Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (97 page)

I meet Suze’s eyes, and she beams euphorically. She’s been beaming ever since he was born, and I’m secretly wondering if they gave her a bit too much laughing gas.

“Isn’t he just perfect?”

“He’s perfect.” I touch his tiny fingernail. To think that’s been growing inside Suze, all this time.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” says a nurse, coming into the warm, bright room. “You must be exhausted.”

“Thanks very much,” I say gratefully, stretching out a hand.

“I meant Mum,” says the nurse, giving me an odd look.

“Oh,” I say flusteredly. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” says Suze. “Give it to Bex. She deserves it.” She gives me an abashed smile. “Sorry I got angry with you.”

“That’s all right.” I bite my lip. “Sorry I kept saying, ‘Does it really hurt?’ ”

“No, you were great. Seriously, Bex. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Some flowers have arrived,” says a midwife, coming in. “And we’ve had a message from your husband. He’s stuck on the island for the moment because of bad weather, but he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

“Thanks,” says Suze, managing a smile. “That’s great.”

But when the midwife goes out again, her lips begin to tremble. “Bex, what am I going to do if Tarkie can’t get back? Mummy’s in Ulan Bator, and Daddy doesn’t know one end of a baby from the other . . . I’m going to be all on my own . . .”

“No, you aren’t!” I quickly put an arm round her. “I’ll look after you!”

“But don’t you have to go back to America?”

“I don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll change my flight and take more vacation days.” I give her a tight hug. “I’m staying here with you for as long as you need me, Suze, and that’s the end of it.”

“What about the wedding?”

“I don’t need to worry about the wedding any more. Suze, I’m staying with you, and that’s that.”

“Really?” Suze’s chin quivers. “Thanks, Bex.” She shifts the baby cautiously in her arms, and he gives a little snuffle. “Do you . . . know anything about babies?”

“You don’t have to know anything!” I say confidently. “You just have to feed them and dress them up in nice clothes and wheel them around the shops.”

“I’m not sure—”

“And anyway, just look at little Armani.” I reach into the white bundle of blanket and touch the baby’s cheek fondly.

“We’re
not
naming him Armani!”

“Well, whatever. He’s an angel! He must be what they call an ‘easy’ baby.”

“He is good, isn’t he?” says Suze, pleased. “He hasn’t even cried once!”

“Honestly, Suze, don’t worry.” I take a sip of tea and smile at her. “It’ll be a blast!”

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

New York, NY 10014

May 6, 2002

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

Thank you for your message of April 30, and I confirm that under the fourth clause I have added the section “(f) I give and bequeath to my gorgeous godson Ernest, the sum of $1,000.”

May I draw your attention to the fact that this is the seventh amendment you have made to your will since drawing it up a month ago?

With kind regards,

Jane Cardozo

Fourteen

I
STUMBLE UP THE
steps of our building. Swaying slightly, I reach for my key—and, after three goes, manage to get it in the lock.

Home again.

Quiet again.

“Becky? Is that you?” I hear Danny’s voice from above and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

I stare dazedly up, unable to focus. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. No, make that six marathons. The last two weeks has been a blurry jumble of nights and days all run into one. Just me and Suze, and baby Ernest. And the crying.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore little Ernie. I mean, I’m going to be his godmother, and everything.

But . . . God. That
scream
of his . . .

I just had no idea having a baby was like that. I thought it would be
fun.

I didn’t realize Suze would have to feed him every single hour. I didn’t realize he would refuse to go to sleep. Or that he would hate his crib. I mean, it came from the Conran Shop! All lovely beech, with gorgeous white blankets. You’d think he would have loved it! But when we put him in it, all he did was thrash about, going “Waaah!”

Then I tried to take him shopping—and when we started out, it was fine. People were smiling at the pram, and smiling at me, and I was starting to feel quite proud of myself. But then we went into Karen Millen, and I was halfway into a pair of leather trousers when he started to yell. Not a cute little whimper. Not a plaintive little wail. A full-throated, piercing “This Woman Has Kidnapped Me, Call the Cops” scream.

I didn’t have any bottles or nappies or anything, and I had to run down the Fulham Road, and by the time I got home, I was red in the face and panting and Suze was crying and Ernest was looking at me like I was a mass murderer or something.

And then, even after he’d been fed, he screamed and screamed all evening . . .

“Jesus!” says Danny, arriving downstairs in the hall. “What happened to you?”

I glance in the mirror and feel a dart of shock. I look pale with exhaustion, my hair is lank and my eyes are drained. Tarquin got home three days ago, and he did do his fair share—but that didn’t mean I got any sleep. And it didn’t help that when I finally got on the plane to fly home, I was seated next to a woman with six-month-old twins.

“My friend Suze had a baby,” I say blearily. “And her husband was stuck on an island, so I helped out for a bit . . .”

“Luke said you were on vacation,” says Danny, staring at me in horror. “He said you were taking a rest!”

“Luke . . . has no idea.”

Every time Luke phoned, I was either changing a nappy, comforting a wailing Ernie, comforting an exhausted Suze—or flat-out asleep. We did have one brief, disjointed conversation, but in the end Luke suggested I go and lie down, as I wasn’t making much sense.

Other than that, I haven’t spoken to anyone. Mum called to let me know that Robyn had left a message at the house that I should call her urgently. And I did mean to call back. But every time I had a spare five minutes to myself . . . somehow I just couldn’t face it. I’ve no idea what’s been going on; what kind of arguments and fallout there’s been. I know Elinor must be furious. I know there’s probably the mother of all rows waiting for me.

But . . . I just don’t care. All I care about right now is getting into bed.

“Hey, a bunch of boxes arrived from QVC.” Danny looks at me curiously. “Did you order a set of Marie Osmond dolls?”

“I don’t know,” I say blankly. “I expect so. I ordered pretty much everything they had.”

I have a dim memory of myself at three in the morning, rocking Ernest on my lap so Suze could have a sleep, staring groggily at the screen.

“Do you know how terrible the telly is in Britain at three in the morning?” I rub my dry cheeks. “And there’s no point watching a film, because the minute it gets to a good bit, the baby cries and you have to leap up and start joggling him around, singing ‘Old Macdonald Had a Farm, Ee-I Ee-I Oh . . .’ and he still doesn’t stop crying. So you have to go into ‘Oh what a beautiful mooorr-rning . . .’ but that doesn’t work either . . .”

“Right,” says Danny, backing away. “I’ll . . . take your word for it. Becky, I think you need a nap.”

“Yes. So do I. See you later.”

I stumble into the apartment, shove all the post on the sofa, and head for the bedroom, as single-minded as a junkie craving a hit.

Sleep. I need sleep . . .

A light is blinking on our message machine and as I lie down, I automatically reach out and press the button.

“Hi, Becky! Robyn here. Just to say the meeting with Sheldon Lloyd to discuss table centerpieces has been changed to next Tuesday the twenty-first, at two-thirty. Byee!”

I have just enough time to think “That’s odd,” before my head hits the pillow and I pass out into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Eight hours later I wake up and sit bolt upright.

What was that?

I reach out to the machine and press the “Repeat” button. Robyn’s voice chirps exactly the same message again, and the computer display informs me it was left yesterday.

But . . . that doesn’t make any sense. The New York wedding’s off.

I look disorientedly around the dim apartment. My body clock’s so screwed up, it could be any time at all. I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water and look blearily out of the window at the mural of dancers on the building opposite.

I canceled the wedding. There were witnesses. Why is Robyn still organizing table centerpieces? I mean, it wasn’t as though I was vague about it.

What’s happened?

I drink my water, pour another glass, and go into the living room. It’s 4
P
.
M
. according to the VCR clock, so there’s still time to call her. Find out what’s going on.

“Hello! Wedding Events Ltd.!” says a girl I don’t recognize. “How may I help you?”

“Hi! Excuse me, this is Becky Bloomwood. You’re . . . you were organizing a wedding for me?”

“Oh, hi, Becky! I’m Kirsten, Robyn’s assistant. Can I just say that I thought your
Sleeping Beauty
concept was totally inspired? I told all my friends about it, and they were all, like, ‘I love
Sleeping Beauty
! That’s what I’m going to do when
I
get married.’ ”

“Oh. Er . . . thanks. Listen, Kirsten, this might seem like a strange question . . .”

How am I going to put this? I can’t say, Is my wedding still on?

“Is my . . . wedding still on?”

“I certainly hope so!” says Kirsten with a laugh. “Unless you’ve had a row with Luke!” Her tone suddenly changes. “
Have
you had a row with Luke? Because we have a procedure if that happens . . .”

“No! I haven’t! It’s just . . . didn’t you get my message?”

“Which message was that?” says Kirsten brightly.

“The message I left about two weeks ago!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What with the flood . . .”

“Flood?” I stare at the phone in dismay. “You had a
flood
?”

“I was sure Robyn had called you in England to let you know! It’s OK, nobody was drowned. We just had to evacuate the office for a few days, and some of the telecoms were affected . . . plus unfortunately an antique ring cushion belonging to one of our clients was ruined . . .”

“So you
didn’t
get the message?”

“Was it the one about the hors d’oeuvres?” says Kirsten thoughtfully.

I swallow several times, feeling almost light-headed.

“Becky, Robyn’s just stepped in,” Kirsten’s saying, “if you’d like to speak to her . . .”

No way. I’m not trusting the phone anymore.

“Can you tell her,” I say, trying to keep calm, “that I’m coming into the office. Tell her to wait. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Yes. It’s pretty urgent.”

Robyn’s offices are in a plushy building, right up on Ninety-sixth Street. As I knock on the door, I can hear her gurgling laugh, and as I cautiously open the door, I see her sitting at her desk, champagne glass in one hand, telephone in the other, and an open box of chocolates on the desk.

“Becky!” she says. “Come in! I won’t be a second! Jennifer, I think we should go with the devore satin. Yes? OK. See you soon.” She puts down the phone and beams at me. “Becky, sweetheart. How are you? How was England?”

“Fine, thanks. Robyn—”

“I have just been to a delightful thank-you lunch given to me by Mrs. Herman Winkler at the Carlton. Now, that was a fabulous wedding. The groom gave the bride a schnauzer puppy at the altar! So adorable . . .” Her brow wrinkles. “Where was I going with this? Oh yes! You know what? Her daughter and new son-in-law just left for England on their honeymoon! I said to her, perhaps they’ll bump into Becky Bloomwood!”

“Robyn, I need to talk to you.”

“Absolutely. If it’s about the dessert flatware, I’ve spoken to the Plaza—”

“It’s not about the flatware!” I cry. “Robyn, listen! While I was England, I canceled the wedding. I left a message! But you didn’t get it.”

There’s silence in the plushy room. Then Robyn’s face creases up into laughter.

“Ha-ha-ha! Becky, you’re priceless! Isn’t she priceless, Kirsten?”

“Robyn, I’m serious. I want to call the whole thing off. I want to get married in England. My mum’s organizing a wedding, it’s all arranged—”

“Can you imagine if you did that?” says Robyn with a gurgle. “Well, of course you couldn’t, because of the prenup. If you canceled now, you’d be in for a lot of money!” She laughs gaily. “Would you like some champagne?”

I stare at her, momentarily halted. “What do you mean, the prenup?”

“The contract you signed, sweetheart.” She hands me a glass of champagne, and my fingers automatically close round it.

“But . . . but Luke didn’t sign it. He said it wasn’t valid if he didn’t sign—”

“Not between you and Luke! Between you and me! Or, rather, Wedding Events Ltd.”

“What?” I swallow. “Robyn, what are you talking about? I never signed anything.”

“Of course you did! All my brides do! I gave it to Elinor to pass along to you, and she returned it to me . . . I have a copy of it somewhere!” She takes a sip of champagne, swivels on her chair, and reaches into an elegant wooden filing cabinet.

“Here we are!” She hands me a photocopy of a document. “Of course, the original is with my lawyer . . .”

I stare at the page, my heart pounding. It’s a typed sheet, headed “Terms of Agreement.” I look straight down to the dotted line at the bottom—and there’s my signature.

My mind zooms back to that dark, rainy night. Sitting in Elinor’s apartment. Indignantly signing every single sheet in front of me. Not bothering to read the words above.

Oh God. What have I done?

Feverishly I start to scan the contract, only half taking in the legal phrases.

“The Organizer shall prepare full plans . . . time frame to be mutually agreed . . . the Client shall be consulted on all matters . . . liaise with service providers . . . budget shall be agreed . . . final decisions shall rest with the Client . . . any breach or cancellation for any reason whatsoever . . . reimbursement . . . 30 days . . . full and final payment . . . Furthermore . . .”

As I read the next words, slugs are crawling up and down my back.

“Furthermore, in the case of cancellation, should the Client marry within one year of the date of cancellation, the Client will be liable to a penalty of $100,000, payable to Wedding Events Ltd.”

A hundred-thousand-dollar penalty.

And I’ve signed it.

“A hundred thousand dollars?” I say at last. “That . . . that seems a lot.”

“That’s only for the silly girls who pretend to cancel and then get married anyway,” says Robyn cheerily.

“But why—”

“Becky, if I plan a wedding, then I want that wedding to happen. We’ve had girls pull out before.” Her voice suddenly hardens. “Girls who decided to go their own way. Girls who decided to use my ideas, my contacts. Girls who thought they could exploit my expertise and get away with it.” She leans forward with glittering eyes, and I shrink back fearfully.

“Becky, you don’t want to be those girls.”

She’s crazy. The wedding planner’s crazy.

“G-good idea,” I say quickly. “You have to protect yourself!”

“Of course, Elinor could have signed it herself—but we agreed, this way, she’s protecting her investment too!” Robyn beams at me. “It’s a neat arrangement.”

“Very clever!” I give a shrill laugh and take a slug of champagne.

What am I going to do? There must be some way out of this. There
must
be. People can’t force other people to get married. It’s not ethical.

“Cheer up, Becky!” Robyn snaps back into cheery-chirrupy mood. “Everything’s under control. We’ve been taking care of everything while you were in Britain. The invitations are being written as we speak.”

“Invitations?” I feel a fresh shock. “But they can’t be. We haven’t done a guest list yet.”

“Yes you have, silly girl! What’s this?”

She presses a couple of buttons on her computer and a list pops up, and I stare at it, my mouth open. Familiar names and addresses are scrolling past on the screen, one after another. Names of my cousins. Names of my old school friends. With a sudden lurch I spot “Janice and Martin Webster, The Oaks, 41 Elton Road, Oxshott.”

How does Robyn know about Janice and Martin? I feel as though I’ve stumbled into some arch-villainess’s lair. Any minute a panel will slide back and I’ll see Mum and Dad tied to a chair with gags in their mouths.

“Where . . . where did you get those names?” I ask, trying to make it sound like a lighthearted inquiry.

“Luke gave us a list! I was pressuring him about it, so he had a look around your apartment. He said he found it hidden under the bed, or someplace odd. I said, that’s probably the safest place to put it!”

She produces a piece of paper, and my eyes focus on it in disbelief.

Mum’s handwriting.

The guest list she faxed over to us, weeks ago. The names and addresses of all the family friends and relations who are being invited to the wedding. The wedding at home.