Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

  “Sorry,” I mouth. “I'm just trying to get it . . .”

  As it trills for a third time, the vicar stops talking. And oh God, now Tom and Lucy are turning round, too.

  “I'm sorry,” I gulp, giving another frantic tug at the zip. “I'll just . . . try to . . .”

  Face burning, I stand up, squeeze my way past the row of people, and hurry out of the church. As the door clangs shut behind me I wrench so hard at the zip that I pull the stitching undone. I scrabble inside for the phone, and jab at the green button.

  “Hello?” I say breathlessly into the mouthpiece. “Luke?”

  “Good morning!” says a cheery voice. “Would you be interested in adding a hundred minutes to your monthly plan?”

  After carefully turning off my phone I creep back into the church, where the rest of the service goes by in a blur. When it's all over, Lucy and Tom process out, studiously ignoring me as they do so—and everyone gathers around them in the graveyard to throw confetti and take photos. I slip away without anyone noticing, and hurry feverishly up the road to the Websters' house. Because Luke must be there by now. He must. He must have arrived late, and decided not to come to the church, but go straight to the reception. It's obvious, when you think about it. It's what any sensible person would do.

  I hurry through the Websters' house, which is full of caterers and waitresses—and head straight for the marquee. There's already a joyful smile on my face at the thought of seeing him, and telling him about that awful moment in the church, and seeing his face crease up in laughter—

  But the marquee's empty. Completely empty.

  I stand there, bewildered, for a few moments—then quickly head out again and hurry toward my parents' house. Because maybe Luke went there, instead, it suddenly occurs to me. Maybe he got the time wrong, or maybe he had to get changed into his wedding outfit. Or maybe—

  But he's not there either. Not in the kitchen, not upstairs. And when I dial his mobile number, it clicks straight onto messages.

  Slowly, I walk into my bedroom and sink down onto the bed, trying not to let myself think all the bad thoughts which are creeping into my mind.

  He's coming, I tell myself again and again. He's just . . . on his way.

  Through the window I can see Tom and Lucy and all the guests starting to arrive in next door's garden. There are lots of hats and morning suits, and waitresses handing round champagne. In fact, it all looks rather jolly. And I know I should be down there with them, but I just can't face it. Not without Luke, not all on my own.

  But after sitting there for a while, it occurs to me that by staying up here, I'll just be fueling the intrigue. They'll all think I can't face the happy couple and that I'm off slitting my wrists somewhere. It'll confirm all their suspicions forever. I have to go and show my face, even if just for half an hour.

  I force myself to stand up, take a deep breath, and put some fresh lipstick on. Then I walk out of the house and round to the Websters'. I slip inconspicuously into the marquee through a side flap and stand watching for a moment. There are people milling about everywhere, and the hubbub is huge, and no one even notices me. Near the entrance, there's a formal lineup with Tom and Lucy and their parents, but no way am I going near that. So instead I sidle off to an empty table and sit down, and after a bit a waitress comes and gives me a glass of champagne.

  For a while I just sit there, sipping my drink and watching people and feeling myself start to relax. But then there's a rustling sound in front of me. I look up—and my heart sinks. Lucy is standing right in front of me in her beautiful wedding dress, flanked by a large bridesmaid in a really unflattering shade of green. (Which I think says quite a lot about Lucy.)

  “Hello, Rebecca,” says Lucy pleasantly—and I can just tell, she's congratulating herself on being so polite to the loony girl who nearly wrecked her wedding.

  “Hi,” I say. “Listen, I'm really sorry about the service. I honestly didn't mean to . . .”

  “That doesn't matter,” says Lucy, and gives me a tight smile. “After all, Tom and I are married. That's the main thing.” And she gives her wedding-ringed hand a satisfied glance.

  “Absolutely!” I say. “Congratulations. Are you going on—”

  “We were just wondering,” interrupts Lucy pleasantly. “Is Luke here yet?”

  My heart sinks.

  “Oh,” I say, playing for time. “Well . . .”

  “It's only that Mummy said you told her he was half an hour away. But no sign of him! Which seems a bit strange, don't you think?” She raises her eyebrows innocently, and her bridesmaid gives a half-snort of laughter. I glance over Lucy's shoulder and see Angela Harrison standing with Tom, a few yards away, watching with gimlet, triumphant eyes. God, they're enjoying this, aren't they?

  “After all, that was, oh, a good two hours ago now,” Lucy's saying. “At least! So if he isn't here, it does seem a teeny bit peculiar.” She gives me a mock-concerned look. “Or maybe he's had an accident? Maybe he's got held up in . . . Zurich, was it?”

  I stare at her smug, mocking face, and something violent rushes to my head.

  “He's here,” I say before I can stop myself.

  There's a stunned silence. Lucy and her bridesmaid glance at each other, while I take a deep gulp of champagne.

  “He's here?” says Lucy at last. “You mean, here at the wedding?”

  “Absolutely!” I say. “He's . . . he's been here a while, actually.”

  “But where? Where is he?”

  “Well . . . he was here just a few moments ago . . .” I gesture to the chair next to me. “Didn't you see him?”

  “No!” says Lucy, with wide eyes. “Where is he now?” And she starts to look around the marquee.

  “Just there,” I say, pointing vaguely through the crowd. “He's wearing a morning coat . . .”

  “And? What else?”

  “And he's . . . he's holding a glass of champagne . . .”

  Thank God all men look alike at weddings.

  “Which one!” says Lucy impatiently.

  “The dark one,” I say, and take another gulp of champagne. “Look, he's waving at me.” I lift my hand and give a little wave. “Hi, Luke!”

  “Where?” exclaims Lucy, peering into the crowd. “Kate, can you see him?”

  “No!” says the bridesmaid hopelessly. “What does he look like?”

  “He's . . . actually, he's just disappeared,” I say. “He must be getting me a drink or something.”

  Lucy turns to me again.

  “So—how come he wasn't at the service?”

  “He didn't want to interrupt,” I say after a pause, and force myself to smile naturally. “Well—I won't keep you. You must want to mingle with your guests!”

  “Yes,” says Lucy after a pause. “Yes, I will.”

  Giving me another suspicious look, she rustles off toward her mother, and they all start hobnobbing in a little group, shooting glances at me every so often. Then one of the bridesmaids rushes off to another group of guests, and they all start giving me glances, too. And then one runs off to another group. It's like seeing a bushfire begin.

  A few moments later, Janice comes up, all flushed and teary looking, with a flowery hat perched lopsidedly on her head.

  “Becky!” she says. “Becky, we've just heard that Luke's here!”

  And my heart plummets. Putting down the bride from hell was one thing. But I can't bring myself to lie to Janice. I just can't do it. So I quickly take a gulp of champagne, and wave my glass at her in a vague manner that could mean anything.

  “Oh, Becky . . .” Janice clasps her hands. “Becky, I feel absolutely . . . Have your parents met him yet? I know your mother will be over the moon!”

  Oh fuck.

  Suddenly I feel a bit sick. My parents. I didn't think of that.

  “Janice, I've just got to go and . . . and powder my nose,” I say, and get hastily to my feet. “See you later.”

  “And Luke!” she says.

  ?
??And Luke, of course!” I say, and give a shrill little laugh.

  I hurry to the portaloos without meeting anyone's eye, lock myself in a cubicle, and sit, swigging the last warm dregs of my champagne. OK, let's not panic about this. Let's just . . . think clearly, and go over my options.

  Option One: Tell everybody that Luke isn't really here, I made a mistake.

  Not unless I want to be stoned to death with champagne glasses and never show my face in Oxshott again.

  Option Two: Tell Mum and Dad in private that Luke isn't really here.

  But they'll be so disappointed. They'll be mortified, and they won't enjoy the day and it'll be all my fault.

  Option Three: Bluff it out—and tell Mum and Dad the truth at the end of the day.

  Yes. That could work. It has to work. I can easily convince everyone Luke's here for about an hour or so—and then I'll say he's got a migraine, and has gone off to lie down quietly.

  Right, this is what I'm going to do. OK—let's go.

  And you know, it's easier than I thought. Before long, everyone seems to be taking it for granted that Luke is around somewhere. Tom's granny even tells me she's already spotted him, and isn't he handsome and will it be my turn next? I've told countless people that he was here just a minute ago, have collected two plates of food from the buffet—one for me, one for Luke (tipped one into the flower bed), and have even borrowed some stranger's morning coat and put it on the chair next to me, as though it's his. The great thing is, no one can prove he's not here! There are so many people milling about, it's impossible to keep track of who's here and who isn't. I should have done this ages ago.

  “Group photograph in a minute,” says Lucy, bustling up to me. “We all have to line up. Where's Luke?”

  “Talking to some guy about property prices,” I reply without hesitation. “They were over by the drinks table.”

  “Well, make sure you introduce me,” says Lucy. “I still haven't met him!”

  “OK!” I say, and give her a bright smile. “As soon as I track him down!” I take a swig of champagne, look up—and there's Mum in her lime-green wedding outfit, heading toward me.

  So far, I've managed to avoid her and Dad completely, basically by running away whenever they've come close. I know it's really bad of me—but I just won't be able to lie to Mum. Quickly I slip out of the marquee into the garden, and head for the shrubbery, dodging the photographer's assistant, who's rounding up all the children. I sit down behind a tree and finish my glass of champagne, staring up blankly at the blue afternoon sky.

  I stay there for what seems like hours, until my legs are starting to ache and the breeze is making me shiver. Then at last, I slowly wander back, and slip inconspicuously into the tent. I won't hang around much longer. Just long enough to have a piece of wedding cake, maybe, and some more champagne . . .

  “There she is!” comes a voice behind me.

  I freeze for an instant—then slowly turn round. To my utter horror, all the guests are standing in neat rows in the center of the marquee, while a photographer adjusts a tripod.

  “Becky, where's Luke?” says Lucy sharply. “We're trying to get everybody in.”

  Shit. Shit.

  “Erm . . .” I swallow, trying to stay nonchalant. “Maybe he's in the house?”

  “No, he's not,” says Kate the bridesmaid. “I've just been looking in there.”

  “Well, he must be . . . in the garden, then.”

  “But you were in the garden!” says Lucy, narrowing her eyes. “Didn't you see him?”

  “Erm . . . I'm not sure.” I look round the marquee hurriedly, wondering if I could pretend to spot him in the distance. But it's different when there are no milling crowds. Why did they have to stop milling?

  “He must be somewhere!” says a cheerful woman. “Who saw him last?”

  There's a deathly silence. Two hundred people are staring at me. I catch Mum's anxious eye, and quickly look away again.

  “Actually . . .” I clear my throat. “Now I remember, he was saying he had a bit of a headache! So maybe he went to—”

  “Who's seen him at all?” cuts in Lucy, ignoring me. She looks around the assembled guests. “Who here can say they've actually seen Luke Brandon in the flesh? Anyone?”

  “I've seen him!” comes a wavering voice from the back. “Such a good-looking young man . . .”

  “Apart from Tom's gran,” says Lucy, rolling her eyes. “Anyone?”

  And there's another awful silence.

  “I've seen his morning coat,” ventures Janice timidly. “But not his actual . . . body,” she whispers.

  “I knew it. I knew it!” Lucy's voice is loud and triumphant. “He never was here, was he?”

  “Of course he was!” I say, trying to sound confident. “I expect he's just in the—”

  “You're not going out with Luke Brandon at all, are you?” Her voice lashes across the marquee. “You just made the whole thing up! You're just living in your own sad little fantasy land!”

  “I'm not!” To my horror, my voice is thickening, and I can feel tears pricking at my eyes. “I'm not! Luke and I are a couple!”

  But as I look at all the faces gazing at me—some hostile, some astonished, some amused—I don't even feel so sure of that anymore. I mean, if we were a couple, he'd be here, wouldn't he? He'd be here with me.

  “I'll just . . .” I say in a trembling voice. “I'll just check if he's . . .”

  And without looking anyone in the eye, I back out of the marquee.

  “She's a bloody fruit loop!” I hear Lucy saying. “Honestly, Tom, she could be dangerous!”

  “You're dangerous, young lady!” I hear Mum retorting, her voice shaking a little. “Janice, I don't know how you could let your daughter-in-law be so rude! Becky's been a good friend to you, over the years. And to you, Tom, standing there, pretending this has nothing to do with you. And this is the way you treat her. Come on, Graham. We're going.”

  And a moment later, I see Mum stalking out of the marquee, Dad in tow, her lime-green hat quivering on her head. They head toward the front drive, and I know they're going back to our house for a nice, calming cup of tea.

  But I don't follow them. I can't bring myself to see them—or anyone.

  I walk quickly, stumbling slightly, toward the other end of the garden. Then, when I'm far enough away, I sink down onto the grass. I bury my head in my hands—and, for the first time today, feel tears oozing out of my eyes.

  This should have been such a good day. It should have been such a wonderful, happy occasion. Seeing Tom get married, introducing Luke to my parents and all our friends, dancing together into the night . . . And instead, it's been spoiled for everyone. Mum, Dad, Janice, Martin . . . I even feel sorry for Lucy and Tom. I mean, they didn't want all this disruption at their wedding, did they?

  For what seems like ages I sit without moving, staring down at the ground. From the marquee I can hear the sounds of a band starting up, and Lucy's voice bossing somebody about. Some children are playing with a bean bag in the garden and occasionally it lands near me. But I don't flicker. I wish I could just sit here forever, without having to see any of them ever again.

  And then I hear my name, low across the grass.

  At first I think Lucy's right, and I'm hearing imaginary voices. But as I look up, my heart gives an almighty flip and I feel something hard blocking my throat. I don't believe it.

  It's him.

  It's Luke, walking across the grass, toward me, like a dream. He's wearing morning dress and holding two glasses of champagne, and I've never seen him looking more handsome.

  “I'm sorry,” he says as he reaches me. “I'm beyond sorry. Four hours late is . . . well, it's unforgivable.” He shakes his head.

  I stare up at him dazedly. I'd almost started to believe that Lucy was right, and he only existed in my own imagination.

  “Were you . . . held up?” I say at last.

  “A guy had a heart attack. The plane was diverted . . .” H
e frowns. “But I left a message on your phone as soon as I could. Didn't you get it?”

  I grab for my phone, realizing with a sickening thud that I haven't checked it for a good while. I've been too busy dealing with imaginary Luke to think about the real one. And sure enough, the little message icon is blinking merrily.

  “No, I didn't get it,” I say, staring at it blankly. “I didn't. I thought . . .”

  I break off and shake my head. I don't know what I thought anymore.

  “Are you all right?” says Luke, sitting down beside me and handing me a glass of champagne. He runs a finger gently down my face and I flinch.

  “No,” I say, rubbing my cheek. “Since you ask, I'm not all right. You promised you'd be here. You promised, Luke.”

  “I am here.”

  “You know what I mean.” I hunch my arms miserably round my knees. “I wanted you to be there at the service, not arrive when it's all nearly over. I wanted everyone to meet you, and see us together . . .” My voice starts to wobble. “It's just been . . . awful! They all thought I was after the bridegroom—”

  “The bridegroom?” says Luke incredulously. “You mean the pale-faced nonentity called Tom?”

  “Yes, him.” I look up and give a reluctant half-giggle as I see Luke's expression. “Did you meet him, then?”

  “I met him just now. And his very unlovely wife. Quite a pair.” He takes a sip of champagne and leans back on his elbows. “By the way—she looked rather taken aback to meet me. Almost . . . gobsmacked, one might say. As did most of the guests.” He gives me a quizzical look. “Anything I should know?”

  “Erm . . .” I clear my throat. “Erm . . . not really. Nothing important.”

  “I thought as much,” says Luke. “So the bridesmaid who cried out, ‘Oh my God, he exists!' when I walked in. She's presumably . . .”

  “Mad,” I say without moving my head.

  “Right.” He nods. “Just checking.”

  He reaches out for my hand, and I let him take it. For a while we sit in silence. A bird is wheeling round and round overhead, and in the distance I can hear the band playing “Lady in Red.”