I don’t really know what I’m saying. And I don’t think Suze will ever quite understand where I’m coming from. She’s never made any mistakes in her life. She’s always cruised through easily, never upsetting anyone, never getting herself in trouble. But I haven’t. I know what it feels like to do something stupid—or worse than stupid—and then wish, above anything else, that I hadn’t.
“So what does all this mean? Why are you—” Suze’s voice sharpens in alarm. “Hang on. Bex, this isn’t your way of saying you’re going to get married in New York after all, is it?”
“It’s not as simple as that,” I say after a pause.
“Bex . . . I’ll kill you. I really will. If you tell me now that you want to get married in New York—”
“Suze, I don’t want to get married in New York. Of course I don’t! But if we abandon the wedding now . . . then that’ll be it. Elinor’ll never speak to either of us again. Ever.”
“I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it! You’re going to fuck everything up again, aren’t you?”
“Suze—”
“Just as everything is all right! Just as for once in your life, you aren’t in a complete mess and I can start to relax . . .”
“Suze—”
“Becky?”
I look up, startled. Luke is standing there in his boxers and T-shirt, staring in bleary puzzlement at me.
“Are you OK?” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say, putting a hand over the receiver. “Just talking to Suze. You go back to bed. I won’t be long.”
I wait until he’s gone and then shuffle closer to the radiator, which is still giving out a feeble heat.
“OK, Suze, listen,” I say. “Just . . . just hear me out. I’m not going to fuck anything up. I’ve been thinking really hard, and I’ve had this genius idea . . .”
By nine the next morning I’m at Elinor’s apartment. I’ve dressed very carefully and am wearing my smartest linen U.N. diplomatic envoy-style suit, together with a pair of nonconfrontational rounded-toe shoes. Although I’m not sure Elinor quite appreciates the effort I’ve made. As she answers the door she looks even paler than usual and her eyes are like daggers.
“Rebecca,” she says stonily.
“Elinor,” I reply, equally stonily. Then I remember I’ve come here in order to be conciliatory. “Elinor,” I repeat, trying to inject the word with some warmth. “I’ve come to talk.”
“To apologize,” she says, heading down the corridor.
God, she is a cow. And anyway, what did I do? Nothing! For a moment I consider turning round and leaving. But I’ve decided to do this, so I will.
“Not really,” I say. “Just to talk. About you. And Luke.”
“He has regretted his rash actions.”
“No.”
“He wishes to apologize.”
“No! He doesn’t! He’s hurt and angry and he has no desire to go near you again!”
“So why are you here?”
“Because . . . I think it would be a good thing if the two of you tried to make up. Or at least talk to each other again.”
“I have nothing to say to Luke,” replies Elinor. “I have nothing to say to you. As Luke indicated yesterday, the relationship is terminated.”
God, they are so like each other.
“So . . . have you told Robyn yet about the wedding being off?” This is my secret fear, and I hold my breath for an answer.
“No. I thought I would give Luke a chance to reconsider. Clearly this was a mistake.”
I take a deep breath. “I’ll get Luke to go through with the wedding. If you apologize to him.” My voice is a little shaky. I can’t quite believe I’m doing this.
“What did you say?” Elinor turns and stares at me.
“You apologize to Luke and tell him . . . well, basically, that you love him. And I’ll persuade him to get married at the Plaza. You’ll have your big smart wedding for all your friends. That’s the deal.”
“You’re . . . bargaining with me?”
“Er . . . yes.” I turn to face her square-on and clench my fists tightly by my sides. “Basically, Elinor, I’m here for completely selfish reasons. Luke has been screwed up about you all his life. Now he’s decided he never wants to see you again. Which is all fine and good—but I’m worried that’s not the end. I’m worried in two years’ time he’ll suddenly decide he’s got to come back to New York and find you and see if you really are as bad as he thinks you are. And it’ll all start again.”
“This is preposterous. How dare you—”
“Elinor, you want this wedding. I know you do. You just have to be nice to your son and you can have it. I mean, it’s not that much to ask!”
There’s silence. Gradually Elinor’s eyes narrow, as closely as they can since her last bout of plastic surgery.
“You want this wedding too, Rebecca. Please don’t pretend this is a purely altruistic offer. You were as dismayed as I was when he pulled out. Admit it. You’re here because you want to get married at the Plaza.”
“You think that’s why I’m here?” I gape at her. “Because I’m upset that the Plaza wedding was canceled?”
I almost feel like laughing hysterically. I almost want to tell her the whole truth, right from the beginning.
“Believe me, Elinor,” I say at last. “That’s not why I’m here. I can live without the Plaza wedding. Yes, I was looking forward to it and it was exciting. But if Luke doesn’t want it . . . that’s it. I can drop it just like that. It’s not my friends. It’s not my home city. I really don’t care.”
There’s another sharp silence. Elinor moves away to a polished side table and, to my utter astonishment, takes out a cigarette and lights it. She’s kept that habit very quiet!
“I can persuade Luke,” I say, watching her put the box away. “And you can’t.”
“You are . . . beyond belief,” she says. “Using your own wedding as a bargaining tool.”
“I know I am. Is that a yes?”
I’ve won. I can see it in her face. She’s already decided.
“Here’s what you have to say.” I get out a piece of paper from my bag. “It’s all the stuff Luke needs to hear. You have to tell him you love him, you have to say how much you missed him when he was a child, how you thought he’d be better off in Britain, how the only reason you didn’t want to see him was you were afraid of disappointing him . . .” I hand the paper to Elinor. “I know none of it is going to sound remotely natural. So you’d better start off by saying ‘These words don’t come naturally to me.’ ”
Elinor stares blankly at the sheet. She’s breathing heavily and for a moment I think she’s going to throw it at me. Then, carefully, she folds up the piece of paper and puts it on the side table. Is that another twitch of emotion beneath her eye? Is she upset? Livid? Or just disdainful?
I just can’t get my head round Elinor. One minute I think she’s carrying round a huge untapped love deep inside her—and the next I think she’s a coldhearted cow. One minute I think she completely hates me. Then I think, maybe she just has no idea how she comes across. Maybe, all this time, she’s genuinely believed she was being friendly.
I mean, if no one’s ever told her what an awful manner she has . . . how’s she to know?
“What did you mean by saying that Luke might decide to come back to New York?” she says frostily. “Are you planning to leave?”
“We haven’t talked about it yet,” I say after a pause. “But yes. I think we might. New York’s been great, but I don’t think it’s a good place for us to be anymore. Luke’s burned out. He needs a change of scene.”
He needs to be away from you, I add silently.
“I see.” Elinor draws on her cigarette. “You appreciate I had arranged an interview with the co-op board of this building? At considerable effort.”
“I know. Luke told me. But to be honest, Elinor, we would never have lived here.”
Her face flickers again, and I can tell she’s suppressing some
kind of feeling. But what? Is it fury with me for being so ungrateful? Is it distress that Luke’s not going to live in her building after all? Part of me is desperately curious, wants to pick away at her facade, nose in, and find out all about her.
And another, more sensible part of me says, just leave it, Becky. Just leave it.
As I reach the door, though, I can’t resist turning round. “Elinor, you know how they say inside every fat person there’s a thin person struggling to get out? Well . . . the more I think about you, the more I think there might—possibly—be a nice person inside you. But as long as you keep being mean to people and telling them their shoes are shoddy, no one’s ever going to know.”
There. She’ll probably kill me now. I’d better get out. Trying not to look as though I’m running, I head down the corridor and out of the apartment. I close the door behind me and lean against it, my heart thudding.
OK. So far so good. Now for Luke.
“I have absolutely no idea why you want to go to the Rainbow Room.” Luke leans back in his taxi seat and scowls out of the window.
“Because I never have, OK? I want to see the view!”
“But why now? Why today?”
“Why not today?” I glance at my watch and then survey Luke anxiously.
He’s pretending he’s happy. He’s pretending he’s liberated. But he’s not. He’s brooding.
Superficially, things have started to get slightly better. At least he hasn’t given away any more items of clothing, and this morning he actually shaved. But he’s still far from his old self. He didn’t go into work today but sat all day watching a triple bill of old black-and-white films starring Bette Davis.
Funnily enough, I’d never seen the resemblance between Bette Davis and Elinor before.
The truth is, Annabel was right, I think as I watch him. Well, of course she was. She knows her stepson as though he were her own child. And she knows that Elinor is right inside Luke, part of his very being. He can’t just cut her out and move on. He needs at least the chance of some kind of resolution. Even if it is painful.
I shut my eyes and send a silent plea to all gods. Please let this work. Please. And then maybe we’ll be able to draw a line under all of it and get on with our lives.
“Rockefeller Center,” says the taxi driver, pulling up, and I smile at Luke, trying to hide my nerves.
I tried to think of the least likely place that Elinor would ever be found—and came up with the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center, where tourists go to drink cocktails and gawk at the view over Manhattan. As we head up to the sixty-fifth floor in the lift, we’re both silent, and I pray desperately that she’ll be there, that it’ll all work out, that Luke won’t get too pissed off with me—
We walk out of the lift . . . and I can already see her. Sitting at a window table in a dark jacket, her face silhouetted against the view.
As he spots her, Luke gives a start.
“Becky. What the fuck—” He turns on his heel and I grab his arm.
“Luke, please. She wants to talk to you. Just . . . give her a chance.”
“You set this up?” His face is white with anger. “You brought me here deliberately?”
“I had to! You wouldn’t have come otherwise. Just five minutes. Listen to what she says.”
“Why on earth should I—”
“I really think the two of you need to talk. Luke, you can’t leave it like you did. It’s eating you up inside! And it’s not going to get any better unless you talk to her . . . Come on, Luke.” I loosen my grip on his arm and look at him pleadingly. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
He has to agree. If he stalks out now, I’m dead.
A group of German tourists have come up behind us and I watch them milling around at the window, gasping admiringly at the view.
“Five minutes,” says Luke at last. “That’s all.” Slowly he walks across the room and sits down opposite Elinor. She glances over at me and nods, and I turn away, my heart beating fast. Please don’t let her fuck this one up. Please.
I walk out of the bar and make my way into an empty function room, where I stand at the floor-length window, gazing out over the city. After a while I glance at my watch. It’s been five minutes and he hasn’t stormed out yet.
She’s delivered on her side of the deal. Now I have to deliver on mine.
I get out my mobile phone, feeling sick with dread. This is going to be hard. This is going to be really hard. I don’t know how Mum’s going to react. I don’t know what she’s going to say.
But the point is, whatever she says, however furious she gets, I know Mum and I will last. Mum and I are there for the duration.
Whereas this could be Luke’s only chance to reconcile with Elinor.
As I listen to the ringing tone, I stare out over the endless silvery blocks and towers of Manhattan. The sun’s glinting off one building, only to be reflected off another, just like Luke said. Backward and forward, never leaving. The yellow taxis are so far down they look like Tonka toys and the people scurrying about are like tiny insects. And there in the middle is the green rectangular form of Central Park, like a picnic rug laid down for the children to play on.
I gaze out, mesmerized by the sight. Did I really mean what I said to Elinor yesterday? Do I really want for Luke and me to leave this amazing city?
“Hello?” Mum’s voice breaks my thoughts, and my head jolts upward. For a moment I’m paralyzed with nerves. I can’t do this.
But I have to.
I have no choice.
“Hi, Mum,” I say at last, digging my nails into the palm of my hand. “It’s . . . it’s Becky. Listen, I’ve got something to tell you. And I’m afraid you’re not going to like it—”
2 June 2002
Dear Becky,
We were a little bewildered by your phone call. Despite your assurances that all will be clear when you have explained it to us, and that we must trust you, we do not really understand what is going on.
However, James and I have talked long and hard and have at last decided to do as you ask. We have canceled our flights to New York and alerted the rest of the family.
Becky dear, I do hope this all works out.
With very best wishes, and with all our love to Luke—
Annabel
June 10, 2002
Miss Rebecca Bloomwood
Apt. B
251 W. 11th Street
New York, NY 10014
Dear Miss Bloomwood:
Thank you very much for your wedding invitation addressed to Walt Pitman.
After some discussion we have decided to take you into our confidence. Walt Pitman does not in fact exist. It is a generic name, used to represent all our customer care operatives.
The name “Walt Pitman” was chosen after extensive focus group research to suggest an approachable yet competent figure. Customer feedback has shown that the continual presence of Walt in our customers’ lives has increased confidence and loyalty by over 50 percent.
We would be grateful if you would keep this fact to yourself. If you would still like a representative from Second Union Bank at your wedding, I would be glad to attend. My birthday is March 5th and my favorite color is blue.
Yours sincerely,
Bernard Lieberman
Senior Vice-President
Twenty
OK. DON’T PANIC. This is going to work. If I just keep my head and remain calm, it’ll work.
“It’ll never work,” says Suze’s voice in my ear.
“Shut up!” I say crossly.
“It’ll never work in a million years. I’m just warning you.”
“You’re not supposed to be warning me! You’re supposed to be encouraging me!” I lower my voice. “And as long as everyone does what they’re supposed to, it will work. It has to.”
I’m standing at the window of a twelfth-floor suite at the Plaza, staring at Plaza Square below. Outside, it’s a hot sunny day. People are milling around in T
-shirts and shorts, doing normal things like hiring horse carriages to go round the park and tossing coins into the fountain.
And here am I, dressed in a towel, with my hair teased beyond recognition into a Sleeping Beauty style, and makeup an inch thick, walking around in the highest white satin shoes I’ve ever come across in my life. (Christian Louboutin, from Barneys. I get a discount.)
“What are you doing now?” comes Suze’s voice again.
“I’m looking out the window.”
“What are you doing that for?”
“I don’t know.” I watch a woman with denim shorts sit down on a bench and snap open a can of Coke, completely unaware she’s being watched. “To try to get a grip on normality, I suppose.”
“Normality?” I hear Suze splutter down the phone. “Bex, it’s a bit late for normality!”
“That’s not fair!”
“If normality is planet earth, do you know where you are right now?”
“Er . . . the moon?” I hazard.
“You’re fifty million light-years away. You’re . . . in another galaxy. A long long time ago.”
“I do feel a bit like I’m in a different world,” I admit, and turn to survey the palatial suite behind me.
The atmosphere is hushed and heavy with scent and hairspray and expectation. Everywhere I look there are lavish flower arrangements, baskets of fruit and chocolates, and bottles of champagne on ice. Over by the dressing table the hairdresser and makeup girl are chatting to one another while they work on Erin. Meanwhile the reportage photographer is changing his film, his assistant is watching Madonna on MTV, and a room-service waiter is clearing away yet another round of cups and glasses.
It’s all so glamorous, so expensive. But at the same time, what I’m reminded of most of all is getting ready for the summer school play. The windows would be covered in black material, and we’d all crowd round a mirror getting all overexcited, and out the front we’d hear the parents filing in, but we wouldn’t be allowed to peek out and see them . . .
“What are you doing now?” comes Suze’s voice again.
“Still looking out the window.”