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 mac
hine, 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 a
s 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.