Shopaholic Ties the Knot (17 page)

“Real birch trees?” Suze pulls a face. “What do you want those for?”

“It’s going to be like
Sleeping Beauty
! And I’m going to be the princess, and Luke’s going to be the . . .” I tail off feebly to see Suze staring at me reproachfully.

“What about your mum?”

There’s silence, and I pretend to be preoccupied unhooking my basque. I don’t want to have to think about Mum right at the moment.

“Bex! What about your mum?”

“I’ll just have to . . . talk her round,” I say at last.

“Talk her
round
?”

“She said herself I shouldn’t do the wedding by halves!” I say defensively. “If she came and saw the Plaza, and saw all the plans—”

“But she’s done such a lot of preparation already! When we were there she could talk about nothing else. Her and—what’s your neighbor called?”

“Janice.”

“That’s right. They’re calling your kitchen the control center. There’s about six pin boards up, and lists, and bits of material everywhere . . . And they’re so happy doing it.” Suze stares at me earnestly. “Becky, you can’t just tell them it’s all off. You can’t.”

“Elinor would fly them over!” There’s a guilty edge to my voice, which I pretend I can’t hear. “I mean, they’d have a fantastic time! It would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for them too! They could stay in the Plaza, and dance all night, and see New York . . . They’d have the most fabulous holiday ever!”

I’m trying desperately to paint a picture that, deep down, I know isn’t true. As I meet Suze’s eyes I can feel shame pouring over me, and I quickly look away.

“Have you said this to your mum?”

“No. I . . . I haven’t told her anything about it. Not yet. Not until I’m 100 percent sure.” There’s a pause while Suze’s eyes narrow.

“Bex, you are going to do something about this, aren’t you?” she says suddenly. “Promise me you’re not just going to bury your head in the sand and pretend it isn’t happening.”

“Honestly! I wouldn’t do that!” I say indignantly.

“This is me, remember!” retorts Suze. “I know what you’re like! You used to throw all your bank statements into the trash and hope a complete stranger would pay off your bills!”

This is what happens. You tell your friends your most personal secrets, and they use them against you.

“I’ve grown up a lot since then,” I say, trying to sound dignified. “And I will sort it out. I just need to . . . to think it through.”

There’s a long silence. Outside, I can hear Cynthia saying “Here at Dream Dress, our motto is, you don’t
choose
your dress . . .”

“Look, Bex,” says Suze at last. “I can’t make this decision for you. No one can. All I can say is, if you’re going to pull out of your mum’s wedding, you’re going to have to do it quickly.”

THE PINES

43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey

FAX MESSAGE

TO BECKY BLOOMWOOD

FROM MUM

20 March 2002

Becky, darling! Wonderful news!

You might have heard that Suzie spilt her coffee all over the wedding dress. She was devastated, poor thing.

But I took the dress to the cleaners . . . and they worked miracles! It’s as white as snow again and you’ll be able to wear it after all!

Much love and talk soon,

Mum xxxxxxxxx

OK. SUZE IS right. I can’t dither anymore. I have to decide.

The day after she’s left to go home I sit down in my fitting room at lunchtime with a piece of paper and a pen. I’m just going to have to do this logically. Work out the pros and cons, weigh them all up—and make a rational decision. Right. Let’s go.

For Oxshott

1. Mum will be happy

2. Dad will be happy

3. It’ll be a lovely wedding

I stare at the list for a few seconds—then make a new heading.

For New York

1. I get to have the most amazing wedding in the world

I bury my head in my hands. It isn’t any easier on paper.

In fact it’s harder, because it’s thrusting the dilemma right in my face, instead of where I want it—which is in a little box at the back of my mind where I don’t have to look at it.

“Becky?”

“Yes?” I look up, automatically covering up the sheet of paper with my hand. Standing at the door of my fitting room is Elise, one of my clients. She’s a thirty-five-year-old corporate lawyer who’s just been assigned to Hong Kong for a year. I’ll quite miss her actually. She’s always nice to chat to, even though she doesn’t really have a sense of humor. I think she’d
like
to have one—it’s just that she doesn’t quite understand what jokes are for.

“Hi, Elise!” I say in surprise. “Do we have an appointment? I thought you were leaving today.”

“Tomorrow. But I wanted to buy you a wedding gift before I go.”

“Oh! You don’t have to do that!” I exclaim, secretly pleased.

“I just need to find out where you’re registered.”

“Well, actually, we haven’t registered yet,” I say, feeling a flicker of frustration. It’s not
my
fault we haven’t registered yet. It’s Luke’s! He keeps saying he’s too busy to spend a day in the shops, which frankly just doesn’t make sense.

“You haven’t?” Elise frowns. “So how can I buy you a gift?”

“Well . . . um . . . you could just . . . buy something. Maybe.”

“Without a list?” Elise stares at me blankly. “But what would I get?”

“I don’t know! Anything you felt like!” I give a little laugh. “Maybe a . . . toaster?”

“A toaster. OK.” Elise roots around in her bag for a piece of paper. “What model?”

“I’ve no idea! It was just off the top of my head! Look, Elise, just . . . I don’t know, get me something in Hong Kong.”

“Are you registering there too?” Elise looks alert. “Which store?”

“No! I just meant . . .” I sigh. “OK, look. When we register, I’ll let you know the details. You can probably do it online.”

“Well. OK.” Elise puts her piece of paper away, giving me a reproving look. “But you really should register. People will be wanting to buy you gifts.”

“Sorry,” I say. “But anyway, have a fabulous time in Hong Kong.”

“Thanks.” Elise hesitates, then awkwardly comes forward and pecks me on the cheek. “Bye, Becky. Thanks for all your help.”

When she’s gone, I sit down again and look at my piece of paper, trying to concentrate.

But I can’t stop thinking about what Elise said.

What if she’s right? What if there are loads of people out there, all trying to get us presents and unable to?

Suddenly I feel a fresh stab of fear. What if they abandon the attempt in frustration? Or what if they all buy us nasty green glass decanters, like the one Auntie Jean bought for Mum and Dad that
still
gets brought out every Christmas?

This is serious. I pick up my phone and speed-dial Luke’s number.

As it rings, I suddenly remember promising the other day to stop phoning him at work with what he called “wedding trivia.” I’d made him stay on the line for half an hour while I described three different table settings, and apparently he missed a really important call from Japan.

But surely this is an exception?

“Listen!” I say urgently as he picks up. “We need to register! We can’t put it off any longer!”

“Becky, I’m in a meeting. Can this wait?”

“No! It’s important!”

There’s silence—then I hear Luke saying, “If you could excuse me for a moment—”

“OK,” he says, returning to the phone. “Start again. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, people are trying to buy us presents! We need a list! If there’s nothing for them to buy, who knows what they might get us!”

“Well, let’s register, then.”

“I’ve been wanting to!” I squeak in frustration. “You know I have! I’ve been waiting and
waiting
for you to have a spare day, or even an evening—”

“I’ve been tied up with things,” he says, a defensive edge to his voice. “That’s just the way it is.”

I know why he’s so defensive. It’s because he’s been working every night on some stupid promotion for Elinor’s charity. And he knows what I think about that.

“Well, we need to get started,” I say. “We need to decide what we want.”

“Look, Becky. Do I really need to be there?”

“Of course you need to be there! Don’t you care what plates we have?”

“Frankly, no.”

“
No
?” I take a deep breath, about to launch into a tirade along the lines of, “If you don’t care about our plates, then maybe you don’t care about our relationship!”

Then, just in time I realize, this way I get to choose everything exactly as I want it.

“Well, OK,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

“Great. And I agreed we’d have a drink with my mother tonight, at her apartment. Six thirty.”

“Oh,” I say, pulling a face. “All right. See you then. Shall I call you after I’ve been to Tiffany to let you know what I registered?”

“Becky,” says Luke, deadpan. “If you call me again with any more wedding talk during office hours, it’s entirely possible we may not be
having
a wedding.”

“Fine!” I say. “Fine! If you’re not interested, I’ll just organize it all and see you at the altar, shall I? Would that suit you?”

There’s a pause, and I can tell Luke’s laughing.

“Do you want an honest answer or the
Cosmo
‘Does Your Man Really Love You?’ full marks answer?”

“Give me the full marks answer,” I say after a moment’s thought.

“I want to be involved in every tiny detail of our wedding,” says Luke earnestly. “I understand that if I show any lack of interest at any stage it is a sign that I am not committed to you as a woman and beautiful, caring, all-round special person, and, frankly, don’t deserve you.”

“That was pretty good, I suppose,” I say, a little grudgingly. “Now give me the honest answer.”

“See you at the altar.”

“Ha-di-ha. Well, all I can say is, you’ll be sorry when I put you in a pink tuxedo.”

“You’re right,” says Luke. “I will. Now I have to go. Really. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

I put down the phone, reach for my coat, and pick up my bag. As I’m zipping it up, I glance at my piece of paper again and bite my lip. Maybe I should stay here and think a bit more, and try to come to a decision.

But then . . . whether we get married in England or America, we’ll need a wedding present list, won’t we? So in a way it’s
more
sensible to go and register first—and decide about which country to get married in later.

Exactly.

OK, so perhaps I should have realized that lots of brides might want to register at Tiffany. And this is a very busy time of day, and they only have so many members of staff available at one time. I told them it was an emergency, and I have to say, they were very sympathetic, but even so, they couldn’t fit me in right at that moment. They asked if I could possibly come back at two o’clock, or tomorrow.

But I’m
working
at two o’clock. And tomorrow I’ll be so busy, I already know I won’t get a proper lunch hour. God, how are you supposed to plan a wedding and have a job at the same time? As I walk back to Barneys, I’m fizzing with frustration. Now that I’ve decided to register, I can’t wait a minute longer. I want to do it
now
, while I’m all excited, and before anyone goes and buys us a green decanter. I’m just wondering whether I should quickly call all our relations to let them know there
will
be a list . . . when my eye is caught by an ad for Crate and Barrel. “Walk right in and register,” it says, above a picture of a big shiny tea kettle.

I stop still in the middle of the street. There’s a huge Crate and Barrel about two minutes away. I mean, it’s not Tiffany—but it’s presents, isn’t it? It’s all cool pans and stuff . . . Oh, I’m going. I start to walk again, quicker and quicker, until I’m almost running down the sidewalk.

It’s only as I’m pushing my way into the store, out of breath, that I realize I don’t know anything about registering. In fact, I don’t know much about wedding lists at all. For Tom and Lucy’s wedding I chipped in with Mum and Dad, and Mum organized it all—and the only other person I know who’s got married is Suze, and she and Tarquin didn’t have a list.

I look randomly around the shop, wondering where to start. It’s bright and light, with colorful tables here and there laid out as though for dinner, and lots of displays full of gleaming glasses, racks of knives, and stainless-steel cookware.

As I wander toward a pyramid of shiny saucepans, I notice a girl in a high swingy ponytail who is going around marking things on a form. I edge nearer, trying to see what she’s doing, and spot the words “Crate and Barrel Registry” on the paper. She’s registering! OK, I can watch what she does.

“Hey,” she says, looking up. “You know anything about cookware? You know what this thing is?”

She holds up a pan, and I can’t help hiding a smile. Honestly. These Manhattanites don’t know anything. She’s probably never cooked a meal in her life!

“It’s a frying pan,” I say kindly. “You use it to fry things with.”

“OK. What about this?”

She holds up another pan with a ridged surface and two looped handles. Blimey. What on earth’s that for?

“I . . . um . . . I think it’s an . . . omelette . . . griddle . . . skillet . . . pan.”

“Oh, right.” She looks at it puzzledly and I back quickly away. I pass a display of pottery cereal bowls and find myself at a computer terminal marked “Registry.” Maybe this is where you get the forms.

“Welcome to Crate and Barrel,” says a cheerful message on the screen. “Please enter the choice you require.”

Distractedly I punch a few times at the screen. I’m half listening to a couple behind me arguing about plates.

“I just don’t want to
be
taupe stoneware,” the girl is saying almost tearfully.

“Well, what do you want to be?” retorts the man.

“I don’t know!”

“Are you saying
I’m
taupe stoneware, Marie?”