Shopaholic Ties the Knot

Eleven

THIS IS NOT a good time.

In fact, it’s horrendous. Ever since he saw that piece in the paper, Luke has been really withdrawn and silent. He won’t talk about it, and the atmosphere in the apartment is getting really tense, and I just don’t know how to make things better. A few days ago I tried buying some soothing scented candles, but they didn’t really smell of anything except candle wax. So then yesterday I tried rearranging the furniture to make it more feng shui and harmonious. But Luke came into the living room just as I’d jammed a sofa leg into the DVD player, and I don’t think he was very impressed.

I wish he’d open up to me, like they do on Dawson’s Creek. But whenever I say, “Do you want to talk?” and pat the sofa invitingly, instead of saying, “Yes, Becky, I have some issues I’d like to share,” he either ignores me or tells me we’ve run out of coffee.

I know he’s tried calling his mother, but the patients at her stupid Swiss clinic aren’t allowed mobile phones, so he hasn’t been able to speak to her. I also know that he’s been on the phone to Michael several times. And that the assistant who had been assigned to work for the Elinor Sherman Foundation is now back working for Brandon Communications. When I asked him about it, though, he just shut off and wouldn’t say anything. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to admit any of it has happened.

The only thing that is going at all well at the moment is the wedding preparations. Robyn and I have had several meetings with the event designer, whose ideas for the room are absolutely spectacular. Then we had the dessert tasting at the Plaza the other day, and I nearly swooned at all the amazing, out-of-this-world sweets there were to choose from. It was champagne all the way through, and deferential waiters, and I was treated exactly like a princess…

But if I’m really honest, even that didn’t feel quite as relaxed and wonderful as it should. Even while I was sitting there, being served poached white peaches with pistachio mousse and anise biscotti on a gilded plate, I couldn’t help feeling little pricks of guilt through the pleasure, like tiny pinpoints of light through a blanket.

I think I’ll feel a lot better when I’ve broken the news to Mum.

I mean, not that there’s any reason to feel bad. Because I couldn’t do anything about it while they were in the Lake District, could I? I wasn’t exactly going to interrupt their nice relaxing holiday. But they get back tomorrow. So then what I’ll do is very calmly phone up Mum, and tell her that I really appreciate everything she’s done, and it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, but that I’ve decided…

No. That Luke and I have decided…

No. That Elinor has very kindly offered… That we have decided to accept…

Oh God. My insides are churning, just thinking about it.

OK, I won’t think about it yet. Anyway, I don’t want to come out with some stilted, awkward speech. Much better just to wait until the moment and be spontaneous.

As I arrive at Barneys, Christina is sorting through a rack of evening jackets.

“Hi!” she says as I walk in. “Did you sign those letters for me?”

“What?” I say distractedly. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. I’ll do it today.”

“Becky?” Christina looks at me more closely. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine! I’m just… I don’t know, the wedding…”

“I saw India from the bridal atelier last night. She said you’d reserved a Richard Tyler dress?”

“Oh yes, I have.”

“But I could have sworn I heard you telling Erin the other day about a dress at Vera Wang.”

I look away and fiddle with the zip of my bag. “Well. The thing is, I’ve kind of reserved more than one dress.”

“How many?”

“Four,” I say after a pause. I needn’t tell her about the one at Kleinfeld.

Christina throws back her head in a laugh. “Becky, you can’t wear more than one dress! You’re going to have to fix on one in the end, you know.”

“I know,” I say weakly, and disappear into my fitting room before she can say anything else.

My first client is Laurel, who is here because she’s been invited on a corporate weekend, dress “casual,” and her idea of casual is a pair of track pants and a Hanes T-shirt.

“You look like shit,” she says as soon she walks in. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I smile brightly. “I’m just a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“Are you fighting with your mother?”

My head jerks up.

“No,” I say cautiously. “Why do you ask that?”

“It’s par for the course,” says Laurel, taking off her coat. “All brides fight with their mothers. If it’s not over the ceremony, it’s over the floral arrangements. I threw a tea strainer at mine because she cut three of my friends off the guest list without asking.”

“Really? But then you made up.”

“We didn’t speak for five years afterward.”

“Five years?” I stare at her, aghast. “Just over a wedding?”

“Becky, there’s no such thing as just a wedding,” says Laurel. She picks up a cashmere sweater. “This is nice.”

“Mmm,” I say distractedly. Oh God, now I’m really worried.

What if I fall out with Mum? What if she gets really offended and says she never wants to see me again? And then Luke and I have children and they never get to know their grandparents. And every Christmas they buy presents for Granny and Grandpa Bloomwood, just in case, but every year they sit under the tree unopened, and we quietly put them away, and one year our little girl says, “Mummy, why does Granny Bloomwood hate us?” and I have to choke back my tears and say, “Darling, she doesn’t hate us. She just—”

“Becky? Are you all right?”

I snap into the present, to see Laurel peering at me concernedly. “You know, you really don’t look yourself. Maybe you need a break.”

“I’m fine! Honestly.” I summon up a professional smile. “So… here are the skirts I was thinking of. If you try this beige one, with the off-white shirt…”

As Laurel tries on different pieces, I sit on a stool, nodding and making the odd absent comment, while my mind still frets on the subject of Mum. I feel like I’ve got so far into this mess, I’ve lost all sense of proportion. Will she flip out when I tell her about the Plaza? Won’t she? I just can’t tell.

I mean, take what happened at Christmas. I thought Mum was going to be devastated when I told her Luke and I weren’t coming home, and it took me ages to pluck up the courage to tell her. But to my astonishment, she was really nice about it and told me that she and Dad would have a lovely day with Janice and Martin, and I mustn’t worry. So maybe this will be the same. When I explain the whole story to her, she’ll say, “Oh darling, don’t be silly, of course you must get married wherever you want to.”

Or else she’ll burst into tears, say how could I deceive her like this, and she’ll come to the Plaza over her dead body.

“So I was going into Central Park for my marathon training, and who should I see, standing right there like a Barbie doll?”

Laurel’s voice filters into my mind and I look up.

“Not the blond intern?”

“Right! So my heart starts thumping, I’m walking toward her and I’m wondering what I’m going to say. Do I yell at her? Do I hit her? Do I completely ignore her? You know, which will give me most satisfaction? And of course half of me wants to run away and hide…”

“So what happened?” I say eagerly.

“When I got up close, it wasn’t even her. It was some other girl!” Laurel puts a hand to her head. “It’s like, now she’s messing with my mind. Not content with taking my husband, wrecking my life, stealing my jewelry…”

“She’s stolen your jewelry?” I say in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I must have told you this. No? Things started going missing around the time Bill was taking her back to our apartment. An emerald pendant my grandmother gave me. A couple of bracelets. Of course, I had no idea what was going on, so I thought I was being careless. But then it all came out, and I realized. It had to be her.”

“Couldn’t you do anything?” I say, appalled.

“Oh, I did. I called the police.” Laurel’s chin tightens as she buttons up her dress. “They went and asked her some questions, but they didn’t get anywhere. Of course they didn’t.” She gives me a strange little smile. “Then Bill found out. He went crazy. He went to the police and told them… well, I don’t know exactly what he told them. But that same afternoon the police called me back and said they were dropping the case. It was obvious they thought I was just some vindictive, spurned wife. Which of course I was.”

She stares at herself in the mirror and slowly the animation seeps out of her face. “You know, I always thought he would come to his senses,” she says quietly. “I thought he’d last a month. Maybe two. Then he’d crawl back, I’d send him away, he’d crawl back again, we’d fight, but eventually…” She exhales slowly. “But he’s not. He’s not coming back.”

She meets my eye in the mirror and I feel a sudden pang of outrage. Laurel’s the nicest person in the world. Why would her stupid husband leave her?

“I like this dress,” she adds, sounding more cheerful. “But maybe in the black.”

“I’ll go and get one for you,” I say. “We have it on this floor.”

I walk out of the personal shopping department and head toward the rack of Dries van Noten dresses. It’s still early for regular shoppers and the floor is nearly empty. But as I’m searching for another dress in Laurel’s size, I’m suddenly aware of a familiar figure in the corner of my vision. I turn, puzzled, but the figure has gone.

Weird. Eventually I find the dress, and pick out a matching fringed stole. I turn around — and there he is again. It’s Danny. What on earth is he doing in Barneys? As I get nearer, I stare at him. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is awry, and he’s got a wild, fidgety look.

“Danny!” I say — and he visibly jumps. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh!” he says. “Nothing! Just… browsing.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine! Everything’s fine.” He glances at his watch. “So — I guess you’re in the middle of something?”

“I am, actually,” I say regretfully. “I have a client waiting. Otherwise we could go and have a coffee.”

“No. That’s fine,” he says. “You go. I’ll see you later.”

“OK,” I say, and walk back to my fitting room, rather puzzled.

Laurel decides to take three of the outfits I chose for her, and when she leaves she gives me a big hug. “Don’t let the wedding get you down,” she says. “You shouldn’t listen to me. I have a somewhat jaded view. I know you and Luke will be happy.”

“Laurel.” I squeeze her tightly back. “You’re the best.”

God, if I ever meet that stupid husband of hers I’m going to let him have it.

When she’s gone, I consult my schedule for the rest of the day. I’ve got an hour before my next client, so I decide to wander up to the bridal department and look at my dress again. It’s definitely between this one and the Vera Wang. Or maybe the Tracy Connop.

Definitely one of those three, anyway.

As I walk out onto the sales floor again, I stop in surprise. There’s Danny, standing by a rack of tops, fingering one casually. What on earth is he still doing here? I’m about to call out to him, and say does he want to come and see my dress and then go for a quick cappuccino? But then, to my astonishment, he glances around, surreptitiously bends down, and reaches for something in his canvas bag. It’s a T-shirt with glittery sleeves, on a hanger. He shoves it onto the rack, looks around again, and reaches for another one.

I stare at him in utter stupefaction. What does he think he’s doing?

He looks around again — then reaches into his bag and pulls out a small laminated sign, which he props up at the end of the display.

What the hell is he up to?

“Danny!” I say, heading toward him.

“What?” He gives a startled jump, then turns and sees me. “Sssh! Jesus, Becky!”

“What are you doing with those Tshirts?” I hiss.

“I’m stocking myself.”

“What do you mean, stocking yourself?”

He jerks his head toward the laminated sign and I read it in disbelief.

THE DANNY KOVITZ COLLECTION

AN EXCITING NEW TALENT AT BARNEYS

“They’re not all on Barneys hangers,” says Danny, thrusting another two Tshirts on the rack. “But I figure that won’t matter.”

“Danny… you can’t do this! You can’t just… put your stuff on the racks!”

“I’m doing it.”

“But—”

“I have no choice, OK?” says Danny, turning his head. “Randall’s on his way here right now, expecting to see a Danny Kovitz line at Barneys.”

I stare at him in horror.

“I thought you said he would never check!”

“He wouldn’t have!” Danny shoves another hanger onto the rack. “But his stupid girlfriend has to poke her nose in. She never showed any interest in me before, but as soon as she hears the word Barneys, it’s like Oh, Randall, you should support your brother! Go to Barneys tomorrow and buy one of his pieces! So I’m saying, you really don’t have to do that — but now Randall’s got the idea in his head, he’s like, well, maybe I will pop in and take a look! So I’m up sewing all fucking night…”

“You made all of these last night?” I say incredulously, and reach for one of the Tshirts. A piece of leather braid falls off, onto the floor.

“So maybe the finish isn’t quite up to my usual standards,” says Danny defensively. “Just don’t manhandle them, OK?” He starts to count the hangers. “Two… four… six… eight… ten. That should be enough.”

“Danny…” I glance around the sales floor to see Carla, one of the assistants, giving us an odd look. “Hi!” I call brightly. “Just… helping one of my clients… for his girlfriend…” Carla gives us another suspicious look, then moves away. “This isn’t going to work!” I mutter as soon as she’s out of earshot. “You’re going to have to take these down. You wouldn’t even be stocked on this floor!”

“I need two minutes,” he says. “That’s all. Two minutes for him to come in, see the sign, then go. Come on, Becky. No one’s even going to…” He freezes. “Here he is.”

I follow his gaze and see Danny’s brother Randall walking across the floor toward us.

For the millionth time I wonder how on earth Randall and Danny can have come from the same parents. While Danny is wiry and constantly on the move, Randall fills his double-breasted suit comfortably, and always wears the same disapproving frown.

“Hello, Daniel,” he says, and nods to me. “Becky.”

“Hi, Randall,” I say, and give what I hope is a natural smile. “How are you?”

“So here they are!” says Danny triumphantly, moving away from the rack and gesturing to the Tshirts. “My collection. In Barneys. Just like I said.”

“So I see,” says Randall, and carefully scrutinizes the rack of clothes. I feel sure he’s about to look up and say, “What on earth are you playing at?” But he says nothing — and with a slight dart of shock I realize that he’s been completely taken in.

There again, why is that such a surprise? Danny’s clothes don’t look so out of place, up there on the rack.

“Well, congratulations,” says Randall at last. “This is quite an achievement.” He pats Danny awkwardly on the shoulder, then turns to me. “Are they selling well?”

“Er… yes!” I say. “Very popular, I believe.”

“So, for how much do they retail?” He reaches for a T-shirt, and both Danny and I involuntarily draw breath. We watch, frozen, while he searches for the label, then looks up with a deep frown. “These have no price tags.”

“That’s because… they’re only just out,” I hear myself saying hurriedly. “But I think they’re priced at… erm… eighty-nine dollars.”

“I see.” Randall shakes his head. “Well, I never was one for high fashion—”

“Telling me,” Danny whispers in my ear.

“But if they’re selling, they must have something. Daniel, I take my hat off to you.” He reaches for another one, with rivets round the neck, and looks at it with a fastidious dismay. “Now, which one shall I buy?”

“Don’t buy one!” says Danny at once. “I’ll… make you one. As a gift.”

“I insist,” says Randall. “If I can’t support my own brother—”

“Randall, please.” Danny’s voice crackles with sincerity. “Allow me to make a gift to you. It’s the least I can do after all your kindness to me over the years. Really.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” says Randall at last, with a shrug. He looks at his watch. “I must go. Good to see you, Becky.”

“I’ll walk to the elevator with you,” says Danny, and darts me a jubilant look.

As they walk away, I feel a giggle of relief rising in me. I can’t quite believe we got away with it so easily.

“Hey!” comes a voice behind me suddenly. “Look at these! They’re new, aren’t they?” A manicured hand appears over my shoulder and plucks one of Danny’s Tshirts off the rail before I can stop it. My head whips round and I feel a plunge of dismay. It’s Lisa Farley, a sweet but completely dippy client of Erin’s. She’s about twenty-two, doesn’t seem to have a job, and always says whatever pops into her head, never mind whether someone might be offended. (She once asked Erin in all innocence, “Doesn’t it bother you, having such a weird-shaped mouth?”)

Now she’s holding the T-shirt up against her, looking down at it appraisingly.

Damn it. I should have whipped them down off the rack straight away.

“Hi, Becky!” she says cheerily. “Hey, this is cute! I haven’t seen these before.”

“Actually,” I say quickly, “these aren’t for sale yet. In fact, I need to… um… take them back to the stock room.” I try to grab for the T-shirt, but she moves away.

“I’ll just take a look in the mirror. Hey, Tracy! What do you think?”

Another girl, wearing the new Dior print jacket, is coming toward us.

“Of what?”

“These new Tshirts. They’re cool, aren’t they?” She reaches for another one and hands it to Tracy.

“If you could just give them back to me—” I say helplessly.

“This one’s nice!”

Now they’re both searching through the hangers with brisk fingers, and the poor Tshirts just can’t take the strain. Hems are unraveling, bits of glitter and strings of diamante are coming loose, and sequins are shedding all over the floor.

“Oops, this seam just came apart.” Lisa looks up in dismay. “Becky, it just fell apart. I didn’t pull it.”

“That’s OK,” I say weakly.

“Is everything supposed to fall off like this? Hey, Christina!” Lisa suddenly calls out. “This new line is so fun!”

Christina?

I wheel round and feel a lurch of horror. Christina is standing at the entrance to the personal shopping department, in conversation with the head of personnel.

“What new line?” she says, looking up. “Oh, hi, Becky.”

Shit. I have to stop this right now.

“Lisa—” I say desperately. “Come and see the new Marc Jacobs coats we’ve got in!”

Lisa ignores me.

“This new… what’s it called…” She squints at the label. “Danny Kovitz! I can’t believe Erin didn’t tell me these were coming in! Naughty naughty!” She wags a finger in mock reproach.

I watch in dismay as Christina looks up, alert. There’s nothing to galvanize her like someone suggesting her department is less than perfect.

“Excuse me a minute,” she says to the head of personnel, and comes across the floor toward us, her dark hair gleaming under the lights.

“What didn’t Erin tell you about?” she says pleasantly.

“This new designer!” says Lisa. “I never even heard of him before.”

“Ow!” says Tracy suddenly, and draws her hand away from the T-shirt. “That was a pin!”

“A pin?” echoes Christina. “Give me that!”

She takes the ragged T-shirt and stares at it bewilderedly. Then she catches sight of Danny’s laminated sign.

Oh, I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I take that down, at least?

As she reads it, her expression changes. She looks up and meets my eye, and I feel my whole body prickle with fear. I’ve never been in trouble with Christina before. But I’ve heard her telling people off over the phone, and I know she can be pretty fierce.

“Do you know anything about this, Becky?” she asks pleasantly.

“I…” I clear my throat. “The thing is…”

“I see. Lisa, I’m afraid there’s been a little confusion.” She gives Lisa a professional smile. “These items are not for sale. Becky — I think I’d better see you in my office.”

“Christina, I’m… sorry,” I say, feeling my face flush beetroot. “I really am…”

“What happened?” says Tracy. “Why aren’t they for sale?”

“Is Becky in trouble?” says Lisa in dismay. “Will she get fired? Don’t fire Becky! We like her better than Erin… Oh.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Erin. I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s all right,” says Erin, giving a rather pinched smile.

“Christina, all I can do is apologize,” I say humbly. “I never meant to cause any trouble. I never meant to mislead the customers…”

“In my office,” says Christina, lifting a hand to stop me. “If you have anything to say, Becky, then you can say it—”

“Stop!” comes a melodramatic voice behind us, and we all whip round, to see Danny heading toward us, his eyes even wilder than usual. “Just stop right there! Don’t blame Becky for this!” he says, placing himself in front of me. “She had nothing to do with it. If you’re going to fire anyone — fire me!”

“Danny, she can’t fire you,” I mutter. “You’re not employed by Barneys.”

“And you would be?” inquires Christina.

“Danny Kovitz.”

“Danny Kovitz. Ah.” Light dawns on Christina’s face. “So it was you who… assembled these garments. And planted them on our racks.”

“What? He’s not a real designer?” says Tracy in horror. “I knew it! I wasn’t fooled.” She thrusts the hanger she’s holding back onto the rack as though she’s been contaminated.

“Isn’t that breaking the law?” says Lisa, wide-eyed.

“It may well be,” says Danny defensively. “But shall I tell you why I’m reduced to criminal measures? Do you know the impossibility of getting a break in this so-called business of fashion?” He glances around to make sure his audience is listening. “I put every ounce of my life-force into my work. I weep, I cry out in pain, I squeeze myself dry of creative blood. But the fashion establishment isn’t interested in new talent! They aren’t interested in nurturing the newcomer who dares to be a little different!” His voice rises impassionedly. “If I have to take desperate measures, can you blame me? If you cut me, do I not bleed?”

“Wow,” breathes Lisa. “I had no idea it was so tough out there.”

“You did cut me,” puts in Tracy, who looks far less impressed by Danny’s speech. “With your stupid pin.”

“Christina, you have to give him a chance!” exclaims Lisa. “Look! He’s so dedicated!”

“I just want to bring my ideas to people who will love them,” begins Danny again. “My only desire is that someone, someday, will wear one of my garments and feel themselves transformed. But as I crawl toward them on my hands and knees, the doors keep being slammed in my face—”

“Enough already!” says Christina, half exasperated, half amused. “You want your big break? Let me have a look at these clothes.”

There’s a sudden intrigued quiet. I glance quickly at Danny. Perhaps this is going to be it! Christina will spot his genius and Barneys will buy his entire collection and he’ll be made! Then Gwyneth Paltrow will wear one of his Tshirts on Leno, and there’ll be a rush for them, and suddenly he’ll be famous and have his own boutique!

Christina reaches for a T-shirt with spattered dye and rhinestones on the front, and as she runs her eye up and down it, I hold my breath. Lisa and Tracy raise their eyebrows at each other, and although Danny is motionless, I can see his face tightening with hope. There’s dead silence as she puts it down — and as she reaches for a second T-shirt we all give an intake of breath, as though the Russian judge’s hand has hovered over the perfect six scorecard. With a critical frown, she stretches it out to look at it properly… and as she does so, one of the sleeves comes off in her hand, leaving a ragged seam behind.

Everyone stares at it speechlessly.

“That’s the look,” says Danny, a little too late. “It’s a… a deconstructive approach to design…”

Christina is shaking her head and putting the T-shirt back. “Young man. You certainly have flair. You may even have talent. Unfortunately these are not enough. Until you can finish off your work properly, you’re not going to get very far.”

“My designs are usually immaculately finished!” says Danny at once. “Perhaps this particular collection was a little hurried…”

“I suggest you go back to the beginning, make a few pieces, very carefully…”

“Are you saying I’m careless?”

“I’m saying you need to learn how to follow a project through to the end.” Christina smiles kindly at him. “Then we’ll see.”

“I can follow a project through!” says Danny indignantly. “It’s one of my strengths! It’s one of my— Would I be making Becky’s wedding dress otherwise?” He grabs me, as though we’re about to sing a duet. “The most important outfit of her whole life? She believes in me, even if nobody else does. When Becky Bloomwood walks down the aisle at the Plaza Hotel in a Danny Kovitz creation, you won’t be calling me careless then. And when the phones start ringing off their hooks—”

“What?” I say stupidly. “Danny—”

“You’re making Becky’s wedding dress?” Christina turns to me. “I thought you were wearing Richard Tyler.”

“Richard Tyler?” echoes Danny blankly.

“I thought you were wearing Vera Wang,” says Erin, who wandered over to the little scene two minutes ago and has been staring agog ever since.

“I heard you were wearing your mother’s dress,” chips in Lisa.

“I’m making your dress!” says Danny, his eyes wide with shock. “Aren’t I? You promised me, Becky! We had an agreement!”

“The Vera Wang sounds perfect,” says Erin. “You have to have that.”

“I’d go for Richard Tyler,” says Tracy.

“What about the dress your mother was married in, though?” says Lisa. “Wouldn’t that be so romantic?”

“The Vera Wang would be divine,” says Erin determinedly.

“But how can you pass up your own mother’s wedding dress?” demands Lisa. “How can you set aside a whole family tradition like that? Becky, don’t you agree?”

“The point is to look good!” says Erin.

“The point is to be romantic!” retorts Lisa.

“But what about my dress?” comes Danny’s plaintive voice. “What about loyalty to your best friend? What about that, Becky?”

Their voices seem to be drilling into my head, and they’re all staring at me avidly, waiting for an answer… and with no warning I feel myself snap.

“I don’t know, OK?” I cry desperately. “I just… don’t know what I’m going to do!”

Suddenly I feel almost tearful — which is completely ridiculous. I mean, it’s not like I won’t have a dress.

“Becky, I think we need to have a little chat,” says Christina, giving me a shrewd look. “Erin, clear all this up, please, and apologize to Carla, would you? Becky, come with me.”

We go into Christina’s smart beige suede office and she closes the door. She turns round — and for an awful moment I think she’s going to yell at me. But instead she gestures for me to sit down and gives me a long, penetrating look through her tortoiseshell glasses.

“How are you, Becky?”

“I’m fine!”

“You’re fine. I see.” Christina gives a skeptical nod. “What’s going on in your life at the moment?”

“Nothing much,” I say brightly. “You know! Same old same old…”

“Wedding plans going all right?”

“Yes!” I say at once. “Yes! Absolutely no problems there.”

“I see.” Christina is silent for a moment, tapping her teeth with a pen. “You visited a friend in the hospital recently. Who was that?”

“Oh, yes. That was… a friend of Luke’s, actually. Michael. He had a heart attack.”

“That must have been a shock for you.”

For a moment I’m silent.

“Well… yes, I suppose it was,” I say at last, running a finger along the arm of my chair. “Especially for Luke. The two of them have always been really close, but they’d had a falling out, and Luke was already feeling really guilty. Then we got the call about Michael — I mean, if he’d died, Luke never would have been able to…” I break off and rub my face, feeling emotion rising. “And then of course, there’s all this tension between Luke and his mother at the moment, which doesn’t help. She completely used him. In fact, she more than used him, she abused him. He feels utterly betrayed by her. But he won’t talk to me about it.” My voice starts to tremble. “He won’t talk to me about anything at the moment. Not the wedding, not the honeymoon… Not even where we’re going to live! We’re being chucked out of our apartment, and we haven’t found anywhere else to go yet, and I don’t know when we’re even going to start looking…”

To my astonishment a tear starts trickling down the side of my nose. Where did that come from?

“But you’re fine, apart from that,” says Christina.

“Oh, yes!” I brush at my face. “Apart from that, everything’s great!”

“Becky!” Christina shakes her head. “This is no good. I want you to take some vacation days. You’re due some, anyway.”

“I don’t need a vacation!”

“I’d noticed you’ve been tense recently, but I had no idea it was this bad. It was only when Laurel talked to me this morning—”

“Laurel?” I say, taken aback.

“She’s worried too. She told me she thought you’d lost your sparkle. Even Erin has noticed it. She says she told you about a Kate Spade sample sale yesterday, and you barely looked up. This is not the Becky I hired.”

“Are you firing me?” I say dolefully.

“I’m not firing you! I’m worried about you. Becky, that’s some combination of events you just told me about. Your friend… and Luke… and your apartment…”

She reaches for a bottle of mineral water, pours out two glasses, and hands one to me. “And that’s not all. Is it, Becky?”

“What do you mean?” I say apprehensively.

“I think there’s another complication you’re not telling me about. To do with the wedding.” She meets my eyes. “Am I right?”

Oh my God.

How did she find out? I’ve been so careful, I’ve been so—

“Am I right?” repeats Christina gently.

For a few more moments I’m completely motionless. Then, very slowly I nod.

It’s almost a relief to think that the secret’s out.

“How did you find out?” I say, sinking back into my chair.

“Laurel told me.”

“Laurel?” A fresh shock runs through me. “But I never—”

“She said it was obvious. Plus you let a few little things slip out… You know, keeping a secret is never as easy as you might think.”

“I just… can’t believe you know. I haven’t dared tell anybody!” I push my hair back off my hot face. “God knows what you think of me now.”

“Nobody thinks any the worse of you,” says Christina. “Really.”

“I never meant things to get this far.”

“Of course you didn’t! Don’t blame yourself.”

“But it’s all my fault!”

“No it’s not. It’s perfectly normal.”

“Normal?”

“Yes! All brides argue with their mothers over the wedding. You’re not the only one, Becky!”

I stare at her confusedly. What did she just say?

“I can understand the strain it’s been putting you under.” Christina looks at me sympathetically. “Especially if you and your mother have always been close in the past?”

Christina thinks…

Suddenly I realize she’s waiting for an answer.

“Er… yes!” I gulp. “It has been… rather difficult.”

Christina nods, as though I’ve confirmed every suspicion she had. “Becky, I don’t often give you advice, do I?”

“Well… no.”

“But I want you to listen to me on this. I want you to remember, this is your wedding. Not your mother’s. It’s yours and Luke’s, and you only get one shot. So do it the way you want to. Believe me, if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

“Mmm. The thing is…” I swallow. “It’s not quite that simple—”

“It is that simple. It’s exactly that simple. Becky, it’s your wedding. It’s your wedding.”

Her voice is clear and emphatic and I stare at her, glass halfway to my lips, feeling as though a shaft of light is cutting through the cloud.

It’s my wedding. I’ve never thought of it like that before.

It’s not Mum’s wedding. It’s not Elinor’s wedding. It’s mine.

“It’s easy to fall into the trap of wanting to please your mother too much,” Christina is saying. “It’s a natural, generous instinct. But sometimes you have to put yourself first. When I got married—”

“You were married?” I say in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

“A long time ago. It didn’t work out. Maybe it didn’t work out because I hated every moment of the wedding. From the processional music to the vows that my mother insisted on writing.” Her hand tenses around a plastic water stirrer. “From the lurid blue cocktails to that tacky, tacky dress…”

“Really? That’s awful!”

“It’s water under the bridge now.” The water stirrer snaps and she gives me a slightly brittle smile. “But just bear my words in mind. It’s your day. Yours and Luke’s. Do it the way you want, and don’t feel guilty about it. And Becky?”

“Yes?”

“Remember, you and your mother are both adults now. So have an adult conversation.” She raises her eyebrows. “You might be surprised at how it turns out.”

Christina is so right.

As I make my way home, I can suddenly see everything clearly. My whole approach to the wedding has changed. I feel full of a fresh, clean determination. This is my wedding. It’s my day. And if I want to get married in New York, then that’s where I’ll get married. If I want to wear a Vera Wang dress, then that’s what I’ll wear. It’s ridiculous to feel guilty about it.

I’ve been putting off talking to Mum for far too long. I mean, what am I expecting her to do, burst into tears? We’re both adults. We’ll have a sensible, mature conversation and I’ll put forward my point of view calmly, and the whole thing will be sorted out, once and for all. God, I feel liberated. I’m going to call her straight away.

I march into the bedroom, dump my bag on the bed, and dial the number.

“Hi, Dad,” I say as he answers. “Is Mum there? There’s something I need to talk to her about. It’s rather important.”

As I glance at my face in the mirror, I feel like a newsreader on NBC, all crisp and cool and in charge.

“Becky?” says Dad puzzledly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m very well,” I say. “I just have to discuss a… a couple of issues with Mum.”

As Dad disappears off the line I take a deep breath and push my hair back, feeling suddenly very grown-up. Here I am, about to have an adult-to-adult, straight-down-the-line conversation with my mother, for probably the first time in my life.

You know, maybe this is the beginning of a whole new relationship with my parents. A new mutual respect. A shared understanding of life.

“Hello, darling?”

“Hi, Mum.” I take a deep breath. Here goes. Calm and mature. “Mum—”

“Oh, Becky, I was going to give you a ring. You’ll never guess who we saw up in the Lake District!”

“Who?”

“Auntie Zannie! You used to dress up in all her old necklaces, do you remember? And her shoes. We were laughing about it, the sight you made, tottering around…”

“Mum. There’s something important I need to discuss with you.”

“And they’ve still got the same grocer in the village. The one who used to sell you strawberry ice-cream cones. Do you remember the time you ate too many and weren’t very well? We laughed about that too!”

“Mum—”

“And the Tivertons still live in the same house… but…”

“What?”

“I’m afraid, love… Carrot the donkey has…” Mum lowers her voice. “Gone to donkey heaven. But he was very old, darling, and he’ll be very happy up there…”

This is impossible. I don’t feel like a grown-up. I feel about six years old.

“They all send you their love,” Mum says, eventually coming to the end of her reminiscences, “and of course they’ll all be at the wedding! So, Dad said you wanted to talk about something?”

“I…” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of the echoey silence on the line; of the distance between us. “Well, I wanted to… um…”

Oh God. My mouth is trembling and my newsreader voice has turned into a nervous squeak.

“What is it, Becky?” Mum’s voice rises in concern. “Is something wrong?”

“No! It’s just that… that…”

It’s no good.

I know what Christina said is right. I know there’s no need to feel guilty. It’s my wedding, and I’m a grown-up, and I should have it wherever I like. I’m not asking Mum and Dad to pay. I’m not asking them to make any effort.

But even so.

I can’t tell Mum I want to get married in the Plaza over the phone. I just can’t do it.

“I thought I’d come home and see you,” I hear myself saying in a rush. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m coming home.”

FINERMAN WALLSTEIN

Attorneys at Law

Finerman House

1398 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10105

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

New York, NY 10014

April 18, 2002

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of April 16 regarding your will. I confirm that under the fourth clause, section (e) I have added the line “And also my new denim high-heeled boots,” as requested.

With kind regards,

Jane Cardozo