Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (94 page)

This is it. This is my lead-in moment. This is my opportunity to confess everything. If I’m going to do it, I have to do it right now. Before they go any further. Before they spend any more money.

“Well, it’s . . .” I clear my throat. “It’s just that . . .”

I stop, and take a sip of coffee. My throat is tight and I feel slightly sick. How can I possibly do this?

I close my eyes and allow the glitter of the Plaza to flash before my eyes, trying to summon up all the excitement and glamour again. The gilded rooms, the plushiness everywhere. Images of myself sweeping around that huge shiny dance floor before an admiring crowd.

But somehow . . . it doesn’t seem quite as overpowering as it did before. Somehow it doesn’t seem as convincing.

Oh God. What do I want? What do I really want?

“I knew it!”

I look up to see Mum gazing at me in dismay. “I knew it! You and Luke
have
fallen out, haven’t you?”

“Mum—”

“I just knew it! I said to your father several times, ‘I can feel it in my bones, Becky’s coming home to call off the wedding.’ He said nonsense, but I could just
feel
it, here.” Mum clasps her chest. “A mother knows these things. And I was right, wasn’t I? You do want to cancel the wedding, don’t you?”

I stare at her dumbly. She knows I came home to cancel the wedding. How does she know that?

“Becky? Are you all right?” Mum puts an arm round my shoulders. “Darling, listen. We won’t mind. All Dad and I want is the best for you. And if that means calling off the wedding, then that’s what we’ll do. Love, you mustn’t go ahead with it unless you’re 100 percent sure—110 percent!”

“But . . . but you’ve made so much effort . . .” I mumble. “You’ve spent all this money . . .”

“That doesn’t matter! Money doesn’t matter!” She squeezes me tight. “Becky, if you have any doubts at all, we’ll cancel straight away. We just want you to be happy. That’s all we want.”

Mum sounds so sympathetic and understanding, for a few instants I can’t speak. Here she is, offering me the very thing I came home to ask for. Without any questions, without any recriminations. Without anything but love and support.

As I look at her kind, cozy, familiar face, I know, beyond any doubt, that it’s impossible.

“It’s all right,” I manage at last. “Mum, Luke and I haven’t fallen out. The . . . the wedding’s still on.” I rub my face. “You know, I think I’ll just go outside and . . . and get some air.”

As I step out into the garden, a couple of of the hired gardeners look up and say hello, and I smile weakly back. I feel completely paranoid, as though my secret is so huge, I must somehow be giving it away. As though people must be able to see it, bulging out of me, or floating above my head in bubble captions.

I have another wedding planned.

For the same day as this one.

My parents have no idea.

Yes, I know I’m in trouble.

Yes, I know I’ve been stupid.

Oh, just piss off and leave me alone, can’t you see how completely stressed out I am?

“Hello, Becky.”

I give a start of surprise and turn round. Standing at the garden fence in the next-door garden, looking mournfully at me, is Tom.

“Tom! Hi!” I say, trying not to give away my shock at his appearance.

But . . . blimey. He looks awful, all pale and miserable and wearing absolutely terrible clothes. Not that Tom’s ever been a style king—but while he was with Lucy, he did acquire a veneer of OK-ness. In fact, his hair went through quite a groovy stage. But now it’s back to greasy hair and the maroon jumper Janice gave him five Christmases ago.

“Sorry to hear about . . .” I pause awkwardly.

“That’s all right.”

He hunches his shoulders miserably and looks around at all the gardeners digging and clipping away behind me. “So, how are the wedding preparations going?”

“Oh . . . fine,” I say brightly. “You know, it’s all lists at this stage. Things to do, things to check, little details to . . . to . . . finalize . . .”

Like which continent to get married in. Oh God. Oh God.

“So . . . er, how are your parents?”

“I remember the preparations for our wedding.” Tom shakes his head. “Seems a million years ago now. Different people.”

“Oh, Tom.” I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. Let’s change the—”

“You know the worst thing?” says Tom, ignoring me.

“Er . . .” Your hair, I nearly say.

“The worst thing is, I thought I understood Lucy. We understood each other. But all the time . . .” He breaks off, reaches in his pocket for a handkerchief, and blows his nose. “I mean, now I look back, of course I can see there were signs.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” says Tom. “I just didn’t pick up on them.”

“Such as . . .” I prompt gently, trying not to give away how curious I am.

“Well.” He thinks for a moment. “Like the way she kept saying if she had to live in Reigate for one more minute she’d shoot herself.”

“Right,” I say, slightly taken aback.

“Then there was the screaming fit she had in Furniture Village . . .”

“Screaming fit?”

“She began yelling, ‘I’m twenty-seven! I’m twenty-seven! What am I doing here?’ Security had to come in the end, and calm her down.”

“But I don’t understand. I thought she loved Reigate! You two seemed so . . .”

Smug
is the word I’m searching for.

“So . . . happy!”

“She was happy until all the wedding presents were unwrapped,” says Tom thoughtfully. “Then . . . it was like she suddenly looked around and realized . . . this was her life now. And she didn’t like what she saw. Including me, I expect.”

“Oh, Tom.”

“She started saying she was sick of the suburbs, and she wanted to have a bit of life while she was young. But I thought, we’ve just repainted the house, we’re halfway through the new conservatory, this isn’t a good time to move—” He looks up, his eyes full of misery. “I should have listened, shouldn’t I? Maybe I should even have got the tattoo.”

“She wanted you to get a
tattoo
?”

“To match hers.”

Lucy Webster with a tattoo! I almost want to laugh. But then, as I look at Tom’s miserable face, I feel a surge of anger. OK, Tom and I haven’t always seen eye to eye over the years. But he doesn’t deserve this. He is what he is. And if Lucy wasn’t happy with that, then why did she get married to him in the first place?

“Tom, you can’t blame yourself,” I say firmly. “It sounds like Lucy was having her own problems.”

“Do you think?”

“Of course. She was very lucky to have you. More fool her, not appreciating it.” Impulsively I lean across the fence and give him a hug. As I draw away again, he stares at me with huge eyes, like a dog.

“You’ve always understood me, Becky.”

“Well, we’ve known each other a long time.”

“No one else knows me like you do.”

His hands are still round my shoulders, and he doesn’t seem about to let go, so I step backward under the pretext of gesturing at the house, where a man in overalls is painting a window frame.

“Have you seen all the work Mum and Dad are having done? It’s incredible.”

“Oh, yes. They’re really pushing the boat out. I heard about the fireworks display. You must be very excited.”

“I’m really looking forward to it,” I say automatically. It’s what I’ve said at once, every time anyone’s mentioned the wedding to me. But now, as I watch our old, familiar house being smartened up, like a lady putting on makeup, I start to feel a strange sensation. A strange tugging at my heart.

With a sudden pang, I realize I
am
looking forward to it.

I’m looking forward to seeing our garden all bedecked with balloons. To seeing Mum all dressed up and happy. Getting ready in my own bedroom, at my own dressing table. Saying good-bye to my old life properly. Not in some impersonal suite in a hotel . . . but here. At home, where I grew up.

While I was in New York, I couldn’t begin to envisage this wedding. It seemed so tiny and humdrum in comparison to the glamour of the Plaza. But now that I’m here, it’s the Plaza that’s starting to seem unreal. It’s the Plaza that’s slipping away, like an exotic, far-off holiday, which I’m already starting to forget. It’s been a lot of fun playing the part of a New York princess bride, tasting sumptuous dishes and discussing vintage champagne and million-dollar flower arrangements. But that’s the point. I’ve been playing a part.

The truth is, this is where I belong. Right here in this English garden I’ve known all my life.

So what am I going to do?

Am I really going to . . .

I can barely even think it.

Am I really even contemplating canceling that whole, huge, expensive wedding?

Just the thought of it makes my insides shrivel up.

“Becky?” Mum’s voice penetrates my thoughts and I look up dazedly, to see her standing at the patio doors, holding a tablecloth. “Becky! There’s a phone call for you inside.”

“Oh. OK. Who is it?”

“Someone called Robin,” says Mum. “Hello, Tom, love!”

“Robin?” I frown puzzledly as I walk back toward the house. “Robin who?”

I’m not sure I know any Robins. Apart from Robin Anderson who used to work for
Investment Monthly,
but I hardly knew him, really—

“I didn’t catch the surname, I’m afraid,” says Mum. “But she seems very nice. She said she was calling from New York . . .”

Robyn?

I can’t move. I’m pinioned with horror to the patio steps.

Robyn is on the phone . . . here?

This is all wrong. Robyn doesn’t belong in this world, she belongs in New York. This is like when people go back in time and mess up World War II.

“Is she a friend?” Mum’s saying innocently. “We’ve just had a nice little chat about the wedding . . .”

The ground wobbles beneath me.

“What . . . what did she say?” I manage.

“Nothing in particular!” Mum stares at me in surprise. “She asked me what color I was going to wear . . . and she kept saying something odd about violinists. You don’t want violinists at the wedding, do you, love?”

“Of course not!” My voice rises shrilly. “What would I want violinists for?”

“Becky, darling, are you all right?” Mum peers at me. “I’ll tell her you’ll call back, shall I?”

“No! Don’t talk to her again! I mean . . . it’s fine. I’ll take it.”

I hurry into the house, heart thumping. What am I going to say? Should I tell her I’ve changed my mind?

As I pick up the phone, I see that Mum’s followed me inside. Oh God. How am I going to manage this?

“Robyn, hi!” I attempt a natural tone. “How are you?”

OK. I’ll just get her off the phone, as quickly as possible.

“Hi! Becky! I’m so glad I got a chance to speak with your mother!” says Robyn. “She seems a lovely lady. I’m so looking forward to meeting her!”

“Me too,” I say as heartily as I can. “I can’t wait for you to . . . get together.”

“Although I was surprised she didn’t know about the string orchestra. Tut tut! You really should keep your mom up-to-date, Becky!”

“I know,” I say after a pause. “I’ve just been quite busy . . .”

“I can understand that,” says Robyn sympathetically. “Why don’t I send her an information package? It would be so easy to FedEx it over. Then she’ll see the whole thing in front of her eyes! If you give me the address—”

“No!” I cry before I can stop myself. “I mean . . . don’t worry. I’ll pass everything on. Really. Don’t . . . send anything. Nothing at all.”

“Not even a few menu cards? I’m sure she’d love to see those!”

“No! Nothing!”

My hand is tight around the receiver and my face is sweating. I don’t even dare look at Mum.

“Well, OK!” says Robyn at last. “You’re the boss! Now, I’ve spoken to Sheldon Lloyd about the table arrangements . . .”

As she babbles on, I dart a glance at Mum, who is about three feet away from me. Surely she can hear the phone from there? Surely she just heard the word
Plaza
? Surely she just caught
wedding
and
ballroom
?

“Right,” I say, without taking in anything that Robyn’s saying, “That all sounds fine.” I twist the cord around my fingers. “But . . . but listen, Robyn. The thing is, I’ve come home to get away from it all. So could you possibly not phone me here anymore?”

“You don’t want to be updated?” says Robyn in surprise.

“No. That’s fine. You just . . . do your thing, and I’ll catch up when I get back next week.”

“No problem. I understand. You need time out! Becky, I promise, unless it’s an emergency, I’ll leave you alone. You have a lovely break now!”

“Thanks. I will. Bye, Robyn.”

I put the phone down, shaky with relief. Thank God she’s gone.

But I don’t feel safe. Robyn’s got the number here now. She could phone at any time. I mean, what counts as an emergency in wedding planning? Probably anything. Probably a misplaced rose petal. She only has to say one wrong word to Mum, and both of them will realize what’s been going on. Mum will immediately realize why I came back here, what I was trying to say.

She’d be so hurt. I can’t allow that to happen.

OK, I have two options. Number one: get Mum and Dad to move house immediately. Number two . . .

“Listen, Mum,” I say, turning round. “That woman Robyn. She’s . . .”

“Yes?”

“She’s . . . deranged.”

“Deranged?” Mum stares at me. “What do you mean, love?”

“She . . . she’s in love with Luke!”

“Oh my goodness!”

“Yes, and she’s got this weird delusion that she’s going to marry him.”

“
Marry
him?” Mum gapes at me.

“Yes! At the Plaza Hotel! Apparently she even tried to . . . um . . . book it. Under my name!”

My fingers are twisting into complicated knots. I must be crazy. Mum’ll never fall for this. Never. Not in a million—

“You know, that doesn’t surprise me!” says Mum. “I could tell there was something a bit odd about her straight away. All this nonsense about violins! And she seemed obsessed by what color I was going to wear—”