Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (90 page)

“Bye, Alicia,” I say innocently. “Have a lovely wedding.”

As she stalks out, I subside back in my seat, heart still pumping wth exhilaration. That was one of the best moments of my life. Finally getting the better of Alicia Bitch Longlegs. Finally! I mean, how often has she been horrible to me? Answer: approximately one thousand times. And how often have I had the perfect put-down at my lips? Answer: never.

Until today!

I can see Robyn and Antoine exchanging looks, and I’m dying to ask them what they think of Alicia. But . . . it wouldn’t be becoming in a bride-to-be.

Plus if they bitch about her, they might bitch about me too.

“Now!” says Robyn. “On to something more pleasant. You’ve seen the details of Becky’s wedding, Antoine.”

“Indeed,” says Antoine, beaming at me. “Eet will be a most beautiful event.”

“I know,” I hear myself saying happily. “I’m so looking forward to it!”

“So . . . we discuss the cake . . . I must fetch some pictures for you . . . meanwhile, can I offer you some more champagne, perhaps?”

“Yes, please,” I say, and hold out my glass. “That would be lovely!”

The champagne fizzes, pale and delicious, into my glass. Then Antoine disappears off again and I take a sip, smiling to hide the fact that inside, I’m feeling a slight unease.

Now that Alicia’s gone, there’s no need to pretend anymore. What I should do is put my glass down, take Robyn aside, apologize for having wasted her time—and inform her that the wedding is off and I’m getting married in Oxshott. Quite simple and straightforward.

That’s what I should do.

But . . . something very strange has happened since this morning. I can’t quite explain it—but somehow, sitting here, drinking champagne and eating thousand-dollar cake, I just don’t
feel
like someone who’s going to get married in a garden in Oxshott.

If I’m really honest, hand on heart—I feel exactly like someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza.

More than that, I
want
to be someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza. I
want
to be that girl who swans around expensive cake shops and has people running after her and gets treated like a princess. If I call off the wedding, then it’ll all stop. Everyone will stop making a fuss. I’ll stop being that special, glossy person.

Oh God, what’s happened to me? I was so resolved this morning.

Determinedly I close my eyes and force myself to think back to Mum and her flowering cherry tree. But even that doesn’t work. Perhaps it’s the champagne—but instead of being overcome with emotion, and thinking: I
must
get married at home, I find myself thinking: Maybe we can incorporate the cherry tree into the enchanted forest.

“All right, Becky?” says Robyn, beaming at me. “Penny for them!”

“Oh!” I say, my head jerking up guiltily. “I was just thinking that . . . the um . . . wedding will be fantastic.”

What am I going to do? Am I going to say something?

Am I
not
going to say anything?

Come
on,
Becky. Decide.

“So—you want to see what I have in my bag?” says Robyn brightly.

“Er . . . yes, please.”

“Ta-daah!” She pulls out a thick, embossed card, covered in swirly writing, and hands it to me.

Mrs. Elinor Sherman
requests the honour of your presence
at the marriage of
Rebecca Bloomwood
to her son
Luke Brandon

I stare at it, my heart thumping hard.

This is real. This is really real. Here it is, in black and white.

Or at least, bronze and taupe.

I take the stiff card from her and turn it over and over in my fingers.

“What do you think?” Robyn beams. “It’s exquisite, isn’t it? The card is 80 percent linen.”

“It’s . . . lovely.” I swallow. “It seems very soon to be sending out invitations, though.”

“We aren’t sending them out yet! But I always like to get the invitations done early. What I always say is, you can’t proofread too many times. We don’t want to be asking our guests to wear ‘evening press,’ like one bride I could mention . . .” She trills with laughter.

“Right.” I stare down at the words again.

Saturday June 21st at seven o’clock
at the Plaza Hotel
New York City

This is serious. If I’m going to say anything, I have to say it now. If I’m going to call this wedding off, I have to do it now. Right this minute.

My mouth remains closed.

Does this really mean I’m choosing the Plaza after all? That I’m selling out? That I’m choosing the gloss and glitter? That I’m going with Elinor instead of Mum and Dad?

“I thought you’d like to send one to your mother!” says Robyn.

My head jerks up sharply—but Robyn’s face is blithely innocent. “Such a shame she isn’t here to get involved with the preparations. But she’ll love to see this, won’t she?”

“Yes,” I say after a long pause. “Yes, she’ll . . . love it.”

I put the invitation into my bag and snap the clasp shut, feeling slightly sick.

So this is it. New York it is.

Mum will understand. When I tell her all about it properly, she’ll come round. She has to.

Antoine’s new mandarin and lychee cake is fabulous. But somehow as I nibble at it, my appetite’s gone.

After I’ve tried several more flavors and am no nearer a decision, Antoine and Robyn exchange looks and suggest I probably need time to think. So with one last sugar rose for my purse, I say good-bye and head to Barneys, where I deal with all my clients perfectly pleasantly, as though nothing’s on my mind.

But all the time I’m thinking about the call I’ve got to make. About how I’m going to break the news to Mum. About how I’m going to
explain
to Mum.

I won’t say anything as strong as I definitely want to get married in the Plaza. Not initially. I’ll just tell her that it’s there as a possibility, if we both want it. That’s the key phrase.
If we both want it.

The truth is, I didn’t present it properly to her before. She’ll probably leap at the chance once I explain it all to her fully. Once I tell her about the enchanted forest and the string orchestra, and the dance band and the thousand-dollar cake. A lovely luxury wedding, all expenses paid! I mean, who wouldn’t leap at it?

But my heart’s thumping as I climb the stairs to our apartment. I know I’m not being honest with myself. I know what Mum really wants.

I also know that if I make enough fuss, she’ll do anything I ask her.

I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. Two seconds later, the doorbell rings behind me and I jump with fright. God, I’m on edge at the moment.

“Hi,” I say, opening it. “Oh, Danny, it’s you. Listen, I need to make quite an important phone call. So if you wouldn’t mind—”

“OK, I have to ask you a favor,” he says, coming into the apartment and completely ignoring me.

“What is it?”

“Randall’s been pressuring me. He’s like, where exactly do you sell your clothes? Who exactly are your customers? Do you have a business plan? So I’m like, of course I have a business plan, Randall. I’m planning to buy up Coca-Cola next year, what do you think?”

“Danny?”

“So then he starts saying if I don’t have any genuine client base I should give up and he’s not going to subsidize me anymore. He used the word
subsidize
! Can you believe it?”

“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.”

Ten

M
ICHAEL
’
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.”

“I’ll make an appointment with my lawyer,” says Luke. “We need to sort this out.”

“Well. OK. But honestly . . .” I give a little shrug. Then a thought occurs to me. “So, who have you left everything to?”

“You,” says Luke. “Minus the odd little bequest.”

“Me?” I gape at him. “Really? Me?”

“It is customary for husbands to leave their property to their wives,” he says with a small smile. “Or do you object?”

“No! Of course not! I just . . . kind of . . . didn’t expect it.”

I feel a strange glow of pleasure inside me. Luke’s leaving everything to me!

I don’t know why that should be a surprise. I mean, we live together. We’re getting married. It’s obvious. But still, I can’t help feeling a bit proud.

“Do I take it you’re not planning to leave anything to me?” inquires Luke mildly.

“Of course!” I exclaim. “I mean—of course I will!”

“No pressure,” says Luke, grinning at Michael.

“I will!” I say, growing flustered. “I just hadn’t really thought about it!”

To cover my confusion I reach for a pear and start munching it. Come to think of it, why
have
I never made a will?

I suppose because I’ve never really thought I’ll die. But I could easily, couldn’t I? I mean, our train could crash on the way back to New York. Or an ax murderer could break into our apartment . . .

And who would get all my stuff?

Luke’s right. This is an emergency.

“Becky? Are you OK?” I look up to see Luke putting on his coat. “We must go.”

“Thanks for coming,” says Michael, and squeezes my hand as I bend to kiss him. “I really appreciate it.”

“And I’ll be in touch about the wedding,” says Luke, and smiles at Michael. “No skiving your best-man duties.”

“Absolutely not!” says Michael. “But that reminds me, I got a little confused at the engagement party, talking to different people. Are you two getting married in New York or England?”

“New York,” says Luke, frowning in slight puzzlement. “That has been finally decided, hasn’t it, Becky? I never even asked how your mother took the news.”

“I . . . um . . .” I play for time, wrapping my scarf around my neck.

I can’t admit the truth. I can’t admit that Mum still doesn’t know about the Plaza.

Not here. Not now.

“Yes!” I say, feeling my cheeks flame. “Yes, she was fine. New York it is!”

As we get onto the train, Luke looks pale and drained. I think it upset him more than he’s letting on, seeing Michael looking so helpless. He sits staring out of the darkening window, and I try to think of something that will cheer him up.

“Look!” I say at last. I reach into my bag and take out a book I bought just the other day called
The Promise of Your Life.
“We need to talk about composing our wedding vows.”

“Composing them?” Luke frowns. “Aren’t they always the same?”

“No! That’s old hat. Everyone writes their own these days. Listen to this. ‘Your wedding vows are the chance for you to show the world what you mean to each other. Together with the proclamation by the officiant that you are now married, they are the linchpin of the entire ceremony. They should be the most beautiful and moving words spoken at your wedding.’ ”

I look up expectantly at Luke, but he’s gazing out of the window again.

“It says in this book, we must think about what sort of couple we are,” I press on. “Are we Young Lovers or Autumn Companions?”

Luke isn’t even listening. Perhaps I should find a few specific examples. My eye falls on a page marked Summertime Wedding, which would be quite appropriate.

“‘
As the roses bloom in summertime, so did my love bloom for you. As the white clouds soar above, so does my love soar,’
” I read aloud.

I pull a face. Maybe not. I flick through a few more pages, glancing down as I go.

You helped me through the pain of rehab . . .
Though you are incarcerated for murder, our love will
shine like a beacon . . .

“Ooh, look,” I say suddenly. “This is for high school sweethearts.
‘Our eyes met in a math class. How were we to know that trigonometry would lead to matrimony?’ ”

“Our eyes met across a crowded press conference,” says Luke. “How were we to know love would blossom as I announced an exciting new range of unit trusts investing in European growth companies with tracking facility, fixed-rate costs, and discounted premiums throughout the first accounting period?”

“Luke—”

Well, OK. Maybe this isn’t the time for vows. I shut the book and look anxiously at Luke. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you worried about Michael?” I reach for his hand. “Because honestly, I’m sure he’s going to be fine. You heard what he said. It was just a wake-up call.”

There’s silence for a while—then Luke turns his head.

“While you were going to the rest room,” he says slowly, “I met the parents of the guy in the room next to Michael’s. He had a heart attack last week. Do you know how old he is?”

“How old?” I say apprehensively.

“Thirty-three.”

“God, really? That’s awful!”

Luke’s only a year older than that.

“He’s a bond trader, apparently. Very successful.” He exhales slowly. “It makes you think, doesn’t it? Think about what you’re doing with your life. And wonder.”

“Er . . . yes,” I say, feeling as though I’m walking across eggshells. “Yes, it does.”

Luke’s never spoken like this before. Usually if I start conversations about life and what it all means—which, OK, I don’t do very often—he either brushes me off or turns it into a joke. He certainly never confesses to doubting what he’s doing with his life. I really want to encourage him—but I’m worried I might say the wrong thing and put him off.

Now he’s staring silently out of the window again.

“What exactly were you thinking?” I prompt gently.

“I don’t know,” says Luke after a pause. “I suppose it just makes you see things differently for a moment.”