Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (98 page)

Robyn’s inviting all the same people as Mum.

“Have the invitations . . . gone out yet?” I say in a voice I don’t quite recognize.

“Well, no.” Robyn wags her finger at me. “Elinor’s all went out last week. But we got your guest list so late, I’m afraid yours are still with the calligrapher! She’s going to mail them off just as soon as she’s finished . . .”

“Stop her,” I say desperately. “You have to stop her!”

“What?” Robyn looks at me in surprise, and I’m aware of Kirsten lifting her head in interest. “Why, sweetheart?”

“I . . . I have to post the invitations myself,” I say. “It’s a . . . a family tradition. The bride always, er . . . posts her own invitations.”

I rub my hot face, trying to keep cool. Across the room, I can see Kirsten staring curiously at me. They probably think I’m a complete control freak now. But I don’t care. I have to stop those invitations from going out.

“How unusual!” says Robyn. “I never heard that custom before!”

“Are you saying I’m making it up?”

“No! Of course not! I’ll let Judith know,” says Robyn, picking up the phone and flicking her Rolodex, and I subside, breathing hard.

My head is spinning. Too much is happening. While I’ve been closeted with Suze and Ernie, everything has been steaming ahead without me realizing it, and now I’ve completely lost control of the situation. It’s like this wedding is some big white horse that was trotting along quite nicely but has suddenly reared up and galloped off into the distance without me.

Robyn wouldn’t
really
sue me. Would she?

“Hi, Judith? Yes, it’s Robyn. Have you . . . you have? Well, that was quick work!” Robyn looks up. “You won’t believe this, but she’s already finished them!”

“What?” I look up in horror.

“She’s at the mailbox already! Isn’t that a—”

“Well, stop her!” I shriek. “Stop her!”

“Judith,” says Robyn urgently. “Judith, stop. The bride is very particular. She wants to mail the invitations herself. Some family tradition,” she says in a lower tone. “British. Yes. No, I don’t know either.”

She looks up with a careful smile, as though I’m a tricky three-year-old.

“Becky, I’m afraid a few already went into the mailbox. But you’ll get to mail all the rest!”

“A few?” I say agitatedly. “How many?”

“How many, Judith?” says Robyn, then turns to me. “She thinks three.”

“Three? Well . . . can she reach in and get them back?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Couldn’t she find a . . . a stick or something . . .”

Robyn stares at me silently for a second, then turns to the phone.

“Judith, let me get the location of that mailbox.” She scribbles on a piece of paper, then looks up. “You know what, Becky, I think the best thing is if you go down there, and just . . . do whatever you have to do . . .”

“OK. I will. Thanks.”

As I put my coat on, I can see Robyn and Kirsten exchanging glances.

“You know, Becky, you might want to chill out a little,” says Robyn. “Everything’s under control. There’s nothing for you to worry about!” She leans forward cozily. “As I often say to my brides, when they get a little agitated . . . it’s just a wedding!”

I can’t even bring myself to reply.

The mailbox is off the corner of Ninety-third and Lexington. As I turn into the street I can see a woman who must be Judith, dressed in a dark raincoat, leaning against the side of a building. As I hurry toward her, I see her look at her watch, give an impatient shrug, and head toward the mailbox, a stack of envelopes in her hand.

“Stop!” I yell, increasing my pace to a sprint. “Don’t post those!”

I arrive by her side, panting so hard I can barely speak.

“Give me those invitations,” I manage to gasp. “I’m the bride. Becky Bloomwood.”

“Here you are!” says Judith. “A few already went in. But you know, no one said anything to me about not mailing them,” she adds defensively.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If Robyn hadn’t called when she did . . . they would’ve been gone. All of them!”

“I . . . I appreciate that.”

I flip through the thick taupe envelopes, feeling slightly shaky as I see all the names on Mum’s list, beautifully written out in Gothic script.

“So are you going to mail them?”

“Of course I am.” Suddenly I realize Judith’s waiting for me to do it. “But I don’t want to be watched,” I add quickly. “It’s a very private matter. I have to . . . say a poem and kiss each one . . .”

“Fine,” says Judith, rolling her eyes. “Whatever.”

She walks off toward the corner, and I stand as still as a rock until she’s vanished from sight. Then, clutching the pile of invitations to my chest, I hurry to the corner, raise my hand, and hail a cab to take me home.

Luke is still out when I arrive, and the apartment is as dim and silent as it was when I left it. My suitcase is open on the floor—and as I walk in I can see inside it the pile of invitations to the Oxshott wedding that Mum gave me to pass on to Elinor.

I pick up the second pile of invitations and look from one to the other. One pile of white envelopes. One pile of taupe envelopes. Two weddings. On the same day. In less than six weeks.

If I do one, Mum will never speak to me again.

If I do the other, I get sued for $100,000.

OK, just . . . keep calm. Think logically. There has to be a way out of this. There
has
to be. As long as I keep my head and don’t get into a—

Suddenly I hear the sound of the front door opening. “Becky?” comes Luke’s voice. “Is that you?”

Fuck.

In a complete panic, I open the cocktail cabinet, shove both lots of invitations inside, slam the door, and whip round breathlessly just as Luke comes in.

“Sweetheart!” His whole face lights up and he throws his briefcase down. “You’re back! I missed you.” He gives me a huge hug—then draws back and looks anxiously at me. “Becky? Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine!” I say brightly. “Honestly, everything’s great! I’m just tired.”

“You look wiped out. I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me all about Suze.”

He goes out of the room and I collapse weakly on the sofa.

What the hell am I going to do now?

THE PINES

43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey

FAX MESSAGE

TO BECKY BLOOMWOOD

FROM MUM

20 May 2002

Becky, love, I don’t want to worry you. But it looks like that deranged woman you were telling us about has gone one step further and actually printed invitations! Auntie Irene phoned up today and told us she’d got some peculiar invitation through the post, for the Plaza Hotel, just like you said. Apparently it was all bronze and beige, very odd and not like a proper wedding invitation at all!

The best thing is to ignore these people, so I told her to put it straight in the bin and not worry about it. And you must do the same, darling. But I just thought I should let you know.

Much love and talk soon,

Mum xxxxxxxxx

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

New York, NY 10014

May 21, 2002

INVOICE no. 10956

With thanks

Fifteen

O
K. T
HE REALLY
vital thing is to keep a sense of proportion. I mean, let’s face it, every wedding has the odd glitch. You can’t expect the whole process to go smoothly. I’ve just bought a new book, called
The Realistic Bride,
which I’m finding very comforting at the moment. It has a huge chapter all about wedding hitches, and it says: “No matter how insurmountable the problem seems, there will always be a solution! So don’t worry!”

So the example they give is of a bride who loses her satin shoe on the way to the reception. Not one who has arranged two different weddings on the same day on different continents, is hiding half the invitations in a cocktail cabinet, and has discovered her wedding planner is a litigious nutcase.

But you know, I’m sure the principle’s broadly the same.

I’ve been back in New York for a week now, and during that time I’ve been to see about seventeen different lawyers about Robyn’s contract. All of them have looked at it carefully, told me they’re afraid it’s watertight, and advised me in the future to read all documentation before signing it.

Actually, that’s not quite true. One lawyer just said, “Sorry, miss, there’s nothing we can do,” as soon as I mentioned that the contract was with Robyn de Bendern. Another said, “Girl, you’re in trouble,” and put the phone down.

I can’t believe there isn’t a way out, though. As a last resort, I’ve sent it off to Garson Low, the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. I read about him in
People
magazine, and it said he has the sharpest mind in the legal world. It said he can find a loophole in a piece of concrete. So I’m kind of pinning all my hopes on him—and meanwhile, trying very hard to act normally and not crumple into a gibbering wreck.

“I’m having lunch with Michael today,” says Luke, coming into the kitchen with a couple of boxes in his arms. “He seems to have settled into his new place well.”

Michael’s taken the plunge and moved to New York, which is fantastic for us. He’s working part time as a consultant at Brandon Communications, and the rest of the time, as he put it, he’s “reclaiming his life.” He’s taken up painting, and has joined a group that power-walks in Central Park, and last time we saw him he was talking about taking a course in Italian cookery.

“That’s great!” I say.

“He said we must come over soon . . .” He peers at me. “Becky, are you all right?”

Abruptly I realize I’m drumming a pencil so hard it’s making indentations in the kitchen table.

“I’m absolutely fine,” I say with an overbright smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I haven’t said a word about anything to Luke. In
The Realistic Bride
it says the way to stop your fiancé from getting bored with wedding details is to feed them to him on a need-to-know basis.

I don’t feel Luke needs to know anything just yet.

“A couple more wedding presents,” he says. He dumps the boxes on the counter and grins at me. “It’s getting closer, isn’t it?”

“Yes! Yes it is!” I attempt a laugh, not very successfully.

“Another toaster . . . this time from Bloomingdale’s.” He frowns. “Becky, exactly how many wedding lists have we got?”

“I don’t know. A few.”

“I thought the whole point of a wedding list was that we
didn’t
end up with seven toasters.”

“We haven’t got seven toasters!” I point to the box. “This is a
brioche grill.
”

“And we also have . . . a Gucci handbag.” He raises his eyebrows quizzically at me. “A Gucci handbag for a wedding present?”

“It’s his-and-hers luggage!” I say defensively. “I put down a briefcase for you . . .”

“Which no one’s bought for me.”

“That’s not my fault! I don’t tell them what to buy!”

Luke shakes his head incredulously. “Did you put down his-and-hers Jimmy Choos too?”

“Did someone get the Jimmy Choos?” I say joyfully—then stop as I see his face. “I’m . . . joking.” I clear my throat. “Here. Look at Suze’s baby.”

I’ve just had three rolls of film developed, mostly of Suze and Ernie.

“That’s Ernie in the bath . . .” I point out, handing him photographs. “And that’s Ernie asleep . . . and Suze asleep . . . and Suze . . . hang on a minute . . .” Hastily I pass over the ones of Suze breast-feeding with nothing on except a pair of knickers. She had actually bought a special breast-feeding top from a catalogue, which promised “discretion and ease at home and in public.” But she got so pissed off with the stupid concealed zip, she threw it away after one day. “And look! That’s the first day we brought him home!”

Luke sits down at the table, and as he leafs through the pictures, a strange expression comes over his face.

“She looks . . . blissful,” he says.

“She is,” I agree. “She adores him. Even when he screams.”

“They seem bonded already.” He stares at a photo of Suze laughing as Ernie grabs her hair.

“Oh, they are. Even by the time I left, he yelled if I tried to take him away from her.”

I look at Luke, feeling touched. He’s completely transfixed by these photographs. Which actually quite surprises me. I never thought he’d be particularly into babies. I mean, most men, if you handed them a load of baby pictures—

“I don’t have any pictures of myself as a tiny baby,” he says, turning to a picture of Ernie peacefully asleep on Suze.

“Don’t you? Oh well . . .”

“My mother took them all with her.”

His face is unreadable, and tiny alarm bells start to ring inside my head.

“Really?” I say casually. “Well, anyway—”

“Maybe she wanted to keep them nearby.”

“Yes,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe she did.”

Oh God. I should have realized these pictures would set Luke off brooding about his mother again.

I’m not quite sure what happened between them while I was away. All I know is that eventually Luke managed to get through to her at the clinic. And apparently she came up with some lame explanation for why that newspaper article didn’t mention Luke. Something about the journalist wasn’t interested.

I don’t know whether Luke believed her. I don’t know whether he’s forgiven her or not. To be honest, I don’t think
he
knows. Every so often he goes all blank and withdrawn, and I can tell he’s thinking about it.

Part of me wants to say, “Look, Luke, just forget it! She’s a complete cow and she doesn’t love you and you’re better off without her.”

Then I remember something his stepmother, Annabel, said—when we had that chat, all those months ago. As we were saying good-bye, she said, “As hard as it may be to believe, Luke needs Elinor.”

“No, he doesn’t!” I replied indignantly. “He’s got you, he’s got his dad, he’s got me . . .”

But Annabel shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s had this longing for Elinor ever since he was a child. It’s driven him to work so hard; it’s sent him to America; it’s part of who he is now. Like a vine twisted round an apple tree.” And she gave me this rather penetrating look and said, “Be careful, Becky. Don’t try to chop her out of his life. Because you’ll damage him too.”

How did she read my mind? How did she know that I was exactly picturing myself, and Elinor, and an ax . . .

I look at Luke, and he’s staring, mesmerized, at a picture of Suze kissing Ernie on the tummy.

“Anyway!” I say brightly, gathering up the photos and shoving them back into the envelopes. “You know, the bond is just as strong between Tarquin and Ernie. You should have seen them together. Tarquin’s making a wonderful dad. He changes nappies and everything! In fact, I often think a mother’s love is overrated . . .”

Oh, it’s no good. Luke isn’t even listening.

The phone rings, and he doesn’t move, so I go into the sitting room to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is that Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange man’s voice.

“Yes it is,” I say, noticing a new catalogue from Pottery Barn on the table. Perhaps I should register there too. “Who’s this?”

“This is Garson Low, from Low and Associates.”

My whole body freezes. Garson Low himself? Calling me at home?

“I apologize for calling so early,” he’s saying.

“No! Not at all!” I say, coming to life and quickly kicking the door shut so Luke can’t hear. “Thanks for calling!”

Thank God. He must think I have a case. He must want to help me take on Robyn. We’ll probably make groundbreaking legal history or something, and stand outside the courtroom while cameras flash and it’ll be like
Erin Brockovich
!

“I received your letter yesterday,” says Garson Low. “And I was intrigued by your dilemma. That’s quite a bind you’ve got yourself in.”

“I know it is,” I say. “That’s why I came to you.”

“Is your fiancé aware of the situation?”

“Not yet.” I lower my voice. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find a solution first—and then tell him. You understand, Mr. Low.”

“I certainly do.”

This is great. We’ve got rapport and everything.

“In that case,” says Garson Low, “let’s get down to business.”

“Absolutely!” I feel a swell of relief. You see, this is what you get when you consult the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. You get quick results.

“First of all, the contract has been very cleverly drawn up,” says Garson Low.

“Right.” I nod.

“There are several extremely ingenious clauses, covering all eventualities.”

“I see.”

“I’ve examined it thoroughly. And as far as I can see, there is no way you can get married in Britain without incurring the penalty.”

“Right.” I nod expectantly.

There’s a short silence.

“So . . . what’s the loophole?” I ask eventually.

“There is no loophole. Those are the facts.”

“What?” I stare confusedly at the phone. “But . . . that’s why you rang, isn’t it? To tell me you’d found a loophole. To tell me we could win!”

“No, Miss Bloomwood. I called to tell you that if I were you, I would start making arrangements to cancel your British wedding.”

I feel a stab of shock. “But . . . but I can’t. That’s the whole point. My mum’s had the house done up, and everything. It would kill her.”

“Then I’m afraid you will have to pay Wedding Events Ltd. the full penalty.”

“But . . .” My throat is tight. “I can’t do that either. I haven’t got a hundred thousand dollars! There must be another way!”

“I’m afraid—”

“There must be some brilliant solution!” I push back my hair, trying not to panic. “Come on! You’re supposed to be the cleverest person in America or something! You must be able to think of some way out!”

“Miss Bloomwood, let me assure you. I have looked at this from all angles and there is no brilliant solution. There is no way out.” Garson Low sighs. “May I give you three small pieces of advice?”

“What are they?” I say with a flicker of hope.

“The first is, never sign any document before reading it first.”

“I know that!” I cry before I can stop myself. “What’s the good of everyone telling me that now?”

“The second is—and I strongly recommend this—tell your fiancé.”

“And what’s the third?”

“Hope for the best.”

Is that all a million-pound lawyer can come up with? Tell your fiancé and hope for the best? Bloody stupid . . . expensive . . . complete rip-off . . .

OK, keep calm. I’m cleverer than him. I can think of something. I know I can. I just
know
I—

Hang on.

I saunter casually into the kitchen, where Luke has stopped gazing at the pictures of Suze and is staring broodingly into space instead.

“Hi,” I say, running a hand along the back of his chair. “Hey, Luke. You’ve got loads of money, haven’t you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” I say, slightly affronted. “Of course you have!”

“I’ve got assets,” says Luke. “I’ve got a company. That’s not necessarily the same as money.”

“Whatever.” I wave my hand impatiently. “And we’re getting married. You know, ‘All thy worldly goods’ and everything. So in a way . . .” I pause carefully, “it’s mine, too.”

“Yeee-s. Is this going anywhere?”

“So . . . if I asked you for some money, would you give it to me?”

“I expect so. How much?”

“Er . . . a hundred thousand dollars,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

Luke raises his head. “A hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes! I mean, it’s not that much really—”

Luke sighs. “OK, Becky. What have you seen? Because if it’s another customized leather coat—”

“It’s not a coat! It’s a . . . a surprise.”

“A hundred-thousand-dollar surprise.”

“Yes,” I say after a pause. But even I don’t sound that convinced.

Maybe this isn’t a brilliant solution after all.

“Becky, a hundred thousand dollars
is
that much. It’s a lot of money!”

“I know,” I say. “I know. Look . . . OK . . . it doesn’t matter.” And I hurry out before he can question me further.

OK, forget the lawyers. Forget the money. There has to be another solution to this. I just need to think laterally.

I mean, we could always elope. Get married on a beach and change our names and never see our families again.

No, this is it. I go to the Oxshott wedding. And Luke goes to the New York wedding. And we each say we’ve been jilted . . . and then we secretly meet up . . .

No!
I have it! We hire stand-ins! Genius!

I’m riding up the escalator to work as this idea comes to me—and I’m so gripped, I almost forget to step off. This is it. We hire look-alikes, and they stand in for us at the Plaza wedding, and no one ever realizes. I mean, all the guests there are going to be Elinor’s friends. People Luke and I barely know. We could get the bride look-alike to wear a really thick veil . . . and the Luke look-alike could say he’d cut his face shaving, and wear a huge bandage . . . and meanwhile we’d have flown back to England . . .

“Watch out, Becky!” says Christina with a smile, and I look up, startled. I was about to walk right into a mannequin.

“Busy thinking about the wedding?” she adds as I go into the personal shopping department.