“Indeed,” says Elinor, glancing at Mum’s shoes. “Good-bye, Rebecca.” Elinor nods at Dad. “Graham.”
“Good-bye, Elinor,” says Dad in an outwardly polite voice—but as I glance at him I can tell he’s not at all impressed. “See you later, Luke.” As they disappear through the doors, he looks at his watch. “Twelve minutes.”
“What do you mean?” says Mum.
“That’s how long she gave us.”
“Graham! I’m sure she didn’t mean . . .” Mum breaks off as she notices the blue “His Mum” book, still lying on the table amid the wrapping paper. “Elinor’s left her wedding planner behind!” she cries, grabbing it. “Becky, run after her.”
“Mum . . .” I take a deep breath. “I wouldn’t bother. I’m not sure she’s that interested.”
“I wouldn’t count on her for any help,” says Dad. He reaches for the clotted cream and piles a huge amount onto his scone.
“Oh.” Mum looks from my face to Dad’s—then slowly subsides into her seat, clutching the book. “Oh, I see.”
She takes a sip of tea, and I can see her struggling hard to think of something nice to say.
“Well . . . she probably just doesn’t want to interfere!” she says at last. “It’s completely understandable.”
But even she doesn’t look that convinced. God, I hate Elinor.
“Mum, let’s finish our tea,” I say. “And then why don’t we go to the sales?”
“Yes,” says Mum after a pause. “Yes, let’s do that! Now you mention it, I could do with some new gloves.” She takes a sip of tea and looks more cheerful. “And perhaps a nice bag.”
“We’ll have a lovely time,” I say, and squeeze her arm. “Just us.”
Miss Rebecca Bloomwood
251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B
New York, NY 10014
February 11, 2002
Dear Miss Bloomwood:
May we be the very first to congratulate you on your engagement to Mr. Luke Brandon, the report of which we saw in The New York Observer. This must be a very happy time for you, and we send you our wholehearted good wishes.
We are sure that at this time, you will be inundated with many unwanted, even tasteless offers. However, we offer a unique and personal service to which we would like to draw your attention.
As divorce lawyers with over 30 years’ experience between us, we know the difference a good attorney can make. Let us all hope and pray that you and Mr. Brandon never reach that painful moment. But if you do, we are specialists in the following areas:
• Contesting prenuptial agreements
• Negotiating alimony
• Obtaining court injunctions
• Uncovering information (with the help of our in-house private detective)
We do not ask that you contact us now. Simply place this letter with your other wedding memorabilia—and should the need arise you will know where we are.
Many congratulations again!
Ernest P. Franton
Associate Partner
Miss Rebecca Bloomwood
251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B
New York, NY 10014
February 13, 2002
Dear Miss Bloomwood:
May we be the very first to congratulate you on your engagement to Mr. Luke Brandon, the report of which we saw in The New York Observer. This must be a very happy time for you, and we send you our wholehearted good wishes.
We are sure that at this time, you will be inundated with many unwanted, even tasteless offers. However, we offer a unique and personal service to which we would like to draw your attention.
A wedding gift with a difference.
What better way for your guests to show their appreciation of the love you have for each other, than by giving you adjoining cemetery plots? In the peace and tranquility of our meticulously tended gardens, you and your husband will rest together as you have lived together, for all eternity.*
A pair of plots in the prestigious Garden of Redemption is currently available at the special offer price of $6,500. Why not add it to your wedding list—and let your loved ones give you the gift that will truly last forever?**
Again, many congratulations, and may you have a long and blissful married life together.
Hank Hamburg
Director of Sales
* In case of divorce, plots can be moved to opposite sides of cemetery.
** Hamburg Family Mortuaries, Inc., reserves the right to reallocate grave space, giving 30 days’ notice in the event of redevelopment of the land (see attached terms and conditions).
Four
WHO CARES ABOUT bloody Elinor, anyway?
We’ll have a lovely wedding, with or without her help. As Mum said, it’s her loss, and she’ll regret it on the day, when she doesn’t feel part of the celebrations. We cheered up quite a lot after we left Claridges, actually. We went to the Selfridges sale and Mum found a nice new bag and I got some volumizing mascara, while Dad went and had a pint of beer, like he always does. Then we all went out for supper, and by the time we got home we were all a lot more cheerful and finding the whole situation quite funny.
The next day, when Janice came round for coffee, we told her all about tea with Elinor and she was really indignant on our behalf, and said if Elinor thought she was getting her makeup done for free, she had another think coming! Then Dad joined in and did a good imitation of Elinor looking at the clotted cream as if it was about to mug her and we all started giggling hysterically—until Luke came downstairs and asked what was funny, and we had to pretend we were laughing at a joke on the radio.
I really don’t know what to do about Luke and his mother. Part of me thinks I should be honest. I should tell him how upset she made us all, and how Mum was really hurt. But the trouble is, I’ve tried to be honest with him in the past about Elinor and it’s always led to a huge row. And I really don’t want to have any rows now, while we’re just engaged, and all blissful and happy. So I didn’t say anything.
The following day we left to come back to New York, and when we said good-bye, Mum gave Luke a huge affectionate hug, as though to make up for the way she feels about Elinor. After all, he can’t help his mother, can he? Then she hugged me, and wrote down my fax number for the zillionth time and promised she’d be in touch as soon as she’d talked to some caterers.
Apart from the small issue of Elinor, everything is going perfectly. Just to prove it, on the plane back to New York, I did this quiz in Wedding and Home on “Are You Ready for Marriage?” And we got the top marks! It said, “Congratulations! You are a committed and loving couple, able to work through your problems. The lines of communication are open between you and you see eye to eye on most issues.”
OK, maybe I did cheat a tiny bit. Like for the question “Which part of your wedding are you most looking forward to?” I was going to put (a) “Choosing my shoes” until I saw that (c) “Making a lifelong commitment” got ten points whereas (a) only got two.
But then, I’m sure everyone else has a little peek at the answers too. They probably factor it in somehow.
At least I didn’t put (d) “Dessert” (no points).
“Becky?”
“Yes?”
We arrived back at the apartment an hour ago and Luke is going through the post. “You haven’t seen that joint account statement, have you? I’ll have to give them a ring.”
“Oh, it came. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”
I hurry into the bedroom and take the statement from its hiding place, feeling a slight beat of apprehension.
Come to think of it, there was a question about financial matters in that quiz. I think I ticked (b) “We have similar patterns of expenditure and money is never an issue between us.”
“Here you are,” I say lightly, handing him the sheet of paper.
“I just don’t see why we keep going overdrawn on this account,” Luke’s saying. “Our household expenses can’t increase every month . . .” He peers at the page, which is cove
red in thick white blobs. “Becky . . . why has this statement got Wite-Out all over it?”
“I know!” I say apologetically. “I’m sorry about that. The bottle was there, and I was moving some books, and it just . . . tipped over.”
“But it’s almost impossible to read!”
“Is it?” I say innocently. “That’s a shame. Still, never mind. These things happen . . .” And I’m about to pluck it from his fingers when suddenly his eyes narrow.
“Does that say . . .” He starts scraping at the statement with his fingernail, and suddenly a big blob of Wite-Out falls off.
Damn. I should have used tomato ketchup, like last month.
“Miù Miù. I thought so. Becky, what’s Miù Miù doing in here?” He scrapes again, and Wite-Out starts to shower off the page like snow.
Oh God. Please don’t see—
“Sephora . . . and Joseph . . . No wonder we’re overdrawn!” He gives me an exasperated look. “Becky, this account is supposed to be for household expenses. Not skirts from Miù Miù!”
OK. Fight or flight.
I cross my arms defiantly and lift my chin. “So . . . a skirt isn’t a household expense. Is that what you’re saying?”
Luke stares at me. “Of course that’s what I’m saying!”
“Well, you know, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe the two of us just need to clarify our definitions a little.”
“I see,” says Luke after a pause, and I can see his mouth twitching slightly. “So you’re telling me that you would classify a Miù Miù skirt as a household expense.”
“I . . . might! It’s ‘in the household,’ isn’t it? And anyway,” I continue quickly. “Anyway. At the end of the day, what does it matter? What does any of it matter? We have our health, we have each other, we have the . . . the beauty of life. Those are the things that matter. Not money. Not bank accounts. Not the mundane, soul-destroying details.” I make a sweeping gesture with my hand, feeling as though I’m making an Oscar-winning speech. “We’re on this planet for all too short a time, Luke. All too short a time. And when we come to the end, which will count for more? A number on a piece of paper—or the love between two people? Knowing that a few meaningless figures balanced—or knowing that you were the person you wanted to be?”
As I reach the end, I’m choked by my own brilliance. I look up in a daze, half expecting Luke to be near tears and whispering, “You had me at ‘And.’ ”
“Very stirring,” says Luke crisply. “Just for the record, in my book ‘household expenses’ means joint expenses pertaining to the running of this apartment and our lives. Food, fuel, cleaning products, and so on.”
“Fine!” I shrug. “If that’s the narrow . . . frankly limited definition you want to use—then fine.”
The doorbell rings and I open it to see Danny standing in the hallway.
“Danny, is a Miù Miù skirt a household expense?” I say.
“Absolutely,” says Danny, coming into the living area.
“You see?” I raise my eyebrows at Luke. “But fine, we’ll go with your definition . . .”
“So did you hear?” says Danny morosely.
“Hear what?”
“Mrs. Watts is selling.”
“What?” I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
“As soon as the lease is up, we’re out.”
“She can’t do that!”
“She’s the owner. She can do what she likes.”
“But . . .” I stare at Danny in dismay, then turn to Luke, who is putting some papers into his briefcase. “Luke, did you hear that? Mrs. Watts is selling!”
“I know.”
“You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Sorry. I meant to.” Luke looks unconcerned.
“What will we do?”
“Move.”
“But I don’t want to move. I like it here!”
I look around the room with a pang. This is the place where Luke and I have been happy for the last year. I don’t want to be uprooted from it.
“So you want to hear where this leaves me?” says Danny. “Randall’s getting an apartment with his girlfriend.”
I look at him in alarm.“He’s throwing you out?”
“Practically. He says I have to start contributing, otherwise I can start looking for a new place. Like, how am I supposed to do that?” Danny raises his hands. “Until I have my new collection ready, it just won’t be possible. He might as well just . . . order me a cardboard box.”
“So, er . . . how is the new collection coming on?” I ask cautiously.
“You know, being a designer isn’t as easy as it looks,” says Danny defensively. “You can’t just be creative to order. It’s all a matter of inspiration.”
“Maybe you could get a job,” says Luke, reaching for his coat.
“A job?”
“They must need designers at, I don’t know, Gap?”
“Gap?” Danny stares at him. “You think I should spend my life designing polo shirts? So how about, ooh, two sleeves right here, three buttons on the placket, some ribbing . . . How can I contain my excitement?”
“What will we do?” I say plaintively to Luke.
“About Danny?”
“About our apartment!”
“We’ll find somewhere,” says Luke reassuringly. “Which reminds me. My mother wants to have lunch with you today.”
“She’s back?” I say in dismay. “I mean . . . she’s back!”
“They had to postpone her surgery.” Luke pulls a little face. “The clinic was placed under investigation by the Swiss medical authorities while she was there and all the procedures were put on hold. So . . . one o’clock, La Goulue?”
“Fine.” I shrug unenthusiastically.
Then, as the door closes behind Luke, I feel a bit bad. Maybe Elinor’s had a change of heart. Maybe she wants to bury the hatchet and get involved with the wedding. You never know.
I’d planned to be really cool and only tell people I was engaged if they asked me “How was your trip?”
But when the time comes I find myself running into the personal shopping department at Barneys where I work, thrusting out my hand, and yelling “Look!”
Erin, who works there with me, looks up startled, peers at my hand, then claps her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”
“I know!”
“You’re engaged? To Luke?”
“Yes, of course to Luke! We’re getting married in June!”
“What are you going to wear?” she gabbles. “I’m so jealous! Let me see the ring! Where did you get it? When I get engaged I’m going straight to Harry Winstons. And forget a month’s salary, we’re talking at least three years’ . . .” She tails off as she examines my ring. “Wow.”
“It’s Luke’s family’s,” I say. “His grandmother’s.”
“Oh right. So . . . it isn’t new?” Her face falls slightly. “Oh well . . .”
“It’s . . . vintage,” I say carefully—and her entire expression lifts again.
“Vintage! A vintage ring! That’s such a cool idea!”
“Congratulations, Becky,” says Christina, my boss, and gives me a warm smile. “I know you and Luke will be very happy together.”
“Can I try it on?” says Erin. “No! I’m sorry. Forget I mentioned it. I just . . . A vintage ring!”
She’s still gazing at it as my first client, Laurel Johnson, comes into the department. Laurel is president of a company that leases private jets and is one of my favorite clients, even though she tells me all the time how she thinks everything in the store is overpriced and she’d buy all her clothes from Kmart if it weren’t for her job.
“What’s this I see?” she says, taking off her coat and shaking out her dark curly hair.
“I’m engaged!” I say, beaming.
“Engaged!” She comes over and scrutinizes the ring with dark, intelligent eyes. “Well, I hope you’ll be very happy. I’m sure you will be. I’m sure your husband will have
sense enough to keep his dick out of the little blonde who came to work as his intern and told him she’d never met a man who filled her with awe before. Awe. I ask you. Did you ever hear such a—” She stops midtrack, claps her hand to her mouth, and gives me a rueful look. “Damn.”
“Never mind,” I say comfortingly. “You were provoked.”
Laurel has made a New Year’s resolution not to talk about her ex-husband or his mistress anymore, because her therapist, Hans, has told her it isn’t healthy for her. Unfortunately she’s finding this resolution quite hard to keep. Not that I blame her. He sounds like a complete pig.
“You know what Hans told me last week?” she says as I open the door of my fitting room. “He told me to write down a list of everything I wanted to say about that woman—and then tear it up. He said I’d feel a sense of freedom.”
“Oh right,” I say interestedly. “So what happened?”
“I wrote it all down,” says Laurel. “And then I mailed it to her.”
“Laurel!”
“I know. I know. Not helpful.”
“Well, come on in,” I say, trying not to laugh, “and tell me what you’ve been up to. I’m a little behind this morning . . .”
One of the best things about working as a personal shopper is you get really close to your clients. In fact, some of them feel like friends. When I first met Laurel, she’d just split up with her husband. She was really low, and had zero self-confidence. Now, I’m not trying to boast, but when I found her the perfect Armani dress to wear to this huge ballet gala that he was going to be at—when I watched her staring at herself in the mirror, raising her chin and smiling and feeling like an attractive woman again—I honestly felt I’d made a difference to her life.
This morning Laurel is looking for a couple of suits for work. I know her so well now it’s easy to pick out what will sit well on her tall frame. We have a nice easy chat, and talk about the new Brad Pitt movie, and Laurel tells me all about her new, very sexy golf coach.
“My entire game has fallen to pieces,” she says, pulling a face. “I’m no longer aiming to hit the ball in the hole. I’m just aiming to look thin and attractive and the ball can go where the hell it likes.”
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