Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (80 page)

“You know, there are some really amazing wedding cakes in here,” I say, tentatively holding out an issue of
Brides.
“From this special place in London. Maybe we could go and have a look.”

“Oh, but love, we have to ask Wendy!” says Mum in surprise. “She’d be devastated if we didn’t. You know her husband’s just had a stroke? Those sugar roses are what’s keeping her going.”

“Oh, right,” I say, putting down the magazine guiltily. “I didn’t know. Well . . . OK then. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”

“We were very pleased with Tom and Lucy’s wedding cake.” Janice sighs. “We’ve saved the top tier for the first christening. You know, they’re with us at the moment. They’ll be round to offer their congratulations, I’m sure. Can you believe they’ve been married a year and a half already!”

“Have they?” Mum takes a sip of coffee and gives a brief smile.

Tom and Lucy’s wedding is still a very slightly sore point in our family. I mean, we love Janice and Martin to bits so we never say anything, but to be honest, we’re none of us very keen on Lucy.

“Are there any signs of them . . .” Mum makes a vague, euphemistic gesture. “Starting a family,” she adds in a whisper.

“Not yet.” Janice’s smile flickers briefly. “Martin and I think they probably want to
enjoy
each other first. They’re such a happy young couple. They just dote on each other! And of course, Lucy’s got her career—”

“I suppose so,” says Mum consideringly. “Although it doesn’t do to wait
too
long . . .”

“Well, I know,” agrees Janice. They both turn to look at me—and suddenly I realize what they’re driving at.

For God’s sake, I’ve only been engaged a day! Give me a chance!

I escape to the garden and wander round for a bit, sipping my coffee. The snow is starting to melt outside, and you can just see patches of green lawn and bits of rosebush. As I pick my way down the gravel path, I find myself thinking how nice it is to be in an English garden again, even if it is a bit cold. Manhattan doesn’t have any gardens like this. There’s Central Park, and there’s the odd little flowery square. But it doesn’t have any proper English gardens, with lawns and trees and flower beds.

I’ve reached the rose arbor and am looking back at the house, imagining what a marquee will look like on the lawn, when suddenly there’s a rumble of conversation from the garden next door. I wonder if it’s Martin, and I’m about to pop my head over the fence and say “Hello!” when a girl’s voice comes clearly over the snow, saying: “Define
frigid
! Because if you ask me—”

It’s Lucy. And she sounds furious! There’s a mumbled reply, which can only be Tom.

“And you’re such a bloody expert, are you?”

Mumble mumble.

“Oh, give me a break.”

I edge surreptitiously toward the fence, wishing desperately I could hear both sides.

“Yeah, well, maybe if we had more of a life, maybe if you actually organized something once in a blue moon, maybe if we weren’t stuck in such a bloody rut . . .”

Lucy’s voice is so hectoring. And now Tom’s voice is raised defensively in return.

“We went out to . . . all you could do was complain . . . made a real bloody effort . . .”

Crack!

Shit.
Shit.
I’ve stepped on a twig.

For an instant I consider running. But it’s too late, their heads have already appeared over the garden fence, Tom’s all pink and distressed, and Lucy’s tight with anger.

“Oh, hi!” I say, trying to look relaxed. “How are
you
? I’m just . . . um . . . having a little stroll . . . and I dropped my . . . hanky.”

“Your hanky?” Lucy looks suspiciously at the ground. “I can’t see any hanky.”

“Well . . . erm . . . So . . . how’s married life?”

“Fine,” says Lucy shortly. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

There’s an awkward pause, and I find myself running my eyes over Lucy’s outfit, taking in her top (black polo-neck, probably M&S), trousers (Earl Jeans, quite cool, actually), and boots (high-heeled with laces, Russell & Bromley).

This is something I’ve always done, checking out people’s clothes and listing them in my mind like on a fashion page. I thought I was the only one who did it. But then I moved to New York—and there, everyone does it. Seriously, everybody. The first time you meet anyone, whether it’s a rich society lady or a doorman, they give you a swift, three-second top-to-toe sweep. You can see them costing your entire outfit to the nearest dollar before they even say hello. I call it the Manhattan Onceover.

“So how’s New York?”

“It’s great! Really exciting . . . I love my job . . . it’s such a great place to live!”

“I’ve never been,” says Tom wistfully. “I wanted to go there for our honeymoon.”

“Tom, don’t start that again,” says Lucy sharply. “OK?”

“Maybe I could come and visit,” says Tom. “I could come for the weekend.”

“Er . . . yes! Maybe! You could both come . . .” I tail off lamely as Lucy rolls her eyes and stomps toward the house. “Anyway, lovely to see you and I’m glad married life is treating you . . . er . . . treating you, anyway.”

I hurry back into the kitchen, dying to tell Mum what I just heard, but it’s empty.

“Hey, Mum!” I call. “I just saw Tom and Lucy!”

I hurry up the stairs, and Mum is halfway down the loft ladder, pulling down a big white squashy bundle all wrapped up in plastic.

“What’s that?” I ask, helping her to get it down.

“Don’t say anything,” she says, with suppressed excitement. “Just . . .” Her hands are trembling as she unzips the plastic cover. “Just . . . look!”

“It’s your wedding dress!” I say in astonishment as she pulls out the white frothy lace. “I didn’t know you still had that!”

“Of course I’ve still got it!” She brushes away some sheets of tissue paper. “Thirty years old, but still as good as new. Now, Becky, it’s only a thought . . .”

“What’s a thought?” I say, helping her to shake out the train.

“It might not even fit you . . .”

Slowly I look up at her. She’s serious.

“Actually, I don’t think it will,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’m sure you were much thinner than me! And . . . shorter.”

“But we’re the same height!” says Mum in puzzlement. “Oh, go on, try it, Becky!”

Five minutes later I stare at myself in the mirror in Mum’s bedroom. I look like a sausage roll in layered frills. The bodice is tight and lacy, with ruffled sleeves and a ruffled neckline. It’s tight down to my hips where there are more ruffles, and then it fans out into a tiered train.

I have never worn anything less flattering in my life.

“Oh, Becky!” I look up—and to my horror, Mum’s in tears. “I’m so silly!” she says, laughing and brushing at her eyes. “It’s just . . . my little girl, in the dress I wore . . .”

“Oh, Mum . . .” Impulsively I give her a hug. “It’s a . . . a really lovely dress . . .”

How exactly do I add, But I’m not wearing it?

“And it fits you perfectly,” gulps Mum, and rummages for a tissue. “But it’s your decision.” She blows her nose. “If you don’t think it suits you . . . just say so. I won’t mind.”

“I . . . well . . .”

Oh God.

“I’ll . . . think about it,” I manage at last, and give Mum a lame smile.

We put the wedding dress back in its bag, and have some sandwiches for lunch, and watch an old episode of
Changing Rooms
on the new cable telly Mum and Dad have had installed. And then, although it’s a bit early, I go upstairs and start getting ready to see Elinor. Luke’s mother is one of those Manhattan women who always look completely and utterly immaculate, and today of all days I want to match her in the smartness stakes.

I put on the DKNY suit I bought myself for Christmas, brand-new tights, and my new Prada sample sale shoes. Then I survey my appearance carefully, looking all over for specks or creases. I’m not going to be caught out this time. I’m not going to have a single stray thread or crumpled bit which her beady X-ray eyes can zoom in on.

I’ve just about decided that I look OK, when Mum comes busting into my bedroom. She’s dressed smartly in a purple Windsmoor suit and her face is glowing with anticipation.

“How do I look?” she says with a little laugh. “Smart enough for Claridges?”

“You look lovely, Mum! That color really suits you. Let me just . . .”

I reach for a tissue, dampen it under the tap, and wipe at her cheeks where she’s copied Janice’s badger-look approach to blusher.

“There. Perfect.”

“Thank you, darling!” Mum peers at herself in the wardrobe mirror. “Well, this will be nice. Meeting Luke’s mother at last.”

“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.

“I expect we’ll get to be quite good friends! What with getting together over the wedding preparations . . . You know, Margot across the road is such good friends with her son-in-law’s mother, they take holidays together. She says she hasn’t lost a daughter, she’s gained a friend!”

Mum sounds really excited. How can I prepare her for the truth?

“And Elinor certainly sounds lovely! The way Luke describes her. He seems so fond of her!”

“Yes, he is,” I admit grudgingly. “Incredibly fond.”

“He was telling us this morning about all the wonderful charity work she does. She must have a heart of gold!”

As Mum prattles on, I tune out and remember a conversation I had with Luke’s stepmum, Annabel, when she and his dad came out to visit us.

I completely adore Annabel. She’s very different from Elinor, much softer and quieter, but with a lovely smile that lights up her whole face. She and Luke’s father live in a sleepy area of Devon near the beach, and I really wish we could spend more time with them. But Luke left home at eighteen, and he hardly ever goes back. In fact, I get the feeling he thinks his father slightly wasted his life by settling down as a provincial lawyer, instead of conquering the world.

When they came to New York, Annabel and I ended up having an afternoon alone together. We walked around Central Park talking about loads of different things, and it seemed as though no subject was off-limits. So at last I took a deep breath and asked her what I’ve always wanted to know—which is how she can stand Luke being so dazzled by Elinor. I mean, Elinor may be his biological mother, but Annabel has been there for him all his life. She was the one who looked after him when he was ill and helped him with his homework and cooked his supper every night. And now she’s been pushed aside.

For an instant I could see the pain in Annabel’s face. But then she kind of smiled and said she completely understood it. That Luke had been desperate to know his real mother since he was a tiny child, and now that he was getting the chance to spend time with her, he should be allowed to enjoy it.

“Imagine your fairy godmother came along,” she said. “Wouldn’t you be dazzled? Wouldn’t you forget about everyone else for a while? He needs this time with her.”

“She’s not his fairy godmother!” I retorted. “She’s the wicked old witch!”

“Becky, she’s his natural mother,” Annabel said, with a gentle reproof. Then she changed the subject. She wouldn’t bitch about Elinor, or anything.

Annabel is a saint.

“It’s such a shame they didn’t get to see each other while Luke was growing up!” Mum is saying. “What a tragic story.” She lowers her voice, even though Luke’s left the house. “Luke was telling me only this morning how his mother was desperate to take him with her to America. But her new American husband wouldn’t allow it! Poor woman. She must have been in misery. Leaving her child behind!”

“Well, yes, maybe,” I say, feeling a slight rebellion. “Except . . . she didn’t
have
to leave, did she? If she was in so much misery, why didn’t she tell the new husband where to go?”

Mum looks at me in surprise. “That’s very harsh, Becky.”

“Oh . . . I suppose so.” I give a little shrug and reach for my lip liner.

I don’t want to stir things up before we even begin. So I won’t say what I really think, which is that Elinor never showed any interest in Luke until his PR company started doing so well in New York. Luke has always been desperate to impress her—in fact, that’s the real reason he expanded to New York in the first place, though he won’t admit it. But she completely ignored him, like the cow she is, until he started winning a few really big contracts and being mentioned in the papers and she suddenly realized he could be useful to her. Just before Christmas, she started her own charity—the Elinor Sherman Foundation—and made Luke a director. Then she had a great big gala concert to launch it—and guess who spent about twenty-five hours a day helping her out with it until he was so exhausted, Christmas was a complete washout?

But I can’t say anything to him about it. When I once brought up the subject, Luke got all defensive and said I’d always had a problem with his mother (which is kind of true) and she was sacrificing loads of her time to help the needy and what more did I want, blood?

To which I couldn’t really find a reply.

“She’s probably a very lonely woman,” Mum is musing. “Poor thing, all on her own. Living in her little flat. Does she have a cat to keep her company?”

“Mum . . .” I put a hand to my head. “Elinor doesn’t live in a ‘little flat.’ It’s a duplex on Park Avenue.”

“A duplex? What—like a maisonette?” Mum pulls a sympathetic little face. “Oh, but it’s not the same as a nice house, is it?”

Oh, I give up. There’s no point.

As we walk into the foyer at Claridges, it’s full of smart people having tea. Waiters in gray jackets are striding around with green and white striped teapots, and everyone’s chattering brightly and I can’t see Luke or Elinor anywhere. As I peer around, I’m seized by sudden hope. Maybe they’re not here. Maybe Elinor couldn’t make it! We can just go and have a nice cup of tea on our own! Thank God for—

“Becky?”

I swivel round—and my heart sinks. There they are, on a sofa in the corner. Luke’s wearing that radiant expression he gets whenever he sees his mother, and Elinor’s sitting on the edge of her seat in a houndstooth suit trimmed with fur. Her hair is a stiff lacquered helmet and her legs, encased in pale stockings, seem to have got even thinner. She looks up, apparently expressionless—but I can see from the flicker of her eyelids that she’s giving both Mum and Dad the Manhattan Onceover.