Shopaholic Ties the Knot (by Sophie Kinsella) 3 page

God, I adore Martha Stewart Weddings.

Secretly, I want to BE Martha Stewart Weddings. I just want to crawl inside the pages with all those beautiful people getting married in Nantucket and South Carolina and riding to the chapel on horses and making their own place-card holders out of frosted russet apples.

I stare at a picture of a wholesome-looking couple standing in a poppy field against a staggeringly beautiful backdrop of mountains. You know, maybe we should get married in a poppy field too, and I could have barley twined round my hair and Luke could make us a loving seat with his own bare hands because his family has worked in woodcrafting for six gener­ations. Then we’d ride back to the house in an old country wagon–

‘What’s “French white-glove service”?’ says Suze, peering puzzledly at an ad.

‘I dunno.’ I glance up dazedly. ‘Hey Suze, look at this. Shall I make my own bouquet?’

‘Do what?’

‘Look!’ I point to the page. ‘You can make your own flowers out of crepe paper for an imaginative and individual bouquet.’

‘You? Make paper flowers?’

‘I could do!’ I say, slightly nettled by her tone. ‘I’m a very creative person, you know.’

‘And what if it rains?’

‘It won’t rain–’ I stop myself abruptly.

I was about to say, ‘It won’t rain in the Plaza.’

‘I just… know it won’t rain,’ I say instead, and quickly turn a page. ‘Ooh, look at those shoes!’

‘Ladies! Let’s begin.’ Cynthia has reappeared, a clip­board in her hand. She sits down on a small gilt chair and we both look at her attentively.

‘Nothing in your life,’ she says, ‘can prepare you for the experience of buying your wedding dress. You may think you know about buying clothes.’ Cynthia gives a little smile and shakes her head. ‘Buying a wedding dress is different. We at Dream Dress like to say, you don’t choose your dress...’

‘Your dress chooses you?’ suggests Suze.

‘No,’ says Cynthia with a flash of annoyance. ‘You don’t choose your dress,’ she repeats, turning to me, ‘you meet your dress. You’ve met your man... now it’s time to meet your dress. And let me assure you, there is a dress waiting for you. It might be the first dress you try on.’ Cynthia gestures to a halter-neck sheath hanging up nearby. ‘It might be the twentieth. But when you put on the right dress... it’ll hit you here.’ She clasps her solar plexus. ‘It’s like falling in love. You’ll know.’

‘Really?’ I look around, feeling tentacles of excite­ment. ‘How will I know?’

‘Let’s just say... you’ll know.’ She gives me a wise smile. ‘Have you had any ideas at all yet?’

‘Well, obviously I’ve had a few thoughts...’

‘Good! It’s always helpful if we can narrow the search down a little. So before we start, let me ask you a few basic questions.’ She unscrews her pen. ‘Were you after something simple?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, nodding my head. ‘Really simple and elegant. Or else quite elaborate,’ I add, catching sight of an amazing dress with roses cascading down the back.

‘Right. So... simple or elaborate...’ She scribbles on her clipboard. ‘Did you want beading or em­broidery?’

‘Maybe.’

‘OK... Now, sleeves or strapless?’

‘Possibly strapless,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Or else sleeves.’

‘Did you want a train?’

‘Ooh yes!’

‘But you wouldn’t mind if you didn’t have a train, would you?’ puts in Suze, who is leafing through Wedding Hair. ‘I mean, you could always have one of those really long veils for the procession.’

‘That’s true. But I do like the idea of a train...’ I stare at her, gripped by a sudden thought. ‘Hey Suze, if I waited a couple of years to get married, your baby would be two – and it could hold my train up!’

‘Oh!’ Suze claps her hand over her mouth. ‘That would be so sweet! Except, what if it fell over? Or screamed?’

‘I wouldn’t mind! And we could get it a really gorgeous little outfit...’

‘If we could just get back to the subject...’ Cynthia smiles at us and surveys her clipboard. ‘So we’re after something either simple or elaborate, with sleeves or strapless, possibly with beading and/or embroidery and either with a train or without.’

‘Exactly!’ My eye follows hers around the shop. ‘But you know, I’m quite flexible.’

‘Right.’ Cynthia stares at her notes silently for a few moments. ‘Right,’ she says again. ‘Well, the only way you can know is by trying a few dresses on... so let’s get started!’

Why have I never done this before? Trying on wedding dresses is simply the most fun I’ve had ever, in my whole life. Cynthia shows me into a large fitting room with a gold and white cherub wallpaper and a big mirror and gives me a lacy basque and high satin shoes to out on – and then her assistant brings in dresses in lots of five. I try on silk chiffon sheaths with low backs, ballerina dresses with tight bodices and layers of tulle, dresses made from duchesse satin and lace, starkly plain dresses with dramatic trains, simple dresses, glittery dresses...

‘When you see the right one, you’ll know,’ Cynthia keeps saying as the assistant heaves the hangers up onto the hooks. ‘Just... keep trying.’

‘I will!’ I say happily, as I step into a strapless dress with beaded lace and a swooshy skirt. I come outside and parade around in front of Suze.

‘That’s fantastic!’ she says. ‘Even better than the one with the little straps.’

‘I know! But I still quite like that one with the lace sleeves off the shoulder...’ I stare critically at myself. ‘How many have I tried on now?’

‘That takes us up to... thirty-five,’ says Cynthia, looking at her list.

‘And how many have I marked so far as possibles?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘Really?’ I look up in surprise. ‘Which ones didn’t I like?’

‘The two pink dresses and the coat dress.’

‘Oh no, I still quite like the coat dress. Put it down as a possible.’ I parade a bit more, then glance around the shop, trying to see if there’s anything I haven’t looked at yet. I stop in front of a rail of baby flower-girls’ dresses and sigh, slightly more heavily than I meant to. ‘God, it’s tricky, isn’t it? I mean... one dress. One.’

‘I don’t think Becky’s ever bought one thing before,’ says Suze to Cynthia. ‘It’s a bit of a culture shock.’

‘I don’t see why you can’t wear more than one. I mean, it’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life isn’t it? You should be allowed five dresses.’

‘That would be cool!’ says Suze. ‘You could have a really sweet romantic one for walking in, then a more elegant one to walk out... then one for cocktails...’

‘And a really sexy one for dancing... and another one for...’

‘For Luke to rip off you,’ says Suze, her eyes gleam­ing.

‘Ladies,’ says Cynthia, giving a little laugh. ‘Rebecca. I know it’s hard... but you are going to have to choose sometime! For a June wedding, you’re already leaving it very late.’

‘How can I be leaving it late?’ I say in astonishment. ‘I’ve only just got engaged!’

Cynthia shakes her head.

‘In wedding-dress terms, that’s late. What we recommend is that if brides think they may have a short engagement, they begin to look for a dress before they get engaged.’

‘Oh God.’ I give a gusty sigh. ‘I had no idea it was all going to be so difficult.’

‘Try on that one at the end,’ suggests Suze. ‘The one with the chiffon trumpet sleeves. You haven’t tried that, have you?’

‘Oh,’ I say, looking at it in surprise. ‘No, I haven’t.’

I carry the dress back to the fitting room, clamber out of the swooshy skirt, and step into it.

It hugs my waist, skims sleekly over my hips, and falls to the floor in a tiny, rippling train. The neckline flatters my face, and the colour is just right against my skin. It feels good. It looks good.

‘Hey,’ says Suze, sitting up as I come out. ‘Now, that’s nice.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ I say, stepping up onto the podium.

I stare at my reflection and feel a little glow of pleasure. It’s a simple dress – but I look fantastic in it. It makes me look really thin! It makes my skin look radiant and... God, maybe this is the one!

There’s silence in the shop.

‘Do you feel it here?’ says Cynthia, clutching her stomach. ‘I don’t know! I think so!’ I give an excited laugh.

‘I think I might do!’

‘I knew it. You see? When you find the right dress, it just hits you. You can’t plan for it, you can’t work it out on paper. You just know when it’s right.’

‘I’ve found my wedding dress!’ I beam at Suze. ‘I’ve found it!’

‘At last!’ There’s a ring of relief to Cynthia’s voice. ‘Let’s all have a glass of champagne to celebrate!’

As she disappears I admire myself again. It just shows, you can’t tell. Who would have thought I’d go for trumpet sleeves?

An assistant carries past another dress and I catch sight of an embroidered silk corset bodice, tied up with ribbons.

‘Hey, that looks nice,’ I say. ‘What’s that?’

‘Never mind what that is!’ says Cynthia, returning and handing me a glass of champagne. ‘You’ve found your dress!’ She lifts her glass, but I’m still looking at the ribboned bodice.

‘Maybe I should just try that one on. Just quickly.’

‘You know what I was thinking?’ says Suze, looking up from Brides. ‘Maybe you should have a dress which isn’t a wedding dress. Like a colour!’

‘Wow!’ I stare at Suze, my imagination gripped. ‘Like red or something.’

‘Or a trouser suit!’ suggests Suze, showing me a magazine picture. ‘Don’t those look cool!’

‘But you’ve found your dress!’ chips in Cynthia, her voice slightly shrill. ‘You don’t need to look any further! This is The One!’

‘Mmm...’ I pull a tiny face. ‘You know... I’m not so sure it is.’

Cynthia stares at me and for an awful moment I think she’s going to throw the champagne at me. ‘I thought this was the dress of your dreams!’

‘It’s the dress of some of my dreams,’ I explain. ‘I have a lot of dreams. Could we put it down as another possible?’

‘Right,’ she says at last. ‘Another possible. I’ll just write that down.’

As she walks off, Suze leans back on the sofa and beams at me. ‘Oh Bex, it’s going to be so romantic! Tarkie and I went to look at the church you’re getting married in. It’s beautiful!’

‘It is nice,’ I agree, quelling an automatic wave of guilt.

Although why should I feel guilty? Nothing’s been decided yet. I haven’t definitely chosen the Plaza. We still might get married in Oxshott.

Maybe.

‘Your mum’s planning to put this gorgeous arch of roses over the gate, and bunches of roses on all the pews... and then everyone will get a rose buttonhole. She thought maybe yellow, but it depends on the other colours...’

‘Oh, right. Well, I’m not really sure yet...’ I tail off as I see the shop door opening behind me.

Robyn is coming in, dressed in a mauve suit and clutching her Coach bag. She catches my eye in the mirror and gives a little wave.

What’s Robyn doing here?

‘And then on the tables, maybe some tiny posies...’

Robyn’s heading towards us. I’m not sure I like this.

‘Hey, Suze!’ I turn with what I hope is a natural smile. ‘Why don’t you go and look at those... um... ring cushions over there?’

‘What?’ Suze stares at me as though I’ve gone mad. ‘You’re not having a ring cushion, are you? Please don’t tell me you’ve turned into an American.’

‘Well then... the tiaras. I might have one of those!’

‘Bex, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing!’ I say brightly. ‘I just thought you might want to... oh, hi Robyn!’ As she approaches, I force myself to give her a friendly smile.

‘Becky!’ says Robyn, clasping her hands. ‘Isn’t that own beautiful? Don’t you look adorable? Is that the one, do you think?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’ My smile is so fixed, it s hurting. ‘So Robyn, how on earth did you know I’d be here? You must be telepathic!’

‘Cynthia told me you’d be coming in. She’s an old friend.’ Robyn turns to Suze. ‘And is this your chum from England?’

‘Oh… yes. Suze, Robyn, Robyn, Suze.’

‘Suze? The maid of honour herself? Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Suze! You’ll look simply wonderful in–’ She stops abruptly as her gaze takes in Suze’s stomach. ‘Dear, are you expecting?’

‘I’ll have had the baby by then,’ Suze assures her.

‘Good!’ Robyn’s face relaxes. ‘As I say, you’ll look wonderful in violet!’

‘Violet?’ Suze looks confused. ‘I thought I was wear­ing blue.’

‘No, definitely violet!’

‘Bex, I’m sure your mum said–’

‘Well, anyway!’ I interrupt hurriedly. ‘Robyn, I’m a bit tied up here–’

‘I know, and I don’t want to get in your way. But since I’m here, there’s just a couple of things... Two seconds, I promise!’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out her notebook. ‘First of all, we’ve confirmed the band, and they’ll be sending over a list of numbers for you to approve. Now, what else...’ She consults her notebook.

‘Great!’ I dart a quick glance at Suze, who’s staring at Robyn with a puzzled frown. ‘You know, maybe you should just give me a call sometime, and we can talk about all this...’

‘It won’t take long! So the other thing was... we’ve scheduled in a tasting at the Plaza on the 23rd in the chef s dining room. I passed on your views on monk­ish, so they’re having a rethink on that...’ Robyn flips a Page. ‘Oh, and I still really need that guest list from you!’ She looks up and wags her finger in mock reproof ‘We’ll be needing to think about invitations before we know it! Especially for the overseas guests!’

‘OK. I’ll... I’ll get onto it,’ I mumble.

I don’t dare look at Suze.

‘Great! And I’m meeting you at Antoine’s on Monday, ten o’clock. Those cakes... you are going to swoon. Now I have to run.’ She closes her notebook and smiles at Suze. ‘Nice to meet you, Suze. See you at the wedding!’

‘See you there!’ says Suze in a too-cheerful voice. ‘Absolutely.’

The door closes behind Robyn and I swallow hard, my face still tingling.

‘So, ahm... I might as well get changed.’

I head to the fitting room without meeting Suze’s eye. A moment later, she’s in there with me. ‘Who was that?’ she says lightly, as I unzip the dress.

‘That was... Robyn! She’s nice, isn’t she?’

‘And what was she talking about?’

‘Just... wedding chit-chat... you know... Can you help me out of this corset?’

‘Why does she think you’re getting married at the Plaza?’

‘I... um... I don’t know!’

‘Yes you do! And that woman at the party!’ Suddenly Suze’s voice is as severe as she can manage. ‘Bex, what’s going on?’

‘Nothing!’

Suze grabs my shoulder.

‘Bex, stop it! You’re not getting married at the Plaza, are you?’

I stare at her, feeling my face grow hotter and hotter.

‘It’s... an option,’ I say at last.

‘What do you mean, it’s an option?’ Suze stares at me, her grip on me loosening. ‘How can it be an option?’

I adjust the dress on the hanger, playing for time, trying to stifle the guilt rising inside me. If I behave as though this is a completely normal situation, then maybe it will be.

‘It’s just that... well, Elinor’s offered to throw this really spectacular wedding for me and Luke. And I haven’t quite decided whether or not to take it up.’ I see Suze’s expression. ‘What?’

‘What do you mean “what?” ’ expostulates Suze. ‘What about a) your mum’s already organizing you a wedding? What about b) Elinor is a complete cow? What about c) you’ve gone off your head? Why on earth would you want to get married at the Plaza?’

‘Because... because...’ I close my eyes briefly. ‘Suze, you have to see it. We’re going to have a great big string orchestra, and caviar, and an oyster bar... and Tiffany frames for everyone on the tables... and Cristal champagne... and the whole place will be this magical enchanted forest, and we’re going to have real birch trees and songbirds...’

‘Real birch trees?’ Suze pulls a face. ‘What do you want those for?’

‘It’s going to be like the Sleeping Beauty! And I’m going to be the princess, and Luke’s going to be the...’ I tail off feebly to see Suze staring at me reproachfully.

‘What about your mum?’

There’s silence, and I pretend to be preoccupied unhooking my basque. I don’t want to have to think about Mum right at the moment.

‘Bex! What about your mum?’

‘I’ll just have to... talk her round,’ I say at last.

‘Talk her round.’

‘She said herself I shouldn’t do the wedding by halves!’ I say defensively. ‘If she came and saw the Plaza, and saw all the plans–’

But she’s done such a lot of preparation already! When we were there she could talk about nothing else. Her and – what’s your neighbour called?’

‘Janice.’

That’s right. They’re calling your kitchen the control centre. There’s about six pinboards up, and lists, and bits of material everywhere... And they’re so happy doing it.’ Suze stares at me earnestly. ‘Becky, you can’t just tell them it’s all off. You can’t.’

‘Elinor would fly them over!’ There’s a guilty edge to my voice which I pretend I can’t hear. ‘They’d have a fantastic time! It would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for them, too! They could stay in the Plaza, and dance all night, and see New York... They’d have the most fabulous holiday ever!’

‘Have you said this to your mum?’

‘No. I... I haven’t told her anything about it. Not yet. There’s no point bringing it up until I’m a hundred per cent sure.’ There’s a pause while Suze’s eyes narrow.

‘Bex, you are going to do something about this soon, aren’t you?’ she says suddenly. ‘You’re not just going to bury your head in the sand and pretend it isn’t happen­ing.’

‘Honestly! I wouldn’t do that!’ I say indignantly.

‘This is me, remember!’ exclaims Suze. ‘Bex, I know what you’re like! You used to throw all your bank statements into a skip and hope a complete stranger would pay off your bills!’

This is what happens. You tell your friends your most personal secrets, and they use them against you.

‘I’ve grown up a lot since then,’ I say, trying to sound dignified. ‘And I will sort it out. I just need to... to think it through.’

There’s a long silence. Outside, I can hear Cynthia saying, ‘Here at Dream Dress, our motto is, you don’t choose your dress...’

‘Look, Bex,’ says Suze at last. ‘I can’t make this decision for you. No-one can. All I can say is, if you’re going to pull out of your mum’s wedding, you’re going to have to do it quickly.’

The Pines

43 Elton Koad

Oxshott

Surrey

FAX MESSAGE

TO BECKY BLOOMWOOD

FROM MUM

20 March 2002

Becky, darling! Wonderful news!

You might have heard that Suzie spilt her coffee all over the wedding dress. She was devastated, poor thing.

But I took the dress to the cleaners... and they worked miracles! It’s as white as snow again and you’ll be able to wear it after all!

Much love and talk soon Mum xxxxxxxxx

OK. Suze is right. I can’t dither any more. I have to decide.

The day after she’s left to go home I sit down in my fitting room at lunchtime with a piece of paper and a pen. I’m just going to have to do this logically. Work out the pros and cons, weigh them all up – and make a rational decision. Right. Let’s go.

For Oxshott

1. Mum will be happy.

2. Dad will be happy.

3. It’ll be a lovely wedding.

I stare at the list for a few seconds – then make a new heading.

For New York

1. I get to have the most amazing wedding in the world.

Oh God. I bury my head in my hands. It isn’t any easier on paper.

In fact it’s harder, because it’s thrusting the dilemma right in my face, instead of where I want it – which is in a little box at the back of my mind where I don’t have to look at it.

Extract 7

I’ve taken the morning off work for the cake-tasting meeting with Robyn, but our appointment’s not until ten. So after Luke’s gone I slowly pad around the apartment, making myself some breakfast and thinking about what I’m going to say to Elinor.

The thing is to be direct. Firm and direct but pleasant. Grown-up and professional, like business people who have to fire other business people. Stay calm and use phrases like ‘we chose to go another way’.

‘Hello, Elinor,’ I say to my reflection. ‘I have some­thing I need to say to you. I have chosen to go another way.’

No. She’ll think I’m becoming a lesbian.

‘Hello Elinor,’ I try again. ‘I’ve been bouncing around your wedding-scenario proposal. And while it has many merits...’

OK, come on. Just do it.

Ignoring my butterflies, I pick up the phone and dial Elinor’s number.

‘Elinor Sherman is unable to take your call...’

She’s out.

I can’t just leave her a message saying the wedding’s off. Can I?

Could I?

No.

I put the phone down hurriedly, before the bleep sounds. OK. What shall I do now?

Well, it’s obvious. I’ll call Robyn. The important thing is that I tell someone, before anything else gets done.

I gather my thoughts for a moment, then dial Robyn’s number.

‘Hello! Do I hear wedding bells? I hope so, because this is Robyn de Bendern, the answer to your wedding-planning prayers. I’m afraid I'm unavailable at present, but your call is so important to me...’

Robyn’s probably already on her way to meet me at the cake-maker’s studio, it occurs to me. I could call her there. Or I could leave a message.

But as I hear her bright, chirruping voice, I suddenly feel a pang of guilt. Robyn’s already put so much into this. In fact, I’ve become quite fond of her. I just can’t tell her it’s all off over the phone. Feeling suddenly firm, I put down the phone and reach for my bag.

I’ll be a grown-up, go along to the cake studio and break the news to her face to face.

And I’ll deal with Elinor later.

To be honest, I don’t really like wedding cake. I always take a piece because it’s bad luck or something if you don’t, but actually all that fruit cake and marzipan and icing like blocks of chalk makes me feel a bit sick. And I’m so nervous at the thought of telling Robyn it’s all off, that I can’t imagine eating anything.

Even so, my mouth can’t help watering as I arrive at the cake studio. It’s big and light, with huge windows and the sweetest, most delicious, sugary-buttery smell wafting through the air. There are huge mounted cakes on display, and rows of flower decorations in trans­parent boxes, and people at marble tables, carefully making roses out of icing and painting strands of sugar ivy.

As I hover at the entrance, a skinny girl in jeans and strappy high heels is being led out by her mother, and they’re in the middle of a row.

‘You only had to taste it,’ the mother is saying furiously. ‘How many calories could that be?’

‘I don’t care,’ retorts the girl tearfully. ‘I’m going to be a size 2 on my wedding day if it kills me.’

Size 2!

God. I’ve been here long enough, but I still get freaked out by American sizes. What is that in real life? Size 6

Size 6.

Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better.

‘Becky!’ I look up to see Robyn, who seems a little flustered. ‘Hello! You made it.’

‘Robyn.’ I feel my stomach clench with apprehen­sion. ‘Listen. I need to talk to you. I tried calling Elinor but she was... Anyway. There’s something I need to... tell you.’

‘Absolutely,’ says Robyn distractedly. ‘Antoine and I will be with you in a moment, but we have a slight crisis on our hands.’ She lowers her voice. ‘There was an accident with one of the cakes. Very unfortunate.’

‘Miss Bloomwood?’ I look up to see a man with grey hair and twinkling eyes in a white chefs outfit. ‘I am Antoine Montignac. The cake-maker of cake-makers. Perhaps you have seen me in my television show?’

‘Antoine, I don’t think we’ve quite resolved the probem with the... other client...’ says Robyn anxiously.

‘I come in a moment.’ He dismisses her with his hand. ‘Miss Bloomwood. Sit down.’

‘Actually, I’m not sure I really want to...’ I begin. But before I know what I’m doing, I’ve been seated on a plushy chair at a polished table, and Antoine is spread­ing glossy portfolios in front of me.

‘I can create for you the cake which will surpass all your dreams,’ he announces modestly. ‘No image is beyond my powers of creativity.’

‘Really?’ I look at a photograph of a spectacular six-tier cake decorated with sugar tulips, then turn the page to see one in the shape of five different butterflies. These are the hugest cakes I’ve ever seen in my life. And the decorations!

‘So, are these all fruit cakes inside?’

‘Fruit cake? Non, non, non!’ Antoine laughs. ‘This is very English notion, the fruit cake at the wedding. This particular cake...’ He points to the butterfly cake. ‘It was a light angel sponge, each tier layered with three different fillings: burnt orange caramel, passion fruit-mango, and hazelnut souffle.’

‘If you like chocolate, we can construct a cake purely different varieties of chocolate.’ He turns to another page. ‘This was a dark chocolate sponge layered with chocolate fondant, white chocolate cream and a Grand Marnier truffle filling.’

I had no idea wedding cakes could be anything like this. I flip through, slightly dazedly, looking at cake after spectacular cake.

‘If you do not want the traditional tiers, I can make for you a cake to represent something you love. A favourite painting... or a sculpture...’ He looks at me again. ‘A Louis Vuitton trunk, perhaps...’

A Louis Vuitton trunk wedding cake! How cool would that be?

‘Antoine? If you could just come here a moment?’ Robyn pokes her head out of a small meeting room to the right – and although she’s smiling, she sounds pretty harassed.

‘Excuse me, Miss Bloomwood,’ says Antoine apolo­getically. ‘Davina. Some cake for Miss Bloomwood to taste.’

A smiling assistant disappears through a pair of double doors – then returns with a glass of champagne, a china plate holding two slices of cake and a sugar lily. She hands me a fork and says, ‘This one is passionfruit – mango, strawberry and tangerine mousseline, and this is caramel creme with pistachio and mocha truffle. Enjoy!’

Wow. Each slice is a light sponge, with three different pastel-coloured fillings. I don’t know where to start!

OK... let’s go for mocha truffle.

I put a piece in my mouth and nearly swoon. Now this is what wedding cakes should all be like. Why don’t we have these in England?

I take a few sips of cnampagne, and nibble the sugar lily, which is all yummy and lemony – then take a second piece and munch blissfully, watching a girl nearby as she painstakingly makes a spray of lilies of the valley.

You know, maybe I should get Suze a nice cake for her baby’s christening. I mean, I’ll get a present as well – but I could always buy a cake as a little extra.

‘Do you know how much these cakes are?’ I ask the girl as I polish off the second slice.

‘Well... it really varies,’ she says, looking up. ‘But I guess they start at about a thousand dollars.’

I nearly choke on my champagne. A thousand dollars? They start at a thousand dollars?

For a cake?

I mean, how much have I eaten, just now? That must have been at least fifty dollars’ worth of cake on my plate!

‘Would you like another slice?’ says the girl, and glances at the meeting room. ‘It looks like Antoine is still held up.’

‘Ooh well... why not! And could I try one of those sugar tulips? You know. Just for research purposes.’

‘Sure,’ says the girl pleasantly. ‘Whatever you like.’

She gives me a tulip and a spray of tiny white flowers, and I crunch through them happily, washing them down with champagne.

Then I look idly around, and spy a huge, elaborate flower, yellow and white with minute drops of dew. Wow. That looks yummy. I reach over a display of sugar hearts, pick it up, and it’s almost in my mouth when I hear a yell.

‘Stooooop!’ A guy in whites is pounding across the studio towards me. ‘Don’t eat the jonquil!’

‘Oops!’ I say, stopping just in time. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize. Is it very special?’

‘It took me three hours to make,’ he says, taking it gently from my hand. ‘No harm done, though.’ He smiles at me, but I notice there’s sweat on his forehead.

Hmm. Maybe I should just stick to the champagne from now on. I take another sip, and am looking around for the bottle, when raised voices start coming from the side room where Robyn and Antoine are closeted.

‘I deed not do this deliberately! Mademoiselle, I do not have a vendetta!’

‘You do! You bloody hate me, don’t you?’ comes a muffled voice.

I can hear Robyn saying something soothing which I can’t make out.

‘It’s just one thing after another!’ The girl’s voice is raised now – and as I hear it clearly, I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth.

I don’t believe it.

It can’t be.

‘This bloody wedding is jinxed!’ she’s exclaiming. ‘Right from the word go, everything’s gone wrong.’

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 730