Shopaholic Ties the Knot (4 page)

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?