Shopaholic Ties the Knot

Two

WE ARRIVE AT Heathrow at seven the next morning and pick up our rental car. As we drive along to Suze’s parents’ house in Hampshire, I peer blearily out of the window at the snowy countryside, the hedgerows and fields and little villages, as though I’ve never seen them before. After Manhattan, everything looks so tiny and pretty. For the first time I realize why Americans go around calling everything in England “quaint.”

“Which way now?” says Luke, as we arrive at yet another little crossroads.

“Erm, you definitely turn left here. I mean… right. No, I mean left.”

As the car swings round, I fish in my bag for the invitation, just to check the exact address.

Sir Gilbert and Lady Cleath-Stuart

request the pleasure of your company…

I stare, slightly mesmerized, at the grand swirly writing. God, I still can’t quite believe Suze and Tarquin are getting married.

I mean, of course I believe it. After all, they’ve been going out for well over a year now, and Tarquin’s basically moved into the flat I used to share with Suze — although they seem to be spending more and more time in Scotland. They’re both really sweet and laid back, and everyone’s agreed that they make a brilliant couple.

But just occasionally, when I’m not concentrating, my mind will suddenly yell, “Whaat? Suze and Tarquin?”

I mean, Tarquin used to be Suze’s weird geeky cousin. For years he was just that awkward guy in the corner with the ancient jacket and a tendency to hum Wagner in public places. He was the guy who rarely ventured beyond the safe haven of his Scottish castle — and when he did, it was to take me on the worst date of my life (although we don’t talk about that anymore).

But now he’s… well, he’s Suze’s boyfriend. Still slightly awkward, and still prone to wearing woolly jumpers knitted by his old nanny. Still a bit tatty round the edges. But Suze loves him, and that’s what counts.

Oh God, I can’t start crying yet. I have to pace myself.

“Harborough Hall,” reads Luke, pausing at a pair of crumbling stone pillars. “Is this it?”

“Erm…” I sniff, and try to look businesslike. “Yes, this is it. Just drive in.”

I’ve been to Suze’s house plenty of times before, but I always forget quite how impressive it is. We sweep down a great big long avenue lined with trees and into a circular gravel drive. The house is large and gray and ancient-looking, with pillars at the front and ivy growing over it.

“Nice house,” says Luke as we head toward the huge front door. “How old is it?”

“Dunno,” I say vaguely. “It’s been in their family for years.” I tug at the bell pull to see if by any remote chance it’s been mended — but it obviously hadn’t. I knock a couple of times with the heavy door knocker — and when there’s no answer to that either, I push my way into the huge flagstoned hall, where an old Labrador is asleep by a crackling fire.

“Hello?” I call. “Suze?”

Suddenly I notice that Suze’s father is also asleep by the fireplace, in a large winged armchair. I’m a bit scared of Suze’s father, actually. I certainly don’t want to wake him up.

“Suze?” I say, more quietly.

“Bex! I thought I heard something!”

I look up — and there’s Suze standing on the staircase, in a tartan dressing gown with her blond hair streaming down her back and a huge excited smile.

“Suze!”

I bound up the stairs and give her a huge hug. As I pull away we’re both a bit pink about the eyes, and I give a shaky laugh. God, I’ve missed Suze, even more than I’d realized.

“Come up to my room!” says Suze, tugging my hand. “Come and see my dress!”

“Is it really lovely?” I say excitedly. “In the picture it looked amazing.”

“It’s just perfect! Plus you have to see, I’ve got the coolest corsety thing from Rigby and Peller… and these really gorgeous knickers…”

Luke clears his throat and we both look round.

“Oh!” says Suze. “Sorry, Luke. There’s coffee and newspapers and stuff in the kitchen, through there.” She points down a corridor. “You can have bacon and eggs if you like! Mrs. Gearing will make them for you.”

“Mrs. Gearing sounds like my kind of woman,” says Luke with a smile. “I’ll see you later.”

Suze’s room is light and airy and overlooks the garden. I say garden. It’s about twelve thousand acres, with lawns running down from the back of the house to a clump of cedar trees and a lake, which Suze nearly drowned in once when she was three. There’s also a walled rose garden to the left, all flower beds and gravel paths and hedges, which is where Tarquin proposed to Suze. (Apparently he got down on one knee and when he stood up, gravel was clinging to his trousers. That is so Tarquin.) On the right there’s an old tennis court and then rough grass, extending all the way to a hedge, beyond which is the village church graveyard. As I look out of the window now, I can see a huge marquee billowing to the rear of the house, and a tented walkway being put up, which will snake past the tennis court and over the grass, all the way to the churchyard gate.

“You’re not going to walk to the church?” I say, suddenly fearful for Suze’s Emma Hope shoes.

“No, silly! I’m going in the carriage. But all the guests can walk back to the house, and there’ll be people handing out hot whiskeys as they go.”

“God, it’s going to be spectacular!” I say, watching as a man in jeans begins to hammer a stake into the ground. And in spite of myself, I can’t help feeling a twinge of envy. I’ve always dreamed of having some huge, amazing wedding, with horses and carriages and lots of hoopla, ever since…

Well, since…

To be completely, perfectly honest, ever since Princess Diana’s wedding. I was six years old when we all watched it round at our neighbor Janice’s house, and I can still remember goggling at her as she got out of the carriage in that dress. It was like Cinderella come to life. It was better than Cinderella. I wanted to be her so much, it hurt. Mum had bought me a commemorative book of photographs called Diana’s Big Day — and the next day I spent ages making my own version called Becky’s Big Day, with lots of drawings of me in a big frilly dress, wearing a crown. (And, in some versions, carrying a magic wand.)

Maybe I’ve moved on a little since then. I don’t dream about wearing a crumpled cream-colored lampshade for a wedding dress. I’ve even given up on marrying a member of the royal family. But still, whenever I see a wedding, part of me turns back into that starry-eyed six-year-old.

“I know! Isn’t it going to be great?” Suze beams happily. “Now, I must just brush my teeth…”

She disappears into the bathroom and I wander over to her dressing table, where the announcement of the engagement is stuck in the mirror. The Hon. Susan Cleath-Stuart and The Hon. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Blimey. I always forget Suze is so grand.

“I want a title,” I say, as Suze comes back into the room with a hairbrush in her hair. “I feel all left out. How do I get one?”

“Ooh, no you don’t,” says Suze, wrinkling her nose. “They’re crap. People send you letters saying Dear Ms. Hon.”

“Still. It’d be so cool. What could I be?”

“Erm…” Suze tugs at a tangle in her hair. “Dame Becky Bloomwood?”

“That makes me sound about ninety-three,” I say doubtfully. “What about… Becky Bloomwood MBE. Those MBE things are quite easy to get, aren’t they?”

“Easy-peasy,” says Suze confidently. “You could get one for services to industry or something. I’ll nominate you, if you like. Now come on, I want to see your dress!”

“OK!” I heave my case onto the bed, click it open, and carefully draw out Danny’s creation. “What do you think?” I proudly hold it up against myself and swoosh the gold silk around. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

“It’s fantastic!” says Suze, staring at it with wide eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” She fingers the sequins on the shoulder. “Where did you get it? Is this the one from Barneys?”

“No, this is the one from Danny. Remember, I told you he was making me a dress?”

“That’s right.” She screws up her face. “Which one’s Danny, again?”

“My upstairs neighbor,” I remind her. “The designer. The one we bumped into on the stairs that time?”

“Oh yes,” says Suze, nodding. “I remember.”

But the way she says it, I can tell she doesn’t really.

I can’t blame her — she only met Danny for about two minutes. He was on his way to visit his parents in Connecticut and she was pretty jet-lagged at the time and they barely spoke. Still. It’s weird to think that Suze doesn’t really know Danny, and he doesn’t know her, when they’re both so important to me. It’s like I’ve got two completely separate lives, and the longer I’m in New York, the farther they split apart.

“OK, here’s mine,” says Suze excitedly.

She opens a wardrobe door and unzips a calico cover — and there’s a simply stunning dress, all drifting white silk and velvet with long sleeves and a traditional long train.

“Oh God, Suze,” I breathe, my throat tight. “You’re going to be so completely beautiful. I still can’t believe you’re getting married! ‘Mrs. Cleath-Stuart.’ ”

“Ooh, don’t call me that!” says Suze, wrinkling her nose. “It sounds like my mother. But actually it is quite handy marrying someone in the family,” she adds, closing the wardrobe, “because I can keep my name and take his, all at the same time. So I can keep being S C-S for my frames.” She reaches into a cardboard box and pulls out a beautiful glass frame, all spirals and whorls. “Look, this is the new range—”

Suze’s career is designing photograph frames, which sell all over the country, and last year she diversified into photograph albums, wrapping paper, and gift boxes too.

“The whole theme is shell shapes,” she says proudly. “D’you like it?”

“It’s beautiful!” I say, running my finger round the spirals. “How did you come up with it?”

“I got the idea from Tarkie, actually! We were out walking one day and he was saying how he used to collect shells when he was a child and about all the different amazing shapes in nature… and then it hit me!”

I look at her face, all lit up, and have a sudden image of her and Tarquin walking hand in hand on the blustery moors, in Aran sweaters by The Scotch House.

“Suze, you’re going to be so happy with Tarquin,” I say heartfeltly.

“D’you think?” She flushes with pleasure. “Really?”

“Definitely. I mean, look at you! You’re simply glowing!”

Which is true. I hadn’t really noticed it before, but she looks completely different from the old Suze. She’s still got the same delicate nose and high cheekbones, but her face is rounder, and kind of softer. And she’s still slim, but there’s a kind of a fullness… almost a…

My gaze runs down her body and stops.

Hang on a minute.

No. Surely…

No.

“Suze?”

“Yes?”

“Suze, are you…” I swallow. “You’re not… pregnant?”

“No!” she replies indignantly. “Of course not! Honestly, whatever can have given you—” She meets my eye, breaks off, and shrugs. “Oh, all right then, yes I am. How did you guess?”

“How did I guess? From you… I mean, you look pregnant.”

“No, I don’t! No one else has guessed!”

“They must have. It’s completely obvious!”

“No, it isn’t!” She sucks in her stomach and looks at herself in the mirror. “You see? And once I’ve got my Rigby and Peller on…”

I can’t get my head round this. Suze is pregnant!

“So — is it a secret? Don’t your parents know?”

“Oh no! Nobody knows. Not even Tarkie.” She pulls a face. “It’s a bit tacksville, being pregnant on your wedding day, don’t you think? I thought I’d pretend it’s a honeymoon baby.”

“But you must be at least three months gone.”

“Four months. It’s due at the beginning of June.”

I stare at her. “So how on earth are you going to pretend it’s a honeymoon baby?”

“Um…” She thinks for a moment. “It could be a bit premature.”

“Four whole months?”

“Well, OK then. I’ll think of something else,” says Suze airily. “It’s ages away. Anyway, the important thing is, don’t tell anyone.”

“OK. I won’t.” Gingerly I reach out and touch her stomach. Suze is having a baby. She’s going to be a mother. And Tarquin’s going to be a father. God, it’s like we’re all suddenly growing up or something.

Suze is right on one point at least. Once she’s squeezed into her corset, you can’t see the bulge at all. In fact, as we both sit in front of her dressing table on the morning of the wedding, grinning excitedly at each other, she actually looks thinner than me, which is a tad unfair.

We’ve had such a great couple of days, chilling out, watching old videos and eating endless KitKats. (Suze is eating for two, and I need energy after my transatlantic flight.) Luke brought some paperwork with him and has spent most of the time in the library — but for once I don’t mind. It’s just been so nice to be able to spend some time with Suze. I’ve heard all about the flat she and Tarquin are buying in London and I’ve seen pictures of the gorgeous hotel on Antigua where she and Tarquin are going for their honeymoon, and I’ve tried on most of the new clothes in her wardrobe.

There’s been loads going on all over the house, with florists and caterers and relations arriving every minute. What’s a bit weird is, none of the family seems particularly bothered by it. Suze’s mother has been out hunting both the days that I’ve been here, and her father has been in his study. Mrs. Gearing, their housekeeper, is the one who’s been organizing the marquee and flowers and everything — and even she seems pretty relaxed. When I asked Suze about it she just shrugged and said, “I suppose we’re used to throwing big parties.”

Last night there was a grand drinks party for Suze and Tarquin’s relations who have all come down from Scotland, and I was expecting everyone to be talking about the wedding then, at least. But every time I tried to get anyone excited about the flowers, or how romantic it all was, I got blank looks. It was only when Suze mentioned that Tarquin was going to buy her a horse as a wedding present that they all suddenly got animated, and started talking about breeders they knew, and horses they’d bought, and how their great chum had a very nice young chestnut mare Suze might be interested in.

I mean, honestly. No one even asked me what my dress was like.

Anyway. I don’t care, because it looks wonderful. We both look wonderful. We’ve both been made up by a fantastic makeup artist, and our hair is up in sleek chignons. The photographer has taken so-called “candid” pictures of me buttoning Suze into her dress (he made us do it three times, in fact my arms were aching by the end). Now Suze is umming and aahing over about six family tiaras while I take sips of champagne. Just to keep me from getting nervous.

“What about your mother?” says the hairdresser to Suze, as she pulls wispy blond tendrils round her face. “Does she want a blow-dry?”

“I doubt it,” says Suze, pulling a face. “She’s not really into that kind of stuff.”

“What’s she wearing?” I ask.

“God knows,” says Suze. “The first thing that comes to hand, probably.” She meets my eye, and I pull a tiny sympathetic face. Last night Suze’s mother came downstairs for drinks in a dirndl skirt and patterned woolly jumper, with a large diamond brooch on the front. Mind you, Tarquin’s mother looked even worse. I really don’t know where Suze has managed to get her sense of style.

“Bex, could you just go and make sure she doesn’t put on some hideous old gardening dress?” says Suze. “She’ll listen to you, I know she will.”

“Well… OK,” I say doubtfully. “I’ll try.”

As I let myself out of the room, I see Luke coming along the corridor in his morning dress.

“You look very beautiful,” he says with a smile.

“Do I?” I do a little twirl. “It’s a lovely dress, isn’t it? And it fits so well—”

“I wasn’t looking at the dress,” says Luke. His eyes meet mine with a wicked glint and I feel a flicker of pleasure. “Is Suze decent?” he adds. “I just wanted to wish her well.”

“Oh yes,” I say. “Go on in. Hey, Luke, you’ll never guess!”

I’ve been absolutely dying to tell Luke about Suze’s baby for the last two days, and now the words slip out before I can stop them.

“What?”

“She’s…” I can’t tell him, I just can’t. Suze would kill me. “She’s… got a really nice wedding dress,” I finish lamely.

“Good!” says Luke, giving me a curious look. “There’s a surprise. Well, I’ll just pop in and have a quick word. See you later.”

I cautiously make my way to Suze’s mother’s bedroom and give a gentle knock.

“Hellooo?” thunders a voice in return, and the door is flung open by Suze’s mother, Caroline. She’s about six feet tall with long rangy legs, gray hair in a knot, and a weatherbeaten face that creases into a smile when she sees me.

“Rebecca!” she booms, and looks at her watch. “Not time yet, is it?”

“Not quite!” I smile gingerly and run my eyes over her outfit of ancient navy blue sweatshirt, jodhpurs, and riding boots. She’s got an amazing figure for a woman her age. No wonder Suze is so skinny. I glance around the room, but I can’t see any telltale suit-carriers or hatboxes.

“So, um, Caroline… I was just wondering what you were planning to wear today. As mother of the bride!”

“Mother of the bride?” She stares at me. “Good God, I suppose I am. Hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Right! So, you… haven’t got a special outfit ready?”

“Bit early to be dressing up, isn’t it?” says Caroline. “I’ll just fling something on before we go.”

“Well, why don’t I help you choose?” I say firmly, and head toward the wardrobe. I throw open the doors, preparing myself for a shock — and gape in astonishment.

This has got to be the most extraordinary collection of clothes I’ve ever seen. Riding habits, ball dresses, and thirties suits are jostling for space with Indian saris, Mexican ponchos… and an extraordinary array of tribal jewelry.

“These clothes!” I breathe.

“I know.” Caroline looks at them dismissively. “A load of old rubbish, really.”

“Old rubbish? My God, if you found any of these in a vintage shop in New York…” I pull out a pale blue satin coat edged with ribbon. “This is fantastic.”

“D’you like it?” says Caroline in surprise. “Have it.”

“I couldn’t!”

“Dear girl, I don’t want it.”

“But surely the sentimental value… I mean, your memories—”

“My memories are in here.” She taps her head. “Not in there.” She surveys the melee of clothes, then picks up a small piece of bone on a leather cord. “Now, this I’m rather fond of.”

“That?” I say, trying to summon some enthusiasm. “Well, it’s—”

“It was given to me by a Masai chief, many years ago now. We were driving at dawn to find a pride of elephants, when a chieftain flagged us down. A tribeswoman was in a fever after giving birth. We helped bring down her temperature and the tribe honored us with gifts. Have you been to the Masai Mara, Rebecca?”

“Er… no. I’ve never actually been to—”

“And this little lovely.” She picks up an embroidered purse. “I bought this at a street market in Konya. Bartered for it with my last packet of cigarettes before we trekked up the Nemrut Dagi. Have you been to Turkey?”

“No, not there, either,” I say, feeling rather inadequate. God, I feel undertraveled. I scrabble around in my mind, trying to think of somewhere I’ve been that will impress her — but it’s a pretty paltry lineup, now that I think about it. France a few times, Spain, Crete… and that’s about it. Why haven’t I been anywhere exciting? Why haven’t I been trekking round Mongolia?

I was going to go to Thailand once, come to think of it. But then I decided to go to France instead and spend the money I saved on a Lulu Guinness handbag.

“I haven’t really traveled much at all,” I admit reluctantly.

“Well, you must, dear girl!” booms Caroline. “You must broaden your horizons. Learn about life from real people. One of the dearest friends I have in the world is a Bolivian peasant woman. We ground maize together on the plains of the Llanos.”

“Wow.”

A little clock on the mantelpiece chimes the half hour, and I suddenly realize we’re not getting anywhere.

“So anyway… did you have any ideas for a wedding outfit?”

“Something warm and colorful,” says Caroline, reaching for a thick red and yellow poncho.

“Erm… I’m not so sure that would be entirely appropriate…” I push between the jackets and dresses, and suddenly see a flash of apricot silk. “Ooh! This is nice.” I haul it out — and I don’t believe it. It’s Balenciaga.

“My going-away outfit,” says Caroline reminiscently. “We traveled on the Orient Express to Venice, then explored the caves of Postojna. Do you know that region?”

“You have to wear this!” I say, my voice rising to a squeak of excitement. “You’ll look spectacular. And it’s so romantic, wearing your own going-away outfit!”

“I suppose it might be rather fun.” She holds it up against herself with red, weatherbeaten hands that make me wince every time I look at them. “That should still fit, shouldn’t it? Now, there must be a hat around here somewhere…” She puts down the suit and starts rooting around on a shelf.

“So — you must be really happy for Suze,” I say, picking up an enameled hand mirror and examining it.

“Tarquin’s a dear boy.” She turns round and taps her beaky nose confidentially. “Very well endowed.”

This is true. Tarquin is the fifteenth richest person in the country, or something. But I’m a bit surprised at Suze’s mother bringing it up.

“Well, yes…” I say. “Although I don’t suppose Suze really needs the money…”

“I’m not talking about money!” She gives me a knowing smile and suddenly I realize what she means.

“Oh!” I feel myself blushing furiously. “Right! I see!”

“All the Cleath-Stuart men are the same. They’re famous for it. Never a divorce in the family,” she adds, plonking a green felt hat on top of her head.

Gosh. I’m going to look at Tarquin a bit differently now.

It takes me a while to persuade Caroline out of the green felt hat and into a chic black cloche. As I’m walking back along the corridor toward Suze’s room, I hear some familiar voices in the hall downstairs.

“It’s common knowledge. Foot-and-mouth was caused by carrier pigeons.”

“Pigeons? You’re telling me that this huge epidemic, which has wiped out stocks of cattle across Europe, was caused by a few harmless pigeons?”

“Harmless? Graham, they’re vermin!”

Mum and Dad! I hurry to the banisters — and there they are, standing by the fireplace. Dad’s in morning dress with a top hat under his arm, and Mum’s dressed in a navy jacket, floral skirt, and bright red shoes, which don’t quite match her red hat.

“Mum?”

“Becky!”

“Mum! Dad!” I hurry down the stairs and envelop them both in a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of Yardley’s talc and Tweed.

This trip is getting more emotional by the minute. I haven’t seen my parents since they came out to visit me in New York four months ago. And even then, they only stayed for three days before going off to Florida to see the Everglades.

“Mum, you look amazing! Have you done something to your hair?”

“Maureen put some highlights in,” she says, looking pleased. “And I popped next door to Janice this morning, so she could do my face. You know, she’s taken a course in professional makeup. She’s a real expert!”

“I can… see!” I say feebly, looking at the lurid stripes of blusher and highlighter painted on Mum’s cheeks. Maybe I can manage to wipe them off accidentally on purpose.

“So, is Luke here?” says Mum, looking around with bright eyes, like a squirrel searching for a nut.

“Somewhere around,” I say — and Mum and Dad exchange glances.

“He is here, though?” Mum gives a tense little laugh. “You did fly on the same plane, didn’t you?”

“Mum, don’t worry. He’s here. Really.”

Mum still doesn’t look convinced — and I can’t honestly blame her. The truth is, there was this tiny incident at the last wedding we all attended. Luke didn’t turn up, and I was completely desperate, and I resorted to… um…

Well. It was only a tiny white lie. I mean, he could have been there, mingling somewhere. If they hadn’t had that stupid group photograph, no one would ever have known.

“Jane! Graham! Hello!”

There’s Luke, striding through the front door. Thank God for that.

“Luke!” Mum gives a relieved trill of laughter. “You’re here! Graham, he’s here!”

“Of course he’s here!” says my father, rolling his eyes. “Where did you think he was? On the moon?”

“How are you, Jane?” says Luke with a smile, and kisses her on the cheek.

Mum’s face is pink with happiness, and she’s clutching onto Luke’s arm as though he might vanish in a puff of smoke. He gives me a little smile, and I beam happily back. I’ve been looking forward to this day for so long, and now it’s actually here. It’s like Christmas. In fact, it’s better than Christmas. Through the open front door I can see wedding guests walking past on the snowy gravel in morning dress and smart hats. In the distance, the church bells are pealing, and there’s a kind of excited, expectant atmosphere.

“And where’s the blushing bride?” says Dad.

“I’m here,” comes Suze’s voice. We all look up — and there she is, floating down the stairs, clutching a stunning bouquet of roses and ivy.

“Oh, Suzie,” says Mum, and claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh, that dress! Oh… Becky! You’re going to look—” She turns to me with softened eyes and for the first time seems to take in my dress. “Becky… is that what you’re wearing? You’ll freeze!”

“No, I won’t. The church is going to be heated.”

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” says Suze. “So unusual.”

“But it’s only a T-shirt!” She gives a dissatisfied tug at the sleeve. “And what’s this frayed bit? It isn’t even finished properly!”

“It’s customized,” I explain. “It’s completely unique.”

“Unique? Don’t you have to match the others?”

“There aren’t any others,” explains Suze. “The only other person I would have asked is Tarquin’s sister, Fenny. But she said if she was a bridesmaid again she’d jinx her chances of marriage. You know what they say, ‘Three times a bridesmaid.’ Well, she’s been one about ninety-three times! And she’s got her eye on this chap who works in the City, so she doesn’t want to take any chances.”

There’s a short silence. I can see Mum’s brain working hard. Oh God, please don’t—

“Becky love, how many times have you been a bridesmaid?” she says, a little too casually. “There was Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Sylvia’s wedding… but I think that’s it, isn’t it?”

“And Ruthie and Paul’s,” I remind her.

“You weren’t a bridesmaid at that,” says Mum at once. “You were a… flower girl. So it’s twice, including today. Yes, twice.”

“Did you get that, Luke?” says Dad with a grin. “Twice.”

Honestly, what are my parents like?

“Well, anyway!” I say, trying quickly to think of another subject. “So… er…”

“Of course, Becky has a good ten years before she needs to worry about anything like that…” says Luke conversationally.

“What?” Mum stiffens, and her eyes dart from Luke to me and back again. “What did you say?”

“Becky wants to wait at least ten years before she gets married,” says Luke. “Isn’t that right, Becky?”

There’s a stunned silence. I can feel my face growing hot.

“Um…” I clear my throat and try to give a nonchalant smile. “That’s… that’s right.”

“Really?” says Suze, staring at me, wide-eyed. “I never knew that! Why?”

“So I can… um… explore my full potential,” I mumble, not daring to look at Mum. “And… get to know the real me.”

“Get to know the real you?” Mum’s voice is slightly shrill. “Why do you need ten years to do that? I could show it to you in ten minutes!”

“But Bex, how old will you be in ten years’ time?” says Suze, wrinkling her brow.

“I won’t necessarily need ten whole years exactly,” I say, feeling a little rattled. “You know, maybe… eight will be long enough.”

“Eight?” Mum looks as though she wants to burst into tears.

“Luke,” says Suze, looking perturbed. “Did you know about this?”

“We discussed it the other day,” says Luke with an easy smile.

“But I don’t understand,” she persists. “What about the—”

“The time?” Luke cuts her off neatly. “You’re right. I think we should all get going. You know, it’s five to two.”

“Five minutes?” Suze suddenly looks petrified. “Really? But I’m not ready! Bex, where are your flowers?”

“Er… in your room, I think. I put them down somewhere…”

“Well, get them! And where’s Daddy got to? Oh shit, I want a cigarette—”

“Suze, you can’t smoke!” I say in horror. “It’s bad for the—” I stop myself just in time.

“For the dress?” suggests Luke helpfully.

“Yes. She might… drop ash on it.”

By the time I’ve found my flowers in Suze’s bathroom, redone my lipstick, and come downstairs again, only Luke is left in the hall.

“Your parents have gone over,” he says. “Suze says we should go over too, and she’ll come with her father in the carriage. And I’ve found a coat for you,” he adds, proffering a sheepskin jacket. “Your mother’s right, you can’t walk over like that.”

“OK,” I agree reluctantly. “But I’m taking it off in the church.”

“Did you know your dress is unraveling at the back, by the way?” he says as he puts it on.

“Really?” I look at him in dismay. “Does it look awful?”

“It looks very nice.” His mouth twitches into a smile. “But you might want to find a safety pin after the service.”

“Bloody Danny!” I shake my head. “I knew I should have gone for Donna Karan.”

As Luke and I make our way over the gravel to the tented walkway, the air is still and silent and a watery sun is coming out. The pealing bells have diminished to a single chiming, and there’s no one about except a sole scurrying waiter. Everyone else must already be inside.

“Sorry if I brought up a sensitive subject just then,” says Luke as we begin to walk toward the church.

“Sensitive?” I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, what, that. That’s not a sensitive subject at all!”

“Your mother seemed a bit upset…”

“Mum? Honestly, she’s not bothered either way. In fact… she was joking!”

“Joking?”

“Yes!” I say, a little defiantly. “Joking.”

“I see.” Luke takes my arm as I stumble slightly on the matting. “So you’re still determined to wait eight years before you get married.”

“Absolutely.” I nod. “At least eight years.”

In the distance I can hear hooves on gravel, which must be Suze’s carriage setting off.

“Or you know, maybe six,” I add casually. “Or… five, possibly. It all depends.”

There’s a long silence, broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of our footsteps on the walkway. The atmosphere is growing very strange between us, and I don’t quite dare look at Luke. I clear my throat and rub my nose, and try to think of a comment about the weather.

We reach the church gate, and Luke turns to look at me — and suddenly his face is stripped of its usual quizzical expression.

“Seriously, Becky,” he says. “Do you really want to wait five years?”

“I… I don’t know,” I say, confused. “Do you?”

There’s a moment of stillness between us, and my heart starts to thump.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Maybe he’s going to… Maybe he’s about to—

“Ah! The bridesmaid!” The vicar bustles out of the porch and Luke and I both jump. “All set to walk up the aisle?”

“I, er… think so,” I say, aware of Luke’s gaze. “Yes.”

“Good! You’d better get inside!” adds the vicar to Luke. “You don’t want to miss the moment!”

“No,” he says, after a pause. “No, I don’t.”

He drops a kiss on my shoulder and walks inside without saying anything else, and I stare after him, still completely confused.

Did we just talk about… Was Luke really saying…

Then there’s the sound of hooves, and I’m jolted out of my reverie. I turn to see Suze’s carriage coming down the road like something out of a fairy tale. Her veil is blowing in the wind and she’s smiling radiantly at some people who have stopped to watch, and I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.

I honestly wasn’t planning to cry. In fact, I’d already planned a way to stop myself doing so, which is to recite the alphabet backward in a French accent. But even as I’m helping Suze straighten her train I’m feeling damp around the eyes. And as the organ music swells and we start to process slowly forward into the packed church, I’m having to sniff hard every two beats, along with the organ. Suze is holding tightly to her father’s arm and her train is gliding along the old stone floor. I’m walking behind, trying not to tap my heels on the floor, and hoping no one will notice my dress unraveling.

We reach the front — and there’s Tarquin waiting, with his best man. He’s as tall and bony as ever, and his face still reminds me of a stoat, but I have to admit he’s looking pretty striking in his sporran and kilt. He’s gazing at Suze with such transparent love and admiration that I can feel my nose starting to prickle again. He turns briefly, meets my eye, and grins nervously — and I give an embarrassed little smile back. To be honest, I’ll never be able to look at him again without thinking about what Caroline said.

The vicar begins his “Dearly beloved” speech, and I feel myself relax with pleasure. I’m going to relish every single, familiar word. This is like watching the start of a favorite movie, with my two best friends playing the main parts.

“Susan, wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband?” The vicar’s got huge bushy eyebrows, which he raises at every question, as though he’s afraid the answer might be no. “Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

There’s a pause — then Suze says, “I will,” in a voice as clear as a bell.

I wish bridesmaids got to say something. It wouldn’t have to be anything very much, just a quick “Yes” or “I do.”

When we come to the bit where Suze and Tarquin have to hold hands, Suze gives me her bouquet, and I take the opportunity to turn round and have a quick peek at the congregation. The place is crammed to the gills, in fact there isn’t even room for everyone to sit down. There are lots of strapping men in kilts and women in velvet suits, and there’s Fenny and a whole crowd of her London friends, all wearing Philip Treacy hats, it looks like. And there’s Mum, squashed right up against Dad, with a tissue pressed to her eyes. She looks up and sees me and I give a little smile — but all she does is sob again.

I turn back and Suze and Tarquin are kneeling down, and the vicar is intoning severely, “Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

I look at Suze as she beams radiantly at Tarquin. She’s completely lost in him. She belongs to him now. And to my surprise, I suddenly feel slightly hollow inside. Suze is married. It’s all changed.

It’s a year since I went off to live in New York, and I’ve loved every minute of it. Of course I have. But subconsciously, I realize, I’ve always had it in the back of my mind that if everything went wrong, I could come back to Fulham and have my old life with Suze.

Suze doesn’t need me anymore. She’s got someone else, who will always come first in her life. I watch as the vicar places his hands on Suze’s and Tarquin’s heads to bless them — and my throat feels a little tight as I remember all the times we’ve had together. The time I cooked a horrible curry to save money and she kept saying how delicious it was even while her mouth was burning. The time she tried to seduce my bank manager so he would extend my overdraft. Every time I’ve got myself into trouble, she’s been there for me.

And now it’s all over.

Suddenly I feel in need of a little reassurance. I turn round and quickly scan the rows of guests, looking for Luke’s face. For a few moments I can’t spot him, and although I keep wearing my confident smile, I feel a ridiculous panic rising inside me, like a child realizing she’s been left behind at school; that everyone else has been collected but her.

Until suddenly I see him. Standing behind a pillar toward the back, tall and dark and solid, his eyes fixed on mine. Looking at me and no one else. And as I gaze back at him, I feel restored. I’ve been collected too; it’s OK.

We emerge into the churchyard, the sound of bells behind us, and a crowd of people who have gathered outside on the road start to cheer.

“Congratulations!” I cry, giving Suze a huge hug. “And to you, Tarquin!”

I’ve always been a teeny bit awkward around Tarquin. But now I see him with Suze — married to Suze — the awkwardness seems to melt away.

“I know you’ll be really happy,” I say warmly, and give him a kiss on the cheek, and we both laugh as someone throws confetti at us. Guests are already piling out of the church like sweets out of a jar, talking and laughing and calling to each other in loud confident voices. They swarm around Suze and Tarquin, kissing and hugging and shaking hands, and I move away a little, wondering where Luke is.

The whole churchyard is filling up with people, and I can’t help staring at some of Suze’s relations. Her granny is coming out of the church very slowly and regally, holding a stick, and is being followed by a dutiful-looking young man in morning dress. A thin, pale girl with huge eyes is wearing an enormous black hat, holding a pug and chain-smoking. There’s a whole army of almost identical brothers in kilts standing by the church gate, and I remember Suze telling me about her aunt who had six boys before finally getting twin girls.

“Here. Put this on.” Luke’s voice is suddenly in my ear, and I turn round, to see him holding out the sheepskin jacket. “You must be freezing.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine!”

“Becky, there’s snow on the ground,” says Luke firmly, and drapes the coat round my shoulders. “Very good wedding,” he adds.

“Yes.” I look up at him carefully, wondering if by any chance we can work the conversation back to what we were talking about before the service. But now Luke’s looking at Suze and Tarquin, who are being photographed under the oak tree. Suze looks absolutely radiant, but Tarquin looks as though he’s facing gunfire.

“He’s a very nice chap,” he says, nodding toward Tarquin. “Bit odd, but nice.”

“Yes. He is. Luke—”

“Would you like a glass of hot whiskey?” interrupts a waiter, coming up with a tray. “Or champagne?”

“Hot whiskey,” I say gratefully. “Thanks.” I take a few sips and close my eyes as the warmth spreads through my body. If only it could get down to my feet, which, to be honest, are completely freezing.

“Bridesmaid!” cries Suze suddenly. “Where’s Bex? We need you for a photograph!”

My eyes open.

“Here,” I shout, slipping the sheepskin coat off my shoulders. “Luke, hold my drink—”

I hurry through the melee and join Suze and Tarquin. And it’s funny, but now that all these people are looking at me, I don’t feel cold anymore. I smile my most radiant smile, and hold my flowers nicely, and link arms with Suze when the photographer tells me to, and, in between shots, wave at Mum and Dad, who have pushed their way to the front of the crowd.

“We’ll head back to the house soon,” says Mrs. Gearing, coming up to kiss Suze. “People are getting chilly. You can finish the pictures there.”

“OK,” says Suze. “But let’s just take some of me and Bex together.”

“Good idea!” says Tarquin at once, and heads off in obvious relief to talk to his father, who looks exactly like Tarquin but forty years older. The photographer takes a few shots of me and Suze beaming at each other, then pauses to reload his camera. Suze accepts a glass of whiskey from a waiter and I reach surreptitiously behind me to see how much of my dress has unraveled.

“Bex, listen,” comes a voice in my ear. I look round, and Suze is gazing at me earnestly. She’s so close I can see each individual speck of glitter in her eyeshadow. “I need to ask you something. You don’t really want to wait ten years before you get married, do you?”

“Well… no,” I admit. “Not really.”

“And you do think Luke’s the one? Just… honestly. Between ourselves.”

There’s a long pause. Behind me I can hear someone saying, “Of course, our house is fairly modern. I think it was built in 1853—”

“Yes,” I say eventually, feeling a deep pink rising through my cheeks. “Yes. I think he is.”

Suze looks at me searchingly for a few moments longer — then abruptly seems to come to a decision. “Right!” she says, putting down her whiskey. “I’m going to throw my bouquet.”

“What?” I stare at her in bewilderment. “Suze, don’t be stupid. You can’t throw your bouquet yet!”

“Yes I can! I can throw it when I like.”

“You ought to throw it when you leave for your honeymoon!”

“I don’t care,” says Suze obstinately. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to throw it now.”

“But you’re supposed to do it at the end!”

“Who’s the bride? You or me? If I wait till the end it won’t be any fun! Now, stand over there.” She points with an imperious hand to a small mound of snowy grass. “And put your flowers down. You’ll never catch it if you’re holding things! Tarkie?” She raises her voice. “I’m going to throw my bouquet now, OK?”

“OK!” Tarquin calls back cheerfully. “Good idea.”

“Go on, Bex!”

“Honestly! I don’t even want to catch it!” I say, slightly grumpily.

But I suppose I am the only bridesmaid — so I put my flowers down on the grass, and go and stand on the mound as instructed.

“I want a picture of this,” Suze is saying to the photographer. “And where’s Luke?”

The slightly weird thing is, no one else is coming with me. Everyone else has melted away. Suddenly I notice that Tarquin and his best man are going around murmuring in people’s ears, and gradually all the guests are turning to me with bright, expectant faces.

“Ready, Bex?” calls Suze.

“Wait!” I cry. “You haven’t got enough people! There should be lots of us, all standing together…”

I feel so stupid, up here on my own. Honestly, Suze is doing this all wrong. Hasn’t she been to any weddings?

“Wait, Suze!” I cry again, but it’s too late.

“Catch, Bex!” she yells. “Caaatch!”

The bouquet comes looping high through the air, and I have to jump slightly to catch it. It’s bigger and heavier than I expected, and for a moment I just stare dazedly at it, half secretly delighted and half completely furious with Suze.

And then my eyes focus. And I see the little envelope. To Becky.

An envelope addressed to me in Suze’s bouquet?

I look up bewilderedly at Suze, and with a shining face she nods toward the envelope.

With trembling fingers, I open the card. There’s something lumpy inside. It’s…

It’s a ring, all wrapped up in cotton wool. I take it out, feeling dizzy. There’s a message in the card, written in Luke’s handwriting. And it says…

It says Will You…

I stare at it in disbelief, trying to keep control of myself, but the world is shimmering, and blood is pounding through my head.

I look up dazedly, and there’s Luke, coming forward through the people, his face serious but his eyes warm.

“Becky—” he begins, and there’s a tiny intake of breath around the churchyard. “Will you—”

“Yes! Yeee-esssss!” I hear the joyful sound ripping through the churchyard before I even realize I’ve opened my mouth. I’m so charged up with emotion, my voice doesn’t even sound like mine. In fact, it sounds more like…

Mum.

I don’t believe it.

As I whip round, she claps a hand over her mouth in horror. “Sorry!” she whispers, and a ripple of laughter runs round the crowd.

“Mrs. Bloomwood, I’d be honored,” says Luke, his eyes crinkling into a smile. “But I believe you’re already taken.”

Then he looks at me again.

“Becky, if I had to wait five years, then I would. Or eight — or even ten.” He pauses, and there’s complete silence except for a tiny gust of wind, blowing confetti about the churchyard. “But I hope that one day — preferably rather sooner than that — you’ll do me the honor of marrying me?”

My throat’s so tight, I can’t speak. I give a tiny nod, and Luke takes my hand. He unfolds my fingers and takes out the ring. My heart is hammering. Luke wants to marry me. He must have been planning this all along. Without saying a thing.

I look at the ring, and feel my eyes start to blur. It’s an antique diamond ring, set in gold, with tiny curved claws. I’ve never seen another quite like it. It’s perfect.

“May I?”

“Yes,” I whisper, and watch as he slides it onto my finger. He looks at me again, his eyes more tender than I’ve ever seen them, and kisses me, and the cheering starts.

I don’t believe it. I’m engaged.