Shopaholic Ties the Knot (by Sophie Kinsella) 1 page

Extract 1

As I reach the second floor, there’s music coming from the door of our apartment, and I feel a little fizz of anticipation inside. That’ll be Danny, working away. He’ll probably have finished by now! My dress will be ready!

Danny Kovitz lives upstairs from us, in his brother’s apartment, and he’s become one of my best friends since I’ve been living in New York. He’s a fabulous designer, really talented – but he’s not all that success­ful yet.

Well, to be honest, he’s not successful at all. Five years after leaving fashion school, he’s still waiting for his big break to come along. But, like he always says, making it as a designer is even harder than making it as an actor. If you don’t know the right people or have an ex-Beatle as a father, you might as well forget it. I feel so sorry for him, because he really does deserve to succeed. So as soon as Suze asked me to be her bridesmaid, I asked him to make my dress. The great thing is, Suze’s wedding is going to be stuffed full of rich, important guests. So hopefully loads of people will ask me who my dress is by, and then a whole word-of-mouth buzz will start, and Danny will be made!

I just can’t wait to see what he’s done. All the sketches he’s shown me have been amazing – and of course, a hand-made dress will have far more workmanship and detail than you’d get off the peg. Like, the bodice is going to be a boned, hand-embroidered corset – and Danny suggested putting in a tiny beaded love-knot using the birthstones of all the bridal party, which is just so original.

My only slight worry – tiny niggle – is the wedding’s in two days’ time, and I haven’t actually tried it on yet. Or even seen it. This morning I rang his doorbell to remind him I was leaving for England today, and after he’d eventually staggered to the door, he promised me he’d have it finished by lunchtime. He told me he always lets his ideas ferment until the very last minute – then he gets a surge of adrenalin and inspiration, and works incredibly quickly. It’s just the way he works, he assured me, and he’s never missed a deadline yet.

I open the door, and call ‘Hello!’ cheerfully. There’s no response, so I push open the door to our all-purpose living room. The radio is blaring Madonna, the tele­vision is playing MTV, and Danny’s novelty robot dog is trying to walk up the side of the sofa.

And Danny is slumped over his sewing machine in a cloud of gold silk, fast asleep.

‘Danny?’ I say in dismay. ‘Hey, wake up!’

With a start, Danny sits up and rubs his thin face. His curly hair is rumpled, and his pale blue eyes are even more bloodshot than they were when he answered the door this morning. His skinny frame is clad in an old grey T-shirt and a bony knee is poking out of his ripped jeans, complete with a scab which he got rollerblading at the weekend. He looks like a ten-year-old with stubble.

‘Becky!’ he says blearily. ‘Hi! What are you doing here?’

‘This is my apartment. Remember? You were work­ing down here because your electricity fused.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ He looks around dazedly. ‘Right.’

‘Are you OK?’ I peer at him anxiously. ‘I got some coffee.’

I hand him a cup and he takes a couple of deep gulps. Then his eyes land on the pile of post in my hand and for the first time, he seems to wake up.

‘Hey, is that British Vogue?’

‘Er... yes,’ I say, putting it down where he can’t reach it. ‘So – how’s the dress doing?’

‘It’s going great! Totally under control.’

‘Can I try it on yet?’

There’s a pause. Danny looks at the mound of gold silk in front of him as though he’s never seen it before in his life.

‘Not yet, no,’ he says at last.

‘But it will be ready in time?’

‘Of course! Absolutely.’ He puts his foot down and the sewing machine starts whirring busily. ‘You know what?’ he says over the noise. ‘I could really do with a glass of water.’

‘Coming up!’

I hurry into the kitchen, turn on the tap, and wait for the cold to come through. The plumbing in this building is a little bit eccentric, and we’re always on at Mrs Watts, the owner, to fix it. But she lives miles away in Florida, and doesn’t really seem interested. And other than that, the place is completely wonderful. Our apartment is huge by New York standards, with wooden floors and a fireplace, and enormous floor-to-ceiling windows.

(Of course, Mum and Dad weren’t at all impressed when they came over. First they couldn’t understand why we didn’t live in a house. Then they couldn’t understand why the kitchen was so small. Then they started saying wasn’t it a shame we didn’t have a garden, and did I know that Tom next door had moved into a house with a quarter of an acre? Honestly. If you had a quarter of an acre in New York, someone would just put up ten office blocks on it.)

‘OK! So how’s it–’ I walk back into the living room and break off. The sewing machine has stopped, and Danny’s reading my copy of Vogue.

‘Danny!’ I wail. ‘What about my dress?’

‘Did you see this?’ says Danny, jabbing at the page. “Hamish Fargle’s collection demonstrated his customary flair and wit,” he reads aloud. ‘Give me a break! He has zero talent. Zero. You know, he was at school with me. Totally ripped off one of my ideas.’ He looks up at me, eyes narrowed. ‘Is he stocked at Barneys?’

‘Erm... I don’t know,’ I lie.

Danny is completely obsessed with being stocked at Barneys. It’s the only thing he wants in the world. And just because I work there as a personal shopper, he seems to think I should be able to arrange meetings with the head buyer for him.

In fact, I have arranged meetings with the head buyer for him. The first time, he arrived a week late for the appointment and she’d gone to Milan. The second time, he was showing her a jacket and as she tried it on, all the buttons fell off.

Oh God. What was I thinking of, asking him to make my dress?

‘Danny, just tell me. Is my dress going to be ready?’

There’s a long pause.

‘Does it actually have to be ready for today?’ says Danny at last. ‘Like literally today?’

‘I’m catching a plane in six hours!’ My voice rises to a squeak. ‘I’ve got to walk down the aisle in less than...’ I break off and shake my head. ‘Look, don’t worry. I’ll wear something else.’

‘Something else?’ Danny puts down Vogue and stares at me blankly. ‘What do you mean, something else?’

‘Well...’

‘Are you firing me?’ He looks as though I’ve told him our ten-year marriage is over. ‘Just because I’ve run a tad over schedule?’

‘I’m not firing you! But I mean, I can’t be a brides­maid without a dress, can I?’

‘But what else would you wear?’

‘Well...’ I twist my fingers awkwardly. ‘I do have this one little reserve dress in my wardrobe...’

I can’t tell him I’ve actually got three. And two on hold at Barneys.

‘By whom?’

‘Er... Donna Karan,’ I say guiltily.

‘Donna Karan?’ His voice cracks with betrayal. ‘You prefer Donna Karan to me?’

‘Of course not! But I mean, at least it’s there, the seams are actually sewn...’

‘Wear my dress.’

‘Danny–’

‘Wear my dress! Please!’ He throws himself down on the floor and walks towards me on his knees. ‘It’ll be ready. I’ll work all day and all night.’

‘We haven’t got all day and all night! We’ve got about... three hours.’

‘Then I’ll work all three hours. I’ll do it!’

‘You can really make a boned embroidered corset from scratch in three hours?’ I say incredulously.

Danny looks abashed.

‘So... um... we may have to rethink the design very slightly.’

‘In what way?’

He drums his fingers for a few moments, then looks up. ‘Do you have a plain white T-shirt?’

‘A T-shirt?’ I can’t hide my dismay.

‘It’ll be great. I promise.’ There’s the sound of a van pulling up outside and he glances out of the window. ‘Hey, did you buy another antique?’

An hour later I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a full sweeping skirt made of gold silk – topped by my white T-shirt, which is now completely un­recognizable. Danny’s ripped off the sleeves, sewn on sequins, gathered hems, created lines where there were none – and basically turned it into the most fantastic top I’ve ever seen.

‘I love it.’ I beam at Danny. ‘I love it! I’ll be the coolest bridesmaid in the world!’

‘It’s pretty good, isn’t it?’ Danny gives a casual shrug, but I can see he’s pleased with himself.

I take another gulp of my cocktail, draining the glass. ‘Delicious. Shall we have another one?’

‘What was in that?’

‘Erm...’ I squint vaguely at the bottles lined up on the cocktail cabinet. ‘I’m not sure.’

It took a while to get the cocktail cabinet up the stairs and into our apartment. To be honest, it’s a bit bigger than I remembered, and I’m not sure it’ll fit into that little alcove behind the sofa, where I’d planned to put it. But still, it looks fantastic! It’s standing proudly in the middle of the room, and we’ve already put it to good use. As soon as it arrived, Danny went upstairs and raided his brother Randall’s drinks cupboard, and I got all the booze I could find in the kitchen. We’ve had a Margarita each and a Gimlet, and my invention called the Bloomwood, which consists of vodka, orange and M&Ms, which you scoop out with a spoon.

‘Give me the top again. I want to pull in that shoulder tighter.’

I peel off the top, hand it to him, and reach for my jumper, not bothering about trying to be modest. I mean, this is Danny. He threads a needle and starts expertly gathering along the hem of the T-shirt. ‘So, these weird cousin-marrying friends of yours,’ he says. ‘What’s that about?’

‘They’re not weird!’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘Well, OK, Tarquin is a tiny bit weird. But Suze isn’t at all weird. She’s my best friend!’ Danny raises an eyebrow.

‘So – couldn’t they find anyone else to marry except from their own family? Was it like, “OK, Mom’s taken... my sister, too fat... the dog... mm, don’t like the hair.’

‘Stop it!’ I can’t help giggling. ‘They just suddenly realized they were meant for each other.’

‘Like When Harry Met Sally.’ He puts on a film-trailer voice. ‘They were friends. They came from the same gene pool.’

‘Danny...’

‘OK.’ He relents, and snips off the thread. ‘So, what about you and Luke?’

‘What about us?’

‘D’you think you’ll get married?’

‘I... I have no idea!’ I say, feeling a slight colour coming to my cheeks. ‘I can’t say it’s ever crossed my mind.’

Which is completely true.

Extract 2

The vicar begins his ‘Dearly beloved’ speech, and I feel myself relax with pleasure. I’m going to relish every single, familiar word. This is like watching the start of a favourite movie, with my two best friends playing the main parts.

‘Susan, wilt thou take this man to 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, honour, 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 up against Dad, with a tissue pressed to her eyes, too. She looks up and sees me and I smile – but all she does is give another sob.

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 always come back to Fulham and have my old life with Suze. And now ... I can’t.

Suze doesn’t need me any more. 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 it's been left behind at school; that everyone else has been collected but them.

Until suddenly I see him. Standing behind a pillar towards 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 Luke’s gazing at Suze and Tarquin, who are now being photographed under the oak tree. Suze looks absolutely radiant, but Tarquin might as well be facing gunfire.

‘He’s a very nice chap,’ he says, nodding towards Tarquin. ‘Bit odd, but nice.’

‘Yes. He is. Luke–’

‘Would you like a glass of hot whisky?’ interrupts a waiter, coming up with a tray. ‘Or champagne?’

‘Hot whisky,’ 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 all these people are looking at me, I don’t feel cold any more. 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 him 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 whisky from a waiter and I reach surreptitiously be­hind me to see how much of my dress has unravelled.

‘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. Eighteen fifty-three, I think it was built–’

‘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 whisky. ‘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.’

‘But you’re supposed 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 towards 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. There’s a message, 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! Yeeeesssss!’ I hear the joyful sound ripping through the air before I even realize I’ve opened my mouth. God, 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 honoured,’ 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 honour 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.

Extract 3

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 my 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?

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 into the mirror, feeling quite grown-up and proud of myself. For once in my life I’m not rushing. 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.’

‘Madness!’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘I mean, there’s no hurry, is there?’

June 22nd. Honestly! What is Mum like?

Although... I suppose a summer wedding would be nice in theory.

There’s nothing actually stopping us getting married this year.

And if we did make it June, I could start looking at wedding dresses straight away. I could start trying on tiaras. I could start reading Brides! Yes!

‘On the other hand,’ I add casually, ‘there’s no real reason to delay, is there? I mean, now we’ve decided, in one sense, we might as well just... do it. Why hang around?’

‘Are you sure? Becky, I don’t want you to feel pressured–’

‘It’s OK. I’m quite sure. Let’s get married in June!’

We’re getting married! Soon! Hooray! I catch sight of myself in the mirror again – and a huge, exhilarated beam has spread itself over my face.

‘So I’ll tell my mother the 22nd.’ Luke interrupts my thoughts. ‘I know she’ll be delighted.’ He glances at his watch. ‘In fact, I must get going.’

‘Oh yes,’ I say, trying to muster some enthusiasm. ‘Yes, you don’t want to be late for her, do you?’

Luke’s spending the day with his mother Elinor, who is over in London on her way to Switzerland. The official version is that she’s going there to stay with some old friends and ‘enjoy the mountain air’. Of course everyone knows she’s really going to have her face lifted for the zillionth time.

Then this afternoon, Mum, Dad and I are going up to meet them for tea at Claridges. Everyone has been exclaiming about what a lucky coincidence it is that Elinor’s over here, so the two families will be able to meet. But every time I think about it, my stomach turns over. I wouldn’t mind if it was Luke’s real parents – his dad and stepmum, who are really lovely and live in Devon. But they’ve just gone out to Australia, where Luke’s half-sister has moved, and they probably won’t be back until just before the wedding. So all we’re left with to represent Luke is Elinor.

Elinor Sherman. My future mother-in-law.

OK... let’s not think about that. Let’s just get through today.

‘Luke...’ I pause, trying to find the right words. ‘How do you think it’ll be? Our parents meeting for the first time? You know – your mother... and my mother... I mean, they’re not exactly similar, are they?’

‘It’ll be fine! They’ll get on wonderfully, I’m sure.’

He honestly hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about.

I know it’s a good thing that Luke adores his mother. I know sons should love their mothers. And I know he hardly ever saw her when he was tiny, and he’s trying to make up for lost time... but still. How can he be so devoted to Elinor?

As I arrive downstairs in the kitchen, Mum’s tidying up the breakfast things with one hand and holding the portable phone in the other.

‘Yes,’ she’s saying. ‘That’s right. Bloomwood, B-l-o-o-m-w-o-o-d. Of Oxshott, Surrey, And you’ll fax that over? Thank you. Good.’ She puts away the phone and beams at me. ‘That’s the announcement gone in the Surrey Post.’

‘Another announcement? Mum, how many have you done?’

‘Just the standard number!’ she says defensively. ‘The Times, the Telegraph, the Oxshott Herald and the Esher Gazette.’

‘And the Surrey Post.’

‘Yes. So only... five.’

‘Five!’

‘Becky, you only get married once!’ says Mum.

‘I know. But honestly...’

‘Now, listen.’ Mum is rather pink in the face. ‘You’re our only daughter, Becky, and we’re not going to spare any expense. We want you to have the wedding of your dreams. Whether it’s the announcements, or the flowers or a horse and carriage like Suzie had... we want you to have it.’

‘Mum, I wanted to talk to you about that,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Luke and I will contribute to the cost–’

‘Nonsense!’ says Mum briskly. ‘We wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘But–’

‘We’ve always hoped we'd be paying for a wedding one day. We’ve been putting money aside especially, for a few years now.’

‘Really?’ I stare at her, feeling a sudden swell of emotion. Mum and Dad have been saving all this time, and they never said a word. ‘I... I had no idea.’

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 651