Shopaholic Ties the Knot (43 page)

“Robyn,” I say honestly, “I think you’re worth every penny.” I put an arm round her and give her a kiss. “Bye. And bye again, Elinor.”

The music swells through the air again, we start walking again, and more rose petals start cascading from the ceiling. I really have to hand it to Robyn. People are crowding around and applauding—and is it my imagination, or do they look a bit friendlier, following the Alicia incident? At the end of the line I spot Erin leaning eagerly forward, and I toss my bouquet into her outstretched hands.

And then we’re out.

The heavy double doors close behind us and we’re in the silent, plushy corridor, empty but for the two bouncers, who stare studiously ahead.

“We did it,” I say, half laughing in relief; in exhilaration. “Luke, we did it!”

“So I gather,” says Luke, nodding. “Well done, us. Now, do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”

LAUREL ARRANGED IT all perfectly. After a quick detour to the West Village for Danny’s passport, we arrived at Teterboro to find the plane all ready for us. We arrived at Gatwick at about eight in the morning, where another car was waiting for us. And now we’re speeding through Surrey toward Oxshott. We’ll be there soon! I can’t quite believe how seamless it’s all been.

“Of course, you know your big mistake,” says Danny, stretching luxuriously back in the leather Mercedes seat.

“What’s that?” I say, looking up from the phone.

“Sticking to two weddings. I mean, as long as you’re going to do it more than once, why not three times? Why not six times? Six parties . . .”

“Six dresses . . .” puts in Luke.

“Six cakes . . .”

“Look, shut up!” I say indignantly. “I didn’t do all this intentionally, you know! It just . . . happened.”

“Just happened,” echoes Danny scoffingly. “Becky, you needn’t pretend to us. You wanted to wear two dresses. There’s no shame in it.”

“Danny, I’m on the phone—” I look out of the window. “OK, Suze, I think we’re about ten minutes away.”

“I just can’t believe you’ve made it,” says Suze down the line. “I can’t believe it all worked out! I feel like rushing around, telling everyone!”

“Well, don’t!”

“But it’s so incredible! To think last night you were at the Plaza, and now—” She stops in sudden alarm. “Hey, you’re not still wearing your wedding dress, are you?”

“Of course not!” I giggle. “I’m not a complete moron. We changed on the plane.”

“And what was that like?”

“It was
so
cool. Honestly, Suze, I’m only ever traveling by Lear-jet from now on.”

It’s a bright sunny day, and as I look out of the window at the passing fields, I feel a swell of happiness. I can’t quite believe it’s all fallen into place. After all these months of worry and trouble. We’re here in England. The sun is shining. And we’re going to get married.

“You know, I’m a tad concerned,” says Danny, peering out of the window. “Where are all the castles?”

“This is Surrey,” I explain. “We don’t have castles.”

“And where are the soldiers with bearskins on their heads?” He narrows his eyes. “Becky, you’re sure this is England? You’re sure that pilot knew where he was going?”

“Pretty sure,” I say, getting out my lipstick.

“I don’t know,” he says doubtfully. “This looks a lot more like France to me.”

We pull up at a traffic light and he winds down the window.

“
Bonjour
,” he says to a startled woman. “
Comment allez-vous
?”

“I . . . I wouldn’t know,” says the woman, and hurries across the road.

“I knew it,” says Danny. “Becky, I hate to break it to you . . . but this is France.”

“It’s Oxshott, you idiot,” I retort. “And . . . here’s our road.”

I feel a huge spasm of nerves as I see the familiar sign. We’re nearly there.

“OK,” says the driver. “Elton Road. Which number?”

“Number 43. The house over there,” I say. “The one with the balloons and the bunting . . . and the silver streamers in the trees . . .”

Blimey. The whole place looks like a fairground. There’s a man up in the horse chestnut tree at the front, threading lightbulbs through the branches, and a white van parked in the drive, and women in green and white stripy uniforms bustling in and out of the house.

“Looks like they’re expecting you, anyway,” says Danny. “You OK?”

“Fine,” I say—and it’s ridiculous, but my voice is shaking.

The car comes to a halt, and so does the other car behind, which is carrying all our luggage.

“What I don’t understand,” says Luke, staring out at all the activity, “is how you managed to shift an entire wedding forward by a day. At three weeks’ notice. I mean, you’re talking the caterers, you’re talking the band, you’re talking a million different very busy professionals . . .”

“Luke, this isn’t Manhattan,” I say, opening the car door. “You’ll see.”

As we get out, the front door swings open, and there’s Mum, wearing tartan trousers and a sweatshirt reading “Mother of the Bride.”

“Becky!” she cries, and runs over to give me a hug.

“Mum.” I hug her back. “Is everything OK?”

“Everything’s under control, I think!” she says a little flusteredly. “We had a problem with the table posies, but fingers crossed, they should be on their way . . . Luke! How are you? How was the financial conference?”

“It went er . . . very well,” he says. “Very well indeed, thank you. I’m just sorry it’s caused so much trouble with the wedding arrangements—”

“Oh, that’s all right!” says Mum. “I’ll admit, I was a bit taken aback when Becky phoned. But in the end, it didn’t take much doing! Most of the guests were staying over for Sunday brunch, anyway. And Peter at the church was most understanding, and said he didn’t usually conduct weddings on a Sunday, but in this case he’d make an exception—”

“But what about . . . the catering, for instance? Wasn’t that all booked for yesterday?”

“Oh, Lulu didn’t mind! Did you, Lulu?” she says to one of the women in green and white stripes.

“No!” says Lulu brightly. “Of course not. Hello, Becky! How are you?”

Oh my God! It’s Lulu who used to take me for Brownies.

“Hi!” I say, “I didn’t know you did catering!”

“Oh well.” She makes a self-deprecating little gesture. “It’s just to keep me busy, really. Now that the children are older . . .”

“You know, Lulu’s son Aaron is in the band!” says Mum proudly. “He plays the keyboards! And you know, they’re very good! They’ve been practicing ‘Unchained Melody’ especially—”

“Now, just taste this!” says Lulu, reaching into a foil-covered tray and producing a canapé. “It’s our new Thai filo parcels. We’re rather pleased with them. You know, filo pastry is very in now.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes.” Lulu nods knowledgeably. “
No one
has shortcake tartlets anymore. And as for vol-au-vents . . .” She pulls a little face. “Over.”

“You are so right,” says Danny, his eyes bright. “The vol-au-vent is dead. The vol-au-vent is toast, if you will. May I ask where you stand on the asparagus roll?”

“Mum, this is Danny,” I put in quickly. “My neighbor, remember?”

“Mrs. B., it’s an honor to meet you,” says Danny, kissing Mum’s hand. “You don’t mind my tagging along with Becky?”

“Of course not!” says Mum. “The more the merrier! Now, come and see the marquee!”

As we walk round to the garden, my jaw drops. A huge silver and white striped marquee is billowing on the lawn. All the flower beds read “Becky and Luke” in pansies. There are fairy lights strung up in every available bush and shrub. A uniformed gardener is polishing a new granite water feature, someone else is sweeping the patio, and inside the marquee I can see lots of middle-aged women sitting in a semicircle, holding notebooks.

“Janice is just giving the girls the team briefing,” says Mum in an undertone. “She’s really got into this wedding organizing lark now. She wants to start doing it professionally!”

“Now,” I hear Janice saying as we approach. “The emergency rose petals will be in a silver basket by Pillar A. Could you all please mark that on your floorplans—”

“You know, I think she’ll be a success,” I say thoughtfully.

“Betty and Margot, if you could be in charge of buttonholes. Annabel, if you could please take care of—”

“Mum?” says Luke, peering into the marquee incredulously.

Oh my God. It’s Annabel! It’s Luke’s stepmum, sitting there along with everyone else.

“Luke!” Annabel looks round and her entire face lights up. “Janice, excuse me for a moment—”

She hurries toward us and envelops Luke in a tight hug.

“You’re here. I’m so glad to see you.” She peers anxiously into his face. “Are you all right, darling?”

“I’m fine,” says Luke, “I think. A lot’s been going on . . .”

“So I understand,” says Annabel, and gives me a sharp look. “Becky.” She reaches out with one arm and hugs me, too. “I’m going to have a long chat with you later,” she says into my ear.

“So . . . you’re helping with the wedding?” says Luke to his stepmother.

“Oh, it’s all hands to the deck around here,” says Mum gaily. “Annabel’s one of us now!”

“And where’s Dad?” says Luke, looking around.

“He’s gone to get some extra glasses with Graham,” says Mum. “Those two have really hit it off. Now, who’s for a cup of coffee?”

“You’re getting on well with Luke’s parents!” I say, following Mum toward the kitchen.

“Oh, they’re super!” she says happily. “Really charming. They’ve already invited us down to stay in Devon. Nice, normal, down-to-earth people. Not like . . . that woman.”

“No. They’re quite different from Elinor.”

“She didn’t seem at all interested in the wedding,” says Mum, her voice prickling slightly. “You know, she never even replied to her invitation!”

“Didn’t she?”

Damn. I thought I’d done a reply from Elinor.

“Have you seen much of her recently?” says Mum.

“Er . . . no,” I say. “Not much.”

We carry a tray of coffee upstairs to Mum’s bedroom, and open the door to find Suze and Danny sitting on the bed, with Ernie lying between them, kicking his little pink feet. And hanging on the wardrobe door opposite, Mum’s wedding dress, as white and frilly as ever.

“Suze!” I exclaim, giving her a hug. “And gorgeous Ernie! He’s got so
big—
” I bend down to kiss his cheek, and he gives me an enormous gummy smile.

“You made it.” Suze grins at me. “Well done, Bex.”

“Suze has just been showing me your family heirloom wedding dress, Mrs. B.,” says Danny, raising his eyebrows at me. “It’s . . . quite unique.”

“This dress is a real survivor!” says Mum delightedly. “We thought it was ruined, but all the coffee came out!”

“What a miracle!” says Danny.

“And even just this morning, little Ernie tried to throw apple puree over it—”

“Oh, really?” I say, glancing at Suze, who flushes slightly.

“But luckily I’d covered it in protective plastic!” says Mum. She reaches for the dress and shakes out the frills, slightly pink about the eyes. “This is a moment I’ve been dreaming about for so long. Becky wearing my wedding dress. I am a silly, aren’t I?”

“It’s not silly,” I say, and give her a hug. “It’s what weddings are all about.”

“Mrs. Bloomwood, Becky described the dress to me,” says Danny. “And I can honestly say she didn’t do it justice. But you won’t mind if I make a couple of teeny tiny alterations?”

“Not at all!” says Mum, and glances at her watch. “Well, I must get on. I’ve still got to chase these posies!”

As the door closes behind her, Danny and Suze exchange glances.

“OK,” says Danny. “What are we going to do with this?”

“You could cut the sleeves off, for a start,” says Suze. “And all those frills on the bodice.”

“I mean, how much of it do we actually need to keep?” Danny looks up. “Becky, what do you think?”

I don’t reply. I’m staring out of the window into the garden. I can see Luke and Annabel walking round the garden, their heads close together, talking. And there’s Mum talking to Janice, and gesturing to the flowering cherry tree.

“Becky?” says Danny again.

“Don’t touch it,” I say, turning round.

“What?”

“Don’t do anything to it.” I smile at Danny’s appalled face. “Just leave it as it is.”

By ten to three I’m ready. I’m wearing the sausage roll dress. My face has been made up by Janice as Radiant Spring Bride, only slightly toned down with a tissue and water. I’ve got a garland of bright pink carnations and gypsophila in my hair, which Mum ordered along with my bouquet. The only remotely stylish thing about me is my Christian Louboutin shoes, which you can’t even see.

And I don’t care. I look exactly how I want to look.

We’ve had our photos taken by the flowering cherry tree, and Mum has wept all down her “Summer Elegance” makeup and had to be retouched. And now everyone has gone off to the church. It’s me and Dad, waiting to go.

“Ready?” he says, as a white Rolls-Royce purrs into the drive.

“I think so,” I say, a slight wobble to my voice.

I’m getting married. I’m really getting married.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” I say, only half joking.

“Oh, I think so.” Dad looks into the hall stand mirror and adjusts his silk tie. “I remember saying to your mother, the very first day I met Luke, ‘This one will keep up with Becky.’ ” He meets my eye in the mirror. “Was I right, love? Does he keep up with you?”

“Not quite.” I grin at him. “But . . . he’s getting there.”

“Good.” Dad smiles back. “That’s probably all he can hope for.”

The driver is ringing the doorbell, and as I open the door, I peer at the face under the peaked cap. I don’t believe it. It’s my old driving instructor, Clive.

“Clive! Hi! how are you?”

“Becky Bloomwood!” he exclaims. “Well, I never! Becky Bloomwood, getting married! Did you ever pass your test, then?”

“Er . . . yes. Eventually.”

“Who would have thought it?” He shakes his head, marvelingly. “I used to go home to the wife and say, ‘If that girl passes her test, I’m a fried egg.’ And then of course, when it came to it—”