Shopaholic Ties the Knot (21 page)

“Well,” I say distractedly. “He does pay your rent. And he bought you all those rolls of pink suede you wanted . . .”

“OK,” says Danny after a pause. “OK. So the pink suede was a mistake. But Jesus! He just wouldn’t leave it alone. I told him about your dress—but he was like, Daniel, you can’t base a commercial enterprise on one customer who lives downstairs.” Danny chews the skin on his thumb nervously. “So I told him I just had a big order from a department store.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Barneys.”

I look at him, my attention finally caught.

“
Barneys
? Danny, why did you say Barneys?”

“So you can back me up! If he asks you, you stock me, OK? And all your clients are falling over themselves to buy my stuff, you’ve never known anything like it in the history of the store.”

“You’re mad. He’ll never fall for it. And what will you say when he wants some money?”

“I’ll have money by then!”

“What if he checks up? What if he goes to Barneys to look?”

“He won’t check up,” says Danny scornfully. “He only has time to talk to me once a month, let alone make unscheduled visits to Barneys. But if he meets you on the stairs, go along with my story. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Well . . . all right,” I say at last.

Honestly. As if I haven’t got enough to worry about already.

“Danny, I really must make this call . . .” I say helplessly.

“So did you find somewhere else to live yet?” he says, flopping down into an armchair.

“We haven’t had time.”

“You haven’t even thought about it?”

“Elinor wants us to move to her building and I’ve said no. That’s as far as we’ve got.”

“Really?” Danny stares at me. “But don’t you want to stay in the Village?”

“Of course I do! There’s no way I’m moving there.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I . . . don’t know! I’ve just got too many other things to think about at the moment. Speaking of which—”

“Pre-wedding stress,” says Danny knowingly. “The solution is a double martini.” He opens up the cocktail cabinet and a sheaf of wedding list brochures falls out onto the floor.

“Hey!” he says reproachfully, picking them up. “Did you register without me? I cannot believe that! I have been dying to register my entire life! Did you ask for a cappuccino maker?”

“Er . . . yes. I think so—”

“Big mistake. You’ll use it three times, then you’ll be back at Starbucks. Listen, if you ever want me to take delivery of any presents, you know I’m right upstairs . . .”

“Yeah, right.” I give him a look. “After Christmas.”

Christmas is still a slightly sore point with me. I thought I’d be really clever and order a load of presents off the Internet. But they never arrived, so I spent Christmas Eve rushing round the shops buying replacements. Then on Christmas morning we went upstairs to have a drink with Danny and Randall—to find Danny sitting in the silk robe I’d bought for Elinor, eating the chocolates that were meant for Samantha at work.

“Hey, what was I supposed to think?” he says defensively. “It was Christmas, they were gift-wrapped . . . it was like, Yes, Daniel, there
is
a Santa Claus—” He reaches for the Martini bottle and sloshes it into the cocktail shaker. “Strong? Extra strong?”

“Danny, I
really
have to make this phone call. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I unplug the phone and take it into the bedroom, then close the door and try to focus my thoughts again.

Right. I can do this. Calm and collected. I dial our home number and wait with slight dread as the ringing tone sounds.

“Hello?” comes a tinny-sounding voice.

“Hello?” I reply puzzledly. Even allowing for long distance, that’s not Mum’s voice.

“Becky! It’s Janice! How are you, love?”

This is bizarre. Did I dial next-door’s number by mistake?

“I’m . . . fine.”

“Oh, good! Now, while you’re on the phone, which do you prefer, Evian or Vittel?”

“Vittel,” I say automatically. “Janice—”

“Lovely. And for sparkling water? It’s only that a lot of people drink water these days, you know, what with being healthy . . . What do you think of Perrier?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Janice—” I take a deep breath. “Is Mum there?”

“Didn’t you know, love? Your parents have gone away! To the Lake District.”

I feel a plunge of frustration. How can I have forgotten about their trip to the Lake District?

“I’ve just popped in to see to the plants. If it’s an emergency I can look up the number they left—”

“No, it’s . . . it’s OK.”

My frustration has started to subside. Instead I’m feeing a tiny secret relief. This kind of lets me off the hook for the moment. I mean, it’s not my fault if they’re away, is it?

“Are you sure?” says Janice. “If it’s important, I can easily get the number . . .”

“No, honestly, it’s fine! Nothing important,” I hear myself saying. “Well, lovely to speak to you . . . bye then!” I thrust down the receiver, trembling slightly.

It’s only for a few more days. It won’t make any difference either way.

I walk back into the living room to find Danny reclining on the sofa, flipping channels.

“All OK?” he says, lifting his head.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s have that drink.”

“In the shaker,” he says, nodding his head toward the cabinet, just as the front door opens.

“Hi!” I call. “Luke, is that you? You’re just in time for a—”

I stop abruptly as Luke enters the room and stare at him in dismay. His face is pale and hollow, his eyes even darker than usual. I’ve never seen him look like this before.

Danny and I glance at each other and I feel my heart plunge in dread.

“Luke!” I gulp. “Are you OK?”

“I’ve been trying to call for an hour,” he says. “You weren’t at work, the line here was busy . . .”

“I was probably on my way home. And then I had to make a call.” Anxiously I take a step toward him. “What’s happened, Luke? Is it work?”

“It’s Michael,” says Luke. “I’ve just heard. He’s had a heart attack.”

MICHAEL’S ROOM IS on the fourth floor of the George Washington University Hospital. We walk along the corridors in silence, both staring straight ahead. We arrived in Washington last night. Our hotel bed was very big and comfortable, but even so, neither of us slept very well. In fact, I’m not sure Luke slept at all. He hasn’t said much, but I know he’s feeling eaten up with guilt.

“He could have died,” he said last night, as we were both lying awake in the darkness.

“But he didn’t,” I replied, and reached for his hand.

“But he could have.”

And when you think about it, it’s true. He could have. Every time I think about it I feel a horrible lurch in my tummy. I’ve never before known anyone close to me to be ill. I mean, there was my great-aunt Muriel, who had something wrong with her kidneys—but I only met her about twice. And all my grandparents are still alive except Grandpa Bloomwood, who died when I was two, so I never even knew him.

In fact, I’ve hardly ever been into a hospital before, unless you count
ER
and
Terms of Endearment
. As we walk along, past scary signs like “Oncology” and “Renal Unit,” I realize yet again how sheltered my life has been.

We arrive at room 465 and Luke stops.

“This is it,” he says. “Ready?” He knocks gently and, after a moment, pushes the door open.

Michael is lying asleep in a big clanky metal bed, with about six huge flower arrangements on the table next to him and more around the room. There’s a drip attached to his hand and another tube going from his chest to some machine with little lights. His face is pale and drawn and he looks . . . vulnerable.

I don’t like this. I’ve never seen Michael in anything other than an expensive suit, holding an expensive drink. Big and reassuring and indestructible. Not lying in a bed in a hospital gown.

I glance at Luke and he’s staring at Michael, pale-faced. He looks like he wants to cry.

Oh God. Now
I
want to cry.

Then Michael opens his eyes, and I feel a swoosh of relief. His eyes, at least, are exactly the same. The same warmth. The same flash of humor.

“Now, you didn’t have to come all this way,” he says. His voice sounds dry and even more gravelly than usual.

“Michael,” says Luke, taking an eager step forward. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Better than I was feeling.” Michael’s eyes run quizzically over Luke. “How are
you
feeling? You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” says Luke. “I feel absolutely . . .” He breaks off and swallows.

“Really?” says Michael. “Maybe you should have some tests run. It’s a very reassuring process. I now know that I have angina. On the other hand, my lymph is fine and I’m not allergic to peanuts.” His eyes rest on the fruit basket in Luke’s hand. “Is that for me?”

“Yes!” says Luke, seeming to come to. “Just a little . . . Shall I put it here?”

He clears a space among the exotic flower arrangements, and as he does so I notice one of the attached cards has a White House heading. Gosh.

“Fruit,” says Michael, nodding. “Very thoughtful. You’ve been talking to my doctor. They’re extremely strict here. Visitors who bring candy are marched to a little room and forced to jog for ten minutes.”

“Michael . . .” Luke takes a deep breath, and I can see his hands gripping the handle of the fruit basket. “Michael, I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. About our argument.”

“It’s forgotten. Really.”

“It’s not. Not by me.”

“Luke.” Michael gives Luke a kind look. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But I just feel—”

“We had a disagreement, that’s all. Since then I’ve been thinking about what you said. You do have a point. If Brandon Communications is publicly associated with a worthy cause, it can only do the company profile good.”

“I should never have acted without consulting you,” mutters Luke.

“Well. As you said, it’s your company. You have executive control. I respect that.”

“And I respect your advice,” says Luke at once. “I always will.”

“So. Shall we agree to bury the hatchet?” Michael extends his hand, all bruised from where the drip needle goes into it—and after a moment, Luke gently takes it.

Now I’m completely choked.

“I’ll just get some . . . water . . .” I mumble, and back out of the room, breathing hard.

I
can’t
burst into tears in front of Michael. He’ll think I’m completely pathetic.

Or else he’ll think I’m crying because I know something he doesn’t. He’ll think we’ve seen his medical charts and it wasn’t angina at all. It was a brain clot that is inoperable except by a specialist from Chicago who’s turned down Michael’s case because of an old feud between the hospitals . . .

OK, look, I
must
stop confusing this with
ER
.

I walk to a nearby reception area, taking deep breaths to calm myself down, and sit down next to a middle-aged woman. There are people sitting on upholstered seats and a couple of patients in wheelchairs with drips, and I see a frail old woman greeting what must be her grandchildren. As she sees them, her whole face lights up and suddenly she looks ten years younger—and to my horror I find myself sniffing again.

“Are you all right?” I look up and see the middle-aged woman offering me a tissue. She smiles—but her eyes are red-rimmed. “It gets to you, doesn’t it?” she says as I blow my nose. “Is a relation of yours in here?”

“Just a friend. How about you?”

“My husband, Ken,” says the woman. “He’s had bypass surgery. He’s doing fine, though.” She gives a half-smile. “He hates to see me upset.”

“God. I’m . . . really sorry.”

I feel a shiver go down my back as I try to imagine how I’d be feeling if it were Luke in that hospital bed.

“He should be be OK, if he starts looking after himself. These men. They take it all for granted.” She shakes her head. “But coming in here . . . it teaches you what’s important, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I say fervently.

We sit quietly for a while, and I think anxiously about Luke. Maybe I’ll get him to start going to the gym a bit more. And eating that low-fat spread stuff that lowers your cholesterol. Just to be on the safe side.

“I should go back,” says the woman, looking at her watch. She smiles at me. “Good to meet you.”

“You too.” I watch as she walks off down the corridor, then stand up and head back to Michael’s room, shaking back my hair and putting on a cheerful expression. No more dissolving into tears.

“Hi!” says Luke as I enter. He’s sitting on a chair by Michael’s bed, and the atmosphere is a lot more relaxed, thank goodness.

“I was just telling Luke,” says Michael as I sit down. “My daughter’s on at me to retire. Or at least downscale. Move to New York.”

“Really? Ooh, yes, do! We’d love that.”

“It’s a good idea,” says Luke. “Bearing in mind you currently do about six full-time jobs.”

“I really like your daughter,” I say enthusiastically. “We had such fun when she came into Barneys. How’s her new job going?”

Michael’s daughter is an attorney who specializes in patent law, and just exudes extreme cleverness. On the other hand, she hadn’t spotted that she was choosing colors that did nothing for her skin tone until I pointed it out to her.

“Very well indeed, thanks. She just moved to Finerman Wallstein,” Michael adds to Luke. “Very swanky offices.”

“I know them,” says Luke. “I use them for personal matters. In fact, last time I went in there was a few weeks ago. Just about my will. Next time, I’ll call in on her.”

“Do that,” says Michael. “She’d like it.”

“Have you made a will, Luke?” I say with interest.

“Of course I’ve made a will.” Luke stares at me. “Haven’t you?”

“No,” I say—then look from Luke to Michael. “What? What is it?”

“Everyone should make a will,” says Michael gravely.

“It never even
occurred
to me you might not have made one,” says Luke, shaking his head.

“It never even occurred to me to make one!” I say defensively. “I mean, I’m only twenty-seven.”