a nice dress?”
“I haven't seen it,” says Mum, and lowers her voice. “But apparently it cost £3,000. And that's not including the veil!”
“Wow,” I say, impressed. And for a second I feel ever so slightly envious. A £3,000 dress. And a party . . . and loads of presents . . . I mean, people who get married have it all.
As I go up the stairs, there's the sound of blow-drying coming from Mum and Dad's bedroom—and as I go in, I see Janice sitting on the dressing-room stool, wearing a dressing gown, holding a sherry glass, and dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. Maureen, who's been doing Mum's and Janice's hair for years now, is brandishing a hair dryer at her, and a woman I don't recognize with a mahogany tan, dyed blond curly hair, and a lilac silk suit is sitting on the window seat.
“Hello, Janice,” I say, going over and giving her a hug. “How are you feeling?”
“I'm fine, dear,” she says, and gives a sniff. “A little wobbly. You know. To think of Tom getting married!”
“I know,” I say sympathetically. “It doesn't seem like yesterday that we were kids, riding our bikes together!”
“Have another sherry, Janice,” says Maureen comfortably, and sloshes a deep brown liquid into her glass. “It'll help you relax.”
“Oh, Becky,” says Janice, and squeezes my hand. “This must be a hard day for you, too.”
I knew it. She does still think I fancy Tom, doesn't she? Why do all mothers think their sons are irresistible?
“Not really!” I say, as brightly as I can. “I mean, I'm just pleased for Tom. And Lucy, of course . . .”
“Becky?” The woman on the window seat turns toward me, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “This is Becky?”
And there's not an ounce of friendliness in her face. Oh God, don't say she thinks I'm after Tom, too.
“Erm . . . yes.” I smile at her. “I'm Rebecca Bloomwood. And you must be Lucy's mother?”
“Yes,” says the woman, still staring at me. “I'm Angela Harrison. Mother of the bride,” she adds, emphasizing “the bride” as though I don't understand English.
“You must be very excited,” I say polite
ly. “Your daughter getting married.”
“Yes, well, of course, Tom is devoted to Lucy,” she says aggressively. “Utterly devoted. Never looks in any other direction.” She gives me a sharp glance and I smile feebly back.
Honestly, what am I supposed to do? Throw up all over Tom or something? Tell him he's the ugliest man I've ever known? They'd all still just say I was jealous. They'd say I was in denial.
“Is . . . Luke here, Becky?” says Janice, and gives me a hopeful smile. And suddenly—which is rather bizarre—everyone in the room is completely still, waiting for my answer.
“Not yet, I'm afraid,” I say. “I think he must have been held up.”
There's silence, and I'm aware of glances flying around the room.
“Held up,” echoes Angela, and there's a tone to her voice that I don't much like. “Is that right? Well, there's a surprise.”
What's that supposed to mean?
“He's coming back from Zurich,” I explain. “I should think the flight's been delayed or something.” I look at Janice and, to my surprise, she flushes.
“Zurich,” she says, nodding a little too emphatically. “I see. Of course. Zurich.” And she shoots me an embarrassed, almost sympathetic look.
What's wrong with her?
“This is Luke Brandon we're talking about here,” says Angela, taking a puff on her cigarette. “The famous entrepreneur.”
“Well—yes,” I say, a bit surprised. I mean, I don't know any other Lukes.
“And he's your boyfriend.”
“Yes!”
There's a slightly awkward silence—and even Maureen seems to be gazing at me curiously. Then, suddenly, I see a copy of this month's Tatler lying on the floor by Janice's chair. Oh God.
“That article in Tatler, by the way,” I say hastily, “is all wrong. He didn't say he was single. He said no comment.”
“Article?” says Janice unconvincingly. “I don't know what you're talking about, dear.”
“I . . . I don't read magazines,” says Maureen, who blushes bright red and looks away.
“We just look forward to meeting him,” says Angela, and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Don't we, Janice?”
I stare at her in confusion—then turn to Janice, who will barely meet my eye, and Maureen, who's pretending to root about in a beauty case.
Hang on a minute.
They surely don't think—
“Janice,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You know Luke's coming. He even wrote you a reply!”
“Of course he did, Becky!” says Janice, staring at the floor. “Well—as Angela says, we're all looking forward to meeting him.”
I feel a swoosh of humiliated color fill my cheeks. What does she think? That I've just made up that I'm going out with Luke?
“Well, enjoy your sandwiches, won't you?” I say, trying not to sound as flustered as I feel. “I'll just . . . see if Mum needs me.”
When I find Mum, she's on the top-floor landing, packing patio cushions into transparent plastic bags, then suctioning all the air out with the nozzle of her vacuum cleaner.
“I've some of these bags on order for you, by the way,” she shouts over the noise of the vacuum. “From Country Ways. Plus some turkey foil, a casserole dish, a microwave egg poacher . . .”
“I don't want any turkey foil!” I yell.
“It's not for you!” says Mum, turning off the vacuum. “They had a special offer—introduce a friend and receive a set of earthenware pots. So I nominated you as the friend. It's a very good catalogue, actually. I'll give it to you to have a browse.”
“Mum—”
“Lovely duvet covers. I'm sure you could do with a new—”
“Mum, listen!” I say agitatedly. “Listen. You do believe I'm going out with Luke, don't you?”
There's a slightly too long pause.
“Of course I do,” she says eventually.
I stare at her in horror.
“You don't, do you? You all think I've just made it up!”
“No!” says Mum firmly. She puts down her hoover and looks me straight in the eye. “Becky, you've told us you're going out with Luke Brandon, and as far as Dad and I are concerned, that's enough.”
“But Janice and Martin. Do they think I've made it up?”
Mum gazes at me—then sighs, and reaches for another patio cushion.
“Oh, Becky. The thing is, love, you have to remember, they once believed you had a stalker. And that turned out to be . . . well. Not quite true. Didn't it?”
A cold dismay creeps over me. OK, maybe I did once kind of pretend I had a stalker. Which I shouldn't have done. But I mean, just because you invent one tiny stalker—that doesn't make you a complete nutcase, does it?
“And the trouble is, we've never actually . . . well, seen him with you, have we, love?” Mum's continuing, as she stuffs the cushion into its transparent bag. “Not in the flesh. And then there was that piece in the paper saying he was single . . .”
“He didn't say single!” My voice is shrill with frustration. “He said no comment! Mum, have Janice and Martin told you they don't believe me?”
“No!” Mum lifts her chin defiantly. “They wouldn't dare say a thing like that to me.”
“But you know that's what they're saying behind our backs.”
We stare at each other, and suddenly I see the strain in Mum's face, hidden behind her bright facade. She must have been so hoping we'd pull up together in Luke's flash car, I suddenly realize. She must have been so wanting to prove Janice wrong. And instead, here I am, on my own again . . .
“He'll be here,” I say, almost to reassure myself. “He'll be here any minute.”
“Of course he will!” exclaims Mum brightly. “And as soon as he turns up—well, then everyone will have to eat their words, won't they?”
The doorbell rings and we both stiffen, staring at each other.
“I'll get that, shall I?” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Why don't you?” agrees Mum, and I can see a tiny shine of hope in her eyes.
Trying not to run, I hurry down the stairs and, with a light heart, fling the front door open. And it's . . . not Luke.
It's a man laden with flowers. Baskets of flowers, a bouquet of flowers, and several flat boxes at his feet.
“Wedding flowers,” he says. “Where do you want them?”
“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “Actually, you've got the wrong house, I'm afraid. They need to go next door. Number 41.”
“Really?” The man frowns. “Let me just look at my list . . . Hold that, would you?”
He thrusts the bridal bouquet at me and starts rooting around his pocket.
“Honestly,” I say, “they need to go next door. Look, I'll just get my—”
I turn round, holding Lucy's bouquet with both hands, because it's quite heavy. And to my horror, Angela Harrison is just arriving at the foot of the stairs. She stares at me, and for a moment I almost think she's going to kill me.
“What are you doing?” she snaps. “Give me that!” She wrenches the bouquet out of my hands and brings her face so close to mine I can smell the gin on her breath. “Listen, young lady,” she hisses. “I'm not fooled by the smiles. I know what you're up to. And you can just forget it, all right? I'm not having my daughter's wedding wrecked by some deranged little psychopath.”
“I'm not deranged!” I exclaim furiously. “And I'm not going to wreck anything! I don't fancy Tom! I've got a boyfriend!”
“Oh yes,” she says, folding her arms. “The famous boyfriend. Is he here yet?”
“No, he isn't,” I say, and flinch at the expression on her face. “But he . . . he just called.”
“He just called,” echoes Angela with a little sneer. “To say he can't make it?”
Why won't these people believe that Luke's coming?
“Actually . . . he's half an hour away,” I hear myself saying defiantly.
“Good!” says Angela Harrison, and gives
me a nasty smile. “Well—we'll see him very soon, then, won't we?”
Oh shit.
By twelve o'clock, Luke still hasn't arrived, and I'm beside myself. This is a complete nightmare. Where is he? I loiter outside the church until the very last minute, desperately dialing his number, hoping against hope I'm suddenly going to see him running up the road. But the bridesmaids have arrived, and another Rolls-Royce has just pulled up, and he's still not here. As I see the car door open and a glimpse of wedding dress, I hastily retreat into the church before anyone can think I'm waiting outside to disrupt the bridal procession.
As I creep in, trying not to disturb the organ music, Angela Harrison darts me an evil look, and there's a rippling and whispering from Lucy's side of the church. I sit down near the back, trying to keep composed and tranquil—but I'm well aware that all Lucy's friends are shooting surreptitious glances at me. What the hell has she been telling everyone?
For a second I feel like getting up and walking out. I never wanted to come to this stupid wedding anyway. I only said yes because I didn't want to offend Janice and Martin. But it's too late, the bridal march is starting, and Lucy's walking in. And I have to hand it to her, she's wearing the most drop-dead gorgeous dress I've ever seen. I stare wistfully after it, trying not to imagine what I would look like in a dress like that.
The music stops and the vicar starts talking. I'm aware that people on Lucy's side of the church are still darting me little looks—but I adjust my hat and lift my chin and ignore them.
“. . . to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” intones the vicar, “which is an honorable estate . . .”
The bridesmaids have got really nice shoes, I notice. I wonder where they're from?
Shame about the dresses, though.
“. . . reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God . . .”
He pauses to look around the congregation, just as I hear a little trilling sound coming from my bag.
Shit. It's my phone.
I pull at the zip—but it's stuck. I don't believe this. You buy an expensive bag, and the bloody zip sticks.
There's another, louder trill. At the front of the church, Angela Harrison turns round in her pew and gives me the evil eye.