Yeah, right, I want to say. She’s really trying hard with me.
Instead I give a tiny shrug and mumble, “I suppose so.”
Luke walks over and takes hold of my hand. “Come back upstairs. We’ll have another drink. Forget this ever happened.”
“No.” I exhale sharply. “I think I’ll . . . go home. You go. I’ll see you later.”
As I make my way home it starts to rain, big splashy drops that puddle in the gutters and drip off canopies. They spatter on my hot cheeks and wet my hair and make marks on my new suede-trimmed shoes. But I barely notice them. I’m still too wound up by the evening; by Elinor’s gimlet gaze; by my own humiliation; by my frustration with Luke.
The moment I get inside the apartment there’s a crack of thunder outside. I switch all the lights on and the television, and pick up the post. There’s an envelope from Mum and I open it first. A swatch of fabric falls out and a long letter smelling faintly of her perfume.
Darling Becky,
Hope all’s well in the Big Apple!
Here’s the color we were thinking of for the table napkins. Janice says we should have pink but I think this pale plum is very pretty, especially with the colors we were thinking of for the flowers. But let me know what you think, you’re the bride, darling!
The photographer that Dennis recommended came round yesterday and we were all very impressed. Dad has heard good things about him at the golf club, which is always a good sign. He can do color and black-and-white, and includes a photograph album in the price, which seems a very good deal. Also, he can turn the picture you like best into one hundred mini jigsaw puzzles to send to all the guests as a little thank-you!
The most important thing of all, I told him, is that we have lots of pictures of you by the flowering cherry tree. We planted that when you were born, and it’s always been my secret dream that our little baby Rebecca would grow up and one day stand beside it on her wedding day. You are our only child and this day is so important to us.
Yours with lots of love,
Mum
By the end, I’m crying. I don’t know why I ever thought I wanted to get married in New York. I don’t know why I let Elinor even show me the stupid Plaza. Home is where I want to get married. With Mum and Dad, and the cherry tree, and my friends, and everything that really matters to me.
That’s it, I’ve made my choice.
“Becky?”
I give a startled jump and turn round. There’s Luke, standing at the door, out of breath and drenched from head to foot. His hair is plastered to his head and raindrops are still running down his face. “Becky . . .” he says urgently. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go like that. I saw the rain . . . I don’t know what I was thinking—” He breaks off as he sees my tear-stained face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I wipe my eyes. “And Luke . . . I’m sorry too.”
Luke gazes at me for a long time, his face trembling, his eyes burning.
“Becky Bloomwood,” he says at last. “You’re the most generous-spirited . . . giving . . . loving . . . I don’t deserve . . .”
He breaks off and comes toward me, his face almost fierce with intent. As he kisses me, raindrops spatter from his hair onto my mouth and mingle with the warm salty taste of him. I close my eyes and let my body gradually unwind, the pleasure gradually begin. I can already feel him hard and determined, gripping my hips and wanting me right now, right this minute, to say sorry, to say he loves me, to say he’ll do anything for me . . .
God, I love make-up sex.
Nine
I WAKE UP THE next morning all snug and contented and happy with myself. As I lie in bed, curled up against Luke, I’m full of a strong inner resolve. I’ve sorted out my priorities. Nothing will change my mind now.
“Luke?” I say, as he makes a move to get out of bed.
“Mmm?” He turns and kisses me, and he’s all warm and delicious and lovely.
“Don’t go. Stay here. All day.”
“All day?”
“We could pretend we were ill.” I stretch luxuriously out on the pillows. “Actually, I do feel rather ill.”
“Oh, really? Which bit?”
“My . . . tummy.”
“Looks fine to me,” says Luke, peeking under the duvet. “Feels fine . . . Sorry. You don’t get a note.”
“Spoilsport.”
I watch as he gets out of bed, puts on a robe, and heads for the bathroom.
“Luke?” I say again as he reaches the door.
“What?”
I open my mouth to tell him I made a big decision last night. That I want to get married in Oxshott, just like we originally planned. That I’m going to cancel the Plaza. That if Elinor is furious, then so be it.
Then I close it again.
“What is it?” says Luke.
“Just . . . don’t use up all my shampoo,” I say at last.
I can’t face bringing up the subject of the wedding. Not now, when everything’s so lovely and happy between us. And anyway, Luke doesn’t care where we get married. He said so himself.
I’ve taken the morning off work for the cake-tasting meeting with Robyn, but our appointment’s not until ten. So after Luke’s gone I slowly pad around the apartment, making myself some breakfast and thinking about what I’m going to say to Elinor.
The thing is to be direct. Firm and direct but pleasant. Grown-up and professional, like businesspeople who have to fire other businesspeople. Stay calm and use phrases like “We chose to go another way.”
“Hello, Elinor,” I say to my reflection. “I have something I need to say to you. I have chosen to go another way.”
No. She’ll think I’m becoming a lesbian.
“Hello, Elinor,” I try again. “I’ve been bouncing around your wedding-scenario proposal. And while it has many merits . . .”
OK, come on. Just do it.
Ignoring my butterflies, I pick up the phone and dial Elinor’s number.
“Elinor Sherman is unable to take your call . . .”
She’s out.
I can’t just leave her a message saying the wedding’s off. Can I?
Could I?
No.
I put the phone down hurriedly, before the bleep sounds. OK. What shall I do now?
Well, it’s obvious. I’ll call Robyn. The important thing is that I tell someone, before anything else gets done.
I gather my thoughts for a moment, then dial Robyn’s number.
“Hello! Do I hear wedding bells? I hope so, because this is Robyn de Bendern, the answer to your wedding planning prayers. I’m afraid I’m unavailable at present, but your call is so important to me . . .”
Robyn’s probably already on her way to meet me at the cake-maker’s studio, it occurs to me. I could call her there. Or I could leave a message.
But as I hear her bright, chirruping voice, I feel a pang of guilt. Robyn’s already put so much into this. In fact, I’ve already become quite fond of her. I just can’t tell her it’s all off over the phone. Feeling suddenly firm, I put down the phone and reach for my bag.
I’ll be a grown-up, go along to the cake studio, and break the news to her face-to-face.
And I’ll deal with Elinor later.
To be honest, I don’t really like wedding cake. I always take a piece because it’s bad luck or something if you don’t, but actually all that fruitcake and marzipan and icing like blocks of chalk makes me feel a bit sick. And I’m so nervous at the thought of telling Robyn it’s all off that I can’t imagine eating anything.
Even so, my mouth can’t help watering as I arrive at the cake studio. It’s big and light, with huge windows and the sweetest, most delicious sugary-buttery smell wafting through the air. There are huge mounted cakes on display, and rows of flower decorations in transparent boxes, and people at marble tables, carefully making roses out of icing and painting strands of sugar ivy.
As I hover at the entrance, a skinny girl in jea
ns 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 six-tier 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.