Shopaholic Ties the Knot (6 page)

“Susan, wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband?” The vicar’s got huge bushy eyebrows, which he raises at every question, as though he’s afraid the answer might be no. “Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

There’s a pause—then Suze says, “I will,” in a voice as clear as a bell.

I wish bridesmaids got to say something. It wouldn’t have to be anything very much, just a quick “Yes” or “I do.”

When we come to the bit where Suze and Tarquin have to hold hands, Suze gives me her bouquet, and I take the opportunity to turn round and have a quick peek at the congregation. The place is crammed to the gills, in fact there isn’t even room for everyone to sit down. There are lots of strapping men in kilts and women in velvet suits, and there’s Fenny and a whole crowd of her London friends, all wearing Philip Treacy hats, it looks like. And there’s Mum, squashed right up against Dad, with a tissue pressed to her eyes. She looks up and sees me and I give a little smile—but all she does is sob again.

I turn back and Suze and Tarquin are kneeling down, and the vicar is intoning severely, “Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

I look at Suze as she beams radiantly at Tarquin. She’s completely lost in him. She belongs to him now. And to my surprise, I suddenly feel slightly hollow inside. Suze is married. It’s all changed.

It’s a year since I went off to live in New York, and I’ve loved every minute of it. Of course I have. But subconsciously, I realize, I’ve always had it in the back of my mind that if everything went wrong, I could come back to Fulham and have my old life with Suze.

Suze doesn’t need me anymore. She’s got someone else, who will always come first in her life. I watch as the vicar places his hands on Suze’s and Tarquin’s heads to bless them—and my throat feels a little tight as I remember all the times we’ve had together. The time I cooked a horrible curry to save money and she kept saying how delicious it was even while her mouth was burning. The time she tried to seduce my bank manager so he would extend my overdraft. Every time I’ve got myself into trouble, she’s been there for me.

And now it’s all over.

Suddenly I feel in need of a little reassurance. I turn round and quickly scan the rows of guests, looking for Luke’s face. For a few moments I can’t spot him, and although I keep wearing my confident smile, I feel a ridiculous panic rising inside me, like a child realizing she’s been left behind at school; that everyone else has been collected but her.

Until suddenly I see him. Standing behind a pillar toward the back, tall and dark and solid, his eyes fixed on mine. Looking at me and no one else. And as I gaze back at him, I feel restored. I’ve been collected too; it’s OK.

We emerge into the churchyard, the sound of bells behind us, and a crowd of people who have gathered outside on the road start to cheer.

“Congratulations!” I cry, giving Suze a huge hug. “And to you, Tarquin!”

I’ve always been a teeny bit awkward around Tarquin. But now I see him with Suze—married to Suze—the awkwardness seems to melt away.

“I know you’ll be really happy,” I say warmly, and give him a kiss on the cheek, and we both laugh as someone throws confetti at us. Guests are already piling out of the church like sweets out of a jar, talking and laughing and calling to each other in loud confident voices. They swarm around Suze and Tarquin, kissing and hugging and shaking hands, and I move away a little, wondering where Luke is.

The whole churchyard is filling up with people, and I can’t help staring at some of Suze’s relations. Her granny is coming out of the church very slowly and regally, holding a stick, and is being followed by a dutiful-looking young man in morning dress. A thin, pale girl with huge eyes is wearing an enormous black hat, holding a pug and chain-smoking. There’s a whole army of almost identical brothers in kilts standing by the church gate, and I remember Suze telling me about her aunt who had six boys before finally getting twin girls.

“Here. Put this on.” Luke’s voice is suddenly in my ear, and I turn round, to see him holding out the sheepskin jacket. “You must be freezing.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine!”

“Becky, there’s snow on the ground,” says Luke firmly, and drapes the coat round my shoulders. “Very good wedding,” he adds.

“Yes.” I look up at him carefully, wondering if by any chance we can work the conversation back to what we were talking about before the service. But now Luke’s looking at Suze and Tarquin, who are being photographed under the oak tree. Suze looks absolutely radiant, but Tarquin looks as though he’s facing gunfire.

“He’s a very nice chap,” he says, nodding toward Tarquin. “Bit odd, but nice.”

“Yes. He is. Luke—”

“Would you like a glass of hot whiskey?” interrupts a waiter, coming up with a tray. “Or champagne?”

“Hot whiskey,” I say gratefully. “Thanks.” I take a few sips and close my eyes as the warmth spreads through my body. If only it could get down to my feet, which, to be honest, are completely freezing.

“Bridesmaid!” cries Suze suddenly. “Where’s Bex? We need you for a photograph!”

My eyes open.

“Here,” I shout, slipping the sheepskin coat off my shoulders. “Luke, hold my drink—”

I hurry through the melee and join Suze and Tarquin. And it’s funny, but now that all these people are looking at me, I don’t feel cold anymore. I smile my most radiant smile, and hold my flowers nicely, and link arms with Suze when the photographer tells me to, and, in between shots, wave at Mum and Dad, who have pushed their way to the front of the crowd.

“We’ll head back to the house soon,” says Mrs. Gearing, coming up to kiss Suze. “People are getting chilly. You can finish the pictures there.”

“OK,” says Suze. “But let’s just take some of me and Bex together.”

“Good idea!” says Tarquin at once, and heads off in obvious relief to talk to his father, who looks exactly like Tarquin but forty years older. The photographer takes a few shots of me and Suze beaming at each other, then pauses to reload his camera. Suze accepts a glass of whiskey from a waiter and I reach surreptitiously behind me to see how much of my dress has unraveled.

“Bex, listen,” comes a voice in my ear. I look round, and Suze is gazing at me earnestly. She’s so close I can see each individual speck of glitter in her eyeshadow. “I need to ask you something. You don’t really want to wait ten years before you get married, do you?”

“Well . . . no,” I admit. “Not really.”

“And you do think Luke’s the one? Just . . . honestly. Between ourselves.”

There’s a long pause. Behind me I can hear someone saying, “Of course, our house is fairly modern. I think it was built in 1853—”

“Yes,” I say eventually, feeling a deep pink rising through my cheeks. “Yes. I think he is.”

Suze looks at me searchingly for a few moments longer—then abruptly seems to come to a decision. “Right!” she says, putting down her whiskey. “I’m going to throw my bouquet.”

“What?” I stare at her in bewilderment. “Suze, don’t be stupid. You can’t throw your bouquet yet!”

“Yes I can! I can throw it when I like.”

“You ought to throw it when you leave for your honeymoon!”

“I don’t care,” says Suze obstinately. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to throw it now.”

“But you’re supposed to do it at the
end
!”

“Who’s the bride? You or me? If I wait till the end it won’t be any fun! Now, stand over there.” She points with an imperious hand to a small mound of snowy grass. “And put your flowers down. You’ll never catch it if you’re holding things! Tarkie?” She raises her voice. “I’m going to throw my bouquet now, OK?”

“OK!” Tarquin calls back cheerfully. “Good idea.”

“Go on, Bex!”

“Honestly! I don’t even want to catch it!” I say, slightly grumpily.

But I suppose I am the only bridesmaid—so I put my flowers down on the grass, and go and stand on the mound as instructed.

“I want a picture of this,” Suze is saying to the photographer. “And where’s Luke?”

The slightly weird thing is, no one else is coming with me. Everyone else has melted away. Suddenly I notice that Tarquin and his best man are going around murmuring in people’s ears, and gradually all the guests are turning to me with bright, expectant faces.

“Ready, Bex?” calls Suze.

“Wait!” I cry. “You haven’t got enough people! There should be lots of us, all standing together . . .”

I feel so stupid, up here on my own. Honestly, Suze is doing this all wrong. Hasn’t she
been
to any weddings?

“Wait, Suze!” I cry again, but it’s too late.

“Catch, Bex!” she yells. “Caaatch!”

The bouquet comes looping high through the air, and I have to jump slightly to catch it. It’s bigger and heavier than I expected, and for a moment I just stare dazedly at it, half secretly delighted and half completely furious with Suze.

And then my eyes focus. And I see the little envelope.
To Becky
.

An envelope addressed to me in Suze’s bouquet?

I look up bewilderedly at Suze, and with a shining face she nods toward the envelope.

With trembling fingers, I open the card. There’s something lumpy inside. It’s . . .

It’s a ring, all wrapped up in cotton wool. I take it out, feeling dizzy. There’s a message in the card, written in Luke’s handwriting. And it says . . .

It says
Will You
. . .

I stare at it in disbelief, trying to keep control of myself, but the world is shimmering, and blood is pounding through my head.

I look up dazedly, and there’s Luke, coming forward through the people, his face serious but his eyes warm.

“Becky—” he begins, and there’s a tiny intake of breath around the churchyard. “Will you—”

“Yes! Yeee-esssss!” I hear the joyful sound ripping through the churchyard before I even realize I’ve opened my mouth. I’m so charged up with emotion, my voice doesn’t even
sound
like mine. In fact, it sounds more like . . .

Mum.

I don’t believe it.

As I whip round, she claps a hand over her mouth in horror. “Sorry!” she whispers, and a ripple of laughter runs round the crowd.

“Mrs. Bloomwood, I’d be honored,” says Luke, his eyes crinkling into a smile. “But I believe you’re already taken.”

Then he looks at me again.

“Becky, if I had to wait five years, then I would. Or eight—or even ten.” He pauses, and there’s complete silence except for a tiny gust of wind, blowing confetti about the churchyard. “But I hope that one day—preferably rather sooner than that—you’ll do me the honor of marrying me?”

My throat’s so tight, I can’t speak. I give a tiny nod, and Luke takes my hand. He unfolds my fingers and takes out the ring. My heart is hammering. Luke wants to marry me. He must have been planning this all along. Without saying a thing.

I look at the ring, and feel my eyes start to blur. It’s an antique diamond ring, set in gold, with tiny curved claws. I’ve never seen another quite like it. It’s perfect.

“May I?”

“Yes,” I whisper, and watch as he slides it onto my finger. He looks at me again, his eyes more tender than I’ve ever seen them, and kisses me, and the cheering starts.

I don’t believe it. I’m engaged.

OK. NOW, I may be engaged, but I’m not going to get carried away.

No way.

I know some girls go mad, planning the biggest wedding in the universe and thinking about nothing else . . . but that’s not going to be me. I’m not going to let this take over my life. I mean, let’s get our priorities right here. The most important thing is not the dress, or the shoes, or what kind of flowers we have, is it? It’s making the promise of lifelong commitment. It’s pledging our troth to one another.

I pause, halfway through putting on my moisturizer, and gaze at the reflection in my old bedroom mirror. “I, Becky,” I murmur solemnly. “I, Rebecca. Take thee, Luke.”

Those ancient words just send a shiver up your spine, don’t they?

“To be thine . . . mine . . . husband. For better, for richer . . .”

I break off with a puzzled frown. That doesn’t sound quite right. Still, I can learn it properly nearer the time. The point is, the vows are what matters, nothing else. We don’t have to go over the top. Just a simple, elegant ceremony. No fuss, no hoopla. I mean, Romeo and Juliet didn’t need a big wedding with sugared almonds and vol-au-vents, did they?

In fact, maybe we should even get married in secret, like they did! Suddenly I’m gripped by a vision of Luke and me kneeling before an Italian priest in the dead of night, in some tiny stone chapel. God, that would be romantic. And then somehow Luke would think I was dead, and he’d commit suicide, and so would I, and it would be incredibly tragic, and everyone would say we did it for love and the whole world should learn from our example . . .

“Karaoke?” Luke’s voice outside the bedroom door brings me back to reality. “Well, it’s certainly a possibility . . .”

The door opens and he holds out a cup of coffee to me. He and I have been staying here at my parents’ house since Suze’s wedding, and when I left the breakfast table, he was refereeing my parents as they argued over whether or not the moon landings actually happened.

“Your mother’s already found a possible date for the wedding,” he says. “What do you think about the—”

“Luke!” I put up a hand to stop him. “Luke. Let’s just take this one step at a time, shall we?” I give him a kind smile. “I mean, we’ve only just got engaged. Let’s just get our heads round that first. There’s no need to dash into setting dates.”

I glance at myself in the mirror, feeling quite grown-up and proud of myself. For once in my life I’m not getting overexcited.

“You’re right,” says Luke after a pause. “No, you are right. And the date your mother suggested would be a terrible hurry.”

“Really?” I take a thoughtful sip of coffee. “So . . . just out of interest . . . when was it?”

“June 22nd. This year.” He shakes his head. “Crazy, really. It’s only a few months away.”