Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (93 page)

To my astonishment a tear starts trickling down the side of my nose. Where did that come from?

“But you’re fine, apart from that,” says Christina.

“Oh, yes!” I brush at my face. “Apart from that, everything’s great!”

“Becky!” Christina shakes her head. “This is no good. I want you to take some vacation days. You’re due some, anyway.”

“I don’t need a vacation!”

“I’d noticed you’ve been tense recently, but I had no idea it was this bad. It was only when Laurel talked to me this morning—”

“Laurel?” I say, taken aback.

“She’s worried too. She told me she thought you’d lost your sparkle. Even Erin has noticed it. She says she told you about a Kate Spade sample sale yesterday, and you barely looked up. This is not the Becky I hired.”

“Are you firing me?” I say dolefully.

“I’m not firing you! I’m
worried
about you. Becky, that’s some combination of events you just told me about. Your friend . . . and Luke . . . and your apartment . . .”

She reaches for a bottle of mineral water, pours out two glasses, and hands one to me. “And that’s not all. Is it, Becky?”

“What do you mean?” I say apprehensively.

“I think there’s another complication you’re not telling me about. To do with the wedding.” She meets my eyes. “Am I right?”

Oh my God.

How did she find out? I’ve been so careful, I’ve been so—

“Am I right?” repeats Christina gently.

For a few more moments I’m completely motionless. Then, very slowly I nod.

It’s almost a relief to think that the secret’s out.

“How did you find out?” I say, sinking back into my chair.

“Laurel told me.”

“
Laurel?
” A fresh shock runs through me. “But I never—”

“She said it was obvious. Plus you let a few little things slip out . . . You know, keeping a secret is never as easy as you might think.”

“I just . . . can’t believe you know. I haven’t dared tell anybody!” I push my hair back off my hot face. “God knows what you think of me now.”

“Nobody thinks any the worse of you,” says Christina. “Really.”

“I never meant things to get this far.”

“Of course you didn’t! Don’t blame yourself.”

“But it’s all my fault!”

“No it’s not. It’s perfectly normal.”

“
Normal?
”

“Yes! All brides argue with their mothers over the wedding. You’re not the only one, Becky!”

I stare at her confusedly. What did she just say?

“I can understand the strain it’s been putting you under.” Christina looks at me sympathetically. “Especially if you and your mother have always been close in the past?”

Christina thinks . . .

Suddenly I realize she’s waiting for an answer.

“Er . . . yes!” I gulp. “It has been . . . rather difficult.”

Christina nods, as though I’ve confirmed every suspicion she had. “Becky, I don’t often give you advice, do I?”

“Well . . . no.”

“But I want you to listen to me on this. I want you to remember, this is your wedding. Not your mother’s. It’s yours and Luke’s, and you only get one shot. So do it the way
you
want to. Believe me, if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

“Mmm. The thing is . . .” I swallow. “It’s not
quite
that simple—”

“It is that simple. It’s exactly that simple. Becky, it’s your wedding.
It’s your wedding
.”

Her voice is clear and emphatic and I stare at her, glass halfway to my lips, feeling as though a shaft of light is cutting through the cloud.

It’s my wedding.
I’ve never thought of it like that before.

It’s not Mum’s wedding. It’s not Elinor’s wedding. It’s mine.

“It’s easy to fall into the trap of wanting to please your mother too much,” Christina is saying. “It’s a natural, generous instinct. But sometimes you have to put yourself first. When I got married—”

“You were married?” I say in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

“A long time ago. It didn’t work out. Maybe it didn’t work out because I hated every moment of the wedding. From the processional music to the vows that my mother insisted on writing.” Her hand tenses around a plastic water stirrer. “From the lurid blue cocktails to that tacky,
tacky
dress . . .”

“Really? That’s awful!”

“It’s water under the bridge now.” The water stirrer snaps and she gives me a slightly brittle smile. “But just bear my words in mind. It’s your day. Yours and Luke’s. Do it the way you want, and don’t feel guilty about it. And Becky?”

“Yes?”

“Remember, you and your mother are both adults now. So have an adult conversation.” She raises her eyebrows. “You might be surprised at how it turns out.”

Christina is so right.

As I make my way home, I can suddenly see everything clearly. My whole approach to the wedding has changed. I feel full of a fresh, clean determination. This is
my
wedding. It’s
my
day. And if I want to get married in New York, then that’s where I’ll get married. If I want to wear a Vera Wang dress, then that’s what I’ll wear. It’s ridiculous to feel guilty about it.

I’ve been putting off talking to Mum for far too long. I mean, what am I expecting her to do, burst into tears? We’re both adults. We’ll have a sensible, mature conversation and I’ll put forward my point of view calmly, and the whole thing will be sorted out, once and for all. God, I feel liberated. I’m going to call her straight away.

I march into the bedroom, dump my bag on the bed, and dial the number.

“Hi, Dad,” I say as he answers. “Is Mum there? There’s something I need to talk to her about. It’s rather important.”

As I glance at my face in the mirror, I feel like a newsreader on NBC, all crisp and cool and in charge.

“Becky?” says Dad puzzledly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m very well,” I say. “I just have to discuss a . . . a couple of issues with Mum.”

As Dad disappears off the line I take a deep breath and push my hair back, feeling suddenly very grown-up. Here I am, about to have an adult-to-adult, straight-down-the-line conversation with my mother, for probably the first time in my life.

You know, maybe this is the beginning of a whole new relationship with my parents. A new mutual respect. A shared understanding of life.

“Hello, darling?”

“Hi, Mum.” I take a deep breath. Here goes. Calm and mature. “Mum—”

“Oh, Becky, I was going to give you a ring. You’ll never guess who we saw up in the Lake District!”

“Who?”

“Auntie Zannie! You used to dress up in all her old necklaces, do you remember? And her shoes. We were laughing about it, the sight you made, tottering around . . .”

“Mum. There’s something important I need to discuss with you.”

“And they’ve still got the same grocer in the village. The one who used to sell you strawberry ice-cream cones. Do you remember the time you ate too many and weren’t very well? We laughed about that too!”

“Mum—”

“And the Tivertons still live in the same house . . . but . . .”

“What?”

“I’m afraid, love . . . Carrot the donkey has . . .” Mum lowers her voice. “Gone to donkey heaven. But he was very old, darling, and he’ll be very happy up there . . .”

This is impossible. I don’t feel like a grown-up. I feel about six years old.

“They all send you their love,” Mum says, eventually coming to the end of her reminiscences, “and of course they’ll all be at the wedding! So, Dad said you wanted to talk about something?”

“I . . .” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of the echoey silence on the line; of the distance between us. “Well, I wanted to . . . um . . .”

Oh God. My mouth is trembling and my newsreader voice has turned into a nervous squeak.

“What is it, Becky?” Mum’s voice rises in concern. “Is something wrong?”

“No! It’s just that . . . that . . .”

It’s no good.

I know what Christina said is right. I know there’s no need to feel guilty. It’s my wedding, and I’m a grown-up, and I should have it wherever I like. I’m not asking Mum and Dad to pay. I’m not asking them to make any effort.

But even so.

I can’t tell Mum I want to get married in the Plaza over the phone. I just can’t do it.

“I thought I’d come home and see you,” I hear myself saying in a rush. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m coming home.”

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

New York, NY 10014

April 18, 2002

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of April 16 regarding your will. I confirm that under the fourth clause, section (e) I have added the line “And also my new denim high-heeled boots,” as requested.

With kind regards,

Jane Cardozo

Twelve

A
S SOON AS
I see Mum, I feel nervous. She’s standing next to Dad at Terminal 4, scanning the arrivals gate, and as she sees me her whole face lights up with a mixture of delight and anxiety. She was quite taken aback when I told her I was coming home without Luke—in fact, I had to reassure her several times that everything was still OK between us.

Then I had to reassure her that I hadn’t been sacked.

And then promise I wasn’t being chased by international loan sharks.

You know, when I think back over the last few years, I sometimes feel a teeny bit bad about everything I’ve put my parents through.

“Becky! Graham, she’s here!” She runs forward, elbowing a family in turbans out of the way. “Becky, love! How are you? How’s Luke? Is everything all right?”

“Hi, Mum,” I say, and give her a huge hug. “I’m well. Luke sends his love. Everything’s fine.”

Except one tiny matter—I’ve been planning a big wedding in New York behind your back.

Stop it, I instruct my brain firmly, as Dad gives me a kiss and takes my luggage. There’s no point mentioning it yet. There’s no point even thinking about it yet. I’ll bring the subject up later, when we’re all at home, when there’s a natural opening in the conversation.

Which there’s bound to be.

“So, Becky, did you think any more about getting married in America?”

“Well, Mum. It’s funny you should ask that . . .”

Exactly. I’ll wait for some opportunity like that.

But although I act as relaxed as I can, I can’t think about anything else. All the while that Mum and Dad are finding the car, disagreeing on which way the exit is, and arguing over whether £3.60 for an hour’s parking is a reasonable amount, I’ve got an anxious knot in my stomach that tightens every time the words
wedding, Luke, New York,
or
America
are mentioned, even in passing.

This is just like the time when I told my parents I was doing the Further Maths GCSE. Tom next door was doing Further Maths and Janice was really smug about it, so I told Mum and Dad I was too. then the exams came, and I had to pretend I was sitting an extra paper (I spent three hours in Top Shop instead). And then the results came out and they kept saying, “But what did you get in Further Maths?”

So then I made up this story that it took the examiners longer to mark Further Maths than the other subjects because it was harder. And I honestly think they would have believed me, except then Janice came running in, saying, “Tom got an A in Further Maths, what did Becky get?”

Bloody Tom.

“You haven’t asked about the wedding yet,” says Mum as we zoom along the A3 toward Oxshott.

“Oh! No, I haven’t, have I?” I force a bright note into my voice. “So—er . . . how are preparations going?”

“To be honest, we haven’t done very much,” says Dad as we approach the turning for Oxshott.

“It’s early days yet,” says Mum easily.

“It’s only a wedding,” adds Dad. “People get far too het up about these things in my opinion. You can put it all together at the last minute.”

“Absolutely!” I say in slight relief. “I couldn’t agree more!”

Well, thank goodness for that. I sink back in my seat and feel the anxiety drain out of me. This is going to make everything a lot easier. If they haven’t arranged very much yet, it’ll take no time to call it all off. In fact, it sounds like they’re really not bothered about it. This is going to be fine. I’ve been worrying about nothing!

“Suzie phoned, by the way,” says Mum as we start to get near home. “She said, would you like to meet up later on today? I said I was sure you would . . . Oh, and I should warn you.” Mum turns in her seat. “Tom and Lucy.”

“Hmm?” I resign myself to hearing the details of the latest kitchen they’ve had put in, or which promotion Lucy has won at work.

“They’ve split up.” Mum lowers her voice, even though it’s just the three of us in the car.

“Split up?” I stare at her, taken aback. “Are you serious? But they’ve only been married for . . .”

“Not even two years. Janice is devastated, as you can imagine.”

“What happened?” I say blankly, and Mum purses her lips.

“That Lucy ran off with a drummer.”

“A drummer?”

“In a band. Apparently he’s got a pierced . . .” She pauses disapprovingly, and my mind ranges wildly over all the possibilities, some of which I’m sure Mum’s never heard of. (To be honest, I hadn’t either, till I moved to the West Village.) “Nipple,” she says at last, to my slight relief.

“Let me get this straight. Lucy’s run off . . . with a drummer . . . with a pierced nipple.”

“He lives in a trailer,” puts in Dad, signaling left.

“After all the work Tom did on that lovely conservatory,” says Mum, shaking her head. “Some girls have no gratitude.”

I can’t get my head round this. Lucy works for Wetherby’s Investment Bank. She and Tom live in Reigate. Their curtains match their sofa. How on earth did she meet a drummer with a pierced nipple?

Suddenly I remember that conversation I overheard in the garden when I was here last. Lucy didn’t exactly sound happy. But then she didn’t exactly sound like she was about to run off, either.

“So how’s Tom?”

“He’s coping,” says Dad. “He’s at home with Janice and Martin at the moment, poor lad.”

“If you ask me, he’s well out of it,” says Mum crisply. “It’s Janice I feel sorry for. After that lovely wedding she put on. They were all fooled by that girl.”

We pull up outside the house, and to my surprise there are two white vans parked in the drive.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“Nothing,” says Mum.

“Plumbing,” says Dad.

But they’ve both got slightly strange expressions. Mum’s eyes are bright, and she glances at Dad a couple of times as we walk up to the front door.

“So, are you ready?” says Dad casually. He puts his key into the lock and swings open the door.

“Surprise!” cry Mum and Dad simultaneously, and my jaw drops to the ground.

The old hall wallpaper has gone. The old hall carpet has gone. The whole place has been done in light, fresh colors, with pale carpet and new lighting everywhere. As my eye runs disbelievingly upward I see an unobtrusive man in overalls repainting the banisters; on the landing are two more, standing on a stepladder and putting up a candelabra. Everywhere is the smell of paint and newness. And money being spent.

“You’re having the house done up,” I say feebly.

“For the wedding!” says Mum, beaming at me.

“You said—” I swallow. “You said you hadn’t done much.”

“We wanted to surprise you!”

“What do you think, Becky?” says Dad, gesturing around. “Do you like it? Does it meet with your approval?”

His voice is jokey. But I can tell it really matters to him whether I like it. To both of them. They’re doing all this for me.

“It’s . . . fantastic,” I say huskily. “Really lovely.”

“Now, come and look at the garden!” says Mum, and I follow her dumbly through to the French windows, where I see a team of uniformed gardeners working away in the flower beds.

“They’re going to plant ‘Luke and Becky’ in pansies!” says Mum. “Just in time for June.” And we’re having a new water feature put in, right by where the entrance to the marquee will be. I saw it in
Modern Garden.
”

“It sounds . . . great.”

“And it lights up at night, so when we have the fireworks—”

“What fireworks?” I say, and Mum looks at me in surprise.

“I sent you a fax about the fireworks, Becky! Don’t say you’ve forgotten.”

“No! Of course not!”

My mind flicks back to the pile of faxes Mum’s been sending me, and which I’ve been guiltily thrusting under the bed, some skimmed over, some completely unread.

What have I been doing? Why haven’t I paid attention to what’s been going on?

“Becky, love, you don’t look at all well,” says Mum. “You must be tired after the flight. Come and have a nice cup of coffee.”

We walk into the kitchen, and I feel my insides gripped with new horror.

“Have you installed a new kitchen too?”

“Oh, no!” says Mum gaily. “We just had the units repainted. They look pretty, don’t they? Now. Have a nice croissant. They come from the new bakery.”

She hands me a basket—but I can’t eat. I feel sick.

“Becky?” Mum peers at me. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” I say quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s all . . . perfect.”

What am I going to do?

“You know . . . I think I’ll just go and unpack,” I say, and manage a weak smile. “Sort myself out a bit.”

As I close my bedroom door behind me, the weak smile is still pasted to my face, but inside my heart is thumping wildly.

This is not going as planned.

This is not going remotely as planned. New wallpaper? Water features? Fireworks displays? How come I didn’t know about any of this? I should have been more attentive. This is all my own fault. Oh God, oh God . . .

How can I tell Mum and Dad this has all got to be called off? How can I do it?

I can’t.

But I have to.

But I can’t, I just can’t.

It’s
my
wedding, I remind myself firmly, trying to regain my New York kick-ass confidence. I can have it where I like.

But the words ring false in my brain, making me wince. Maybe that was true at the beginning. Before anything had been done, before any effort had been made. But now . . . this isn’t just my wedding anymore. This is Mum’s and Dad’s gift to me. It’s the biggest present they’ve ever given me in my life, and they’ve invested it with all the love and care they can muster.

And I’m proposing to reject it. To say thanks, but no thanks.

What have I been thinking?

Heart thumping, I reach into my pocket for the notes I scribbled on the plane, trying to remember all my justifications.

Reasons why our wedding should be at the Plaza:

1. Wouldn’t you love a trip to New York, all expenses paid?

2. The Plaza is a fantastic hotel.

3. You won’t have to make any effort.

4. A marquee would only mess up the garden.

5. You won’t have to invite Auntie Sylvia.

6. You get free Tiffany frames.

They seemed so convincing when I was writing them. Now they seem like jokes. Mum and Dad don’t know anything about the Plaza. Why would they want to fly off to some snooty hotel they’ve never clapped eyes on? Why would they want to give up hosting the wedding they’ve always dreamed of? I’m their only daughter. Their one and only child.

So . . . what am I going to do?

I sit staring at the page, breathing hard, letting my thoughts fight it out. I’m scrabbling desperately for a solution, a loophole to wriggle through, unwilling to give up until I’ve tried every last possibility. Round and round, over the same old ground.

“Becky?”

Mum comes in and I give a guilty start, crumpling the list in my hand.

“Hi!” I say brightly. “Ooh. Coffee. Lovely.”

“It’s decaffeinated,” says Mum, handing me a mug reading
You Don’t Have to Be Mad to Organize a Wedding But Your Mother Does
. “I thought maybe you were drinking decaffeinated these days.”

“No,” I say in surprise. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“And how are you feeling?” Mum sits down next to me and I surreptitiously transfer my screwed-up piece of paper from one hand to the other. “A little bit tired? Sick, too, probably.”

“Not too bad.” I give a slightly heavier sigh than I meant to. “The airline food was pretty grim, though.”

“You must keep your strength up!” Mum squeezes my arm. “Now, I’ve got something for you, darling!” She hands me a piece of paper. “What do you think?”

I unfold the paper and stare at it in bewilderment. It’s house details. A four-bedroom house in Oxshott, to be precise.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Mum’s face is glowing. “Look at all the features!”

“You’re not going to move, are you?”

“Not for us, silly! You’d be just round the corner from us! Look, it’s got a built-in barbecue, two en-suite bathrooms . . .”

“Mum, we live in New York.”

“You do at the moment. But you won’t want to stay in New York forever, will you? Not in the long term.”

There’s a sudden thread of concern in her voice; and although she’s smiling, I can see the tension in her eyes. I open my mouth to answer—then realize, to my own surprise, that Luke and I haven’t ever talked properly about the long term.

I suppose I’ve always assumed that we’ll come back to Britain one day. But when?

“You’re not planning to stay there for good, surely?” she adds, and gives a little laugh.

“I don’t know,” I say confusedly. “I don’t know what we want to do.”

“You couldn’t bring up a family in that poky flat! You’ll want to come home! You’ll want a nice house with a garden! Especially now.”

“Now what?”

“Now . . .” She makes a euphemistic circling gesture.

“What?”

“Oh, Becky.” Mum sighs. “I can understand if you’re a little . . . shy about telling people. But it’s all right, darling! These days, it’s perfectly acceptable. There’s no stigma!”

“
Stigma?
What are you—”

“The only thing we’ll need to know”—she pauses delicately—“is how much to let the dress out by? For the day?”

Let out the dress? What on . . .

Hang on.

“Mum! You haven’t got the idea that I’m . . . I’m . . .” I make the same euphemistic gesture that she made.

“You’re not?” Mum’s face falls in disappointment.

“No! Of course I’m not! Why on earth would you think that?”

“You said you had something important to discuss with us!” says Mum, defensively taking a sip of coffee. “It wasn’t Luke, it wasn’t your job, and it wasn’t your bank manager. And Suzie’s having a baby, and you two girls always do things together, so we assumed . . .”

“Well, I’m not, OK? And I’m not on drugs either, before you ask.”

“So, then, what
did
you want to tell us?” She puts her coffee down and looks at me anxiously. “What was so important that you had to come home?”

There’s silence in the bedroom. My fingers tighten around my mug.