“And I respect your advice,” says Luke at once. “I always will.”
“So. Shall we agree to bury the hatchet?” Michael extends his hand, all bruised from where the drip needle goes into it—and after a moment, Luke gently takes it.
Now I’m completely choked.
“I’ll just get some . . . water . . .” I mumble, and back out of the room, breathing hard.
I can’t burst into tears in front of Michael. He’ll think I’m completely pathetic.
Or else he’ll think I’m crying because I know something he doesn’t. He’ll think we’ve seen his medical charts and it wasn’t angina at all. It was a brain clot that is inoperable except by a specialist from Chicago who’s turned down Michael’s case because of an old feud between the hospitals . . .
OK, look, I must stop confusing this with ER.
I walk to a nearby reception area, taking deep breaths to calm myself down, and sit down next to a middle-aged woman. There are people sitting on upholstered seats and a couple of patients in wheelchairs with drips, and I see a frail old woman greeting what must be her grandchildren. As she sees them, her whole face lights up and suddenly she looks ten years younger—and to my horror I find myself sniffing again.
“Are you all right?” I look up and see the middle-aged woman offering me a tissue. She smiles—but her eyes are red-rimmed. “It gets to you, doesn’t it?” she says as I blow my nose. “Is a relation of yours in here?”
“Just a friend. How about you?”
“My husband, Ken,” says the woman. “He’s had bypass surgery. He’s doing fine, though.” She gives a half-smile. “He hates to see me upset.”
“God. I’m . . . really sorry.”
I feel a shiver go down my back as I try to imagine how I’d be feeling if it were Luke in that hospital bed.
“He should be be OK, if he starts looking after himself. These men. They take it all for granted.” She shakes her head. “But coming in here . . . it teaches you what’s important, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I say fervently.
We sit quietly for a while, and I think anxiously about Luke. Maybe I’ll get him to start going to the gym a bit more. And eating that low-fat spread stuff that lowers your cholesterol. Just to be on the safe side.
“I should go back,” says the woman, looking at her watch. She smiles at me. “Good to meet you.”
“You too.” I watch as she walks off down the corridor, then stand up and head back to Michael’s room, shaking back my hair and putting on a cheerful expression. No more dissolving into tears.
“Hi!” says Luke as I enter. He’s sitting on a chair by Michael’s bed, and the atmosphere is a lot more relaxed, thank goodness.
“I was just telling Luke,” says Michael as I sit down. “My daughter’s on at me to retire. Or at least downscale. Move to New York.”
“Really? Ooh, yes, do! We’d love that.”
“It’s a good idea,” says Luke. “Bearing in mind you currently do about six full-time jobs.”
“I really like your daughter,” I say enthusiastically. “We had such fun when she came into Barneys. How’s her new job going?”
Michael’s daughter is an attorney who specializes in patent law, and just exudes extreme cleverness. On the other hand, she hadn’t spotted that she was choosing colors that did nothing for her skin tone until I pointed it out to her.
“Very well indeed, thanks. She just moved to Finerman Wallstein,” Michael adds to Luke. “Very swanky offices.”
“I know them,” says Luke. “I use them for personal matters. In fact, last time I went in there was a few weeks ago. Just about my will. Next time, I’ll call in on her.”
“Do that,” says Michael. “She’d like it.”
“Have you made a will, Luke?” I say with interest.
“Of course I’ve made a will.” Luke stares at me. “Haven’t you?”
“No,” I say—then look from Luke to Michael. “What? What is it?”
“Everyone should make a will,” says Michael gravely.
“It never even occurred to me you might not have made one,” says Luke, shaking his head.
“It never even occurred to me to make one!” I say defensively. “I mean, I’m only twenty-seven.”
“I’ll make an appointment with my lawyer,” says Luke. “We need to sort this out.”
“Well. OK. But honestly . . .” I give a little shrug. Then a thought occurs to me. “So, who have you left everything to?”
“You,” says Luke. “Minus the odd little bequest.”
“Me?” I gape at him. “Really? Me?”
“It is customary for husbands to leave their property to their wives,” he says with a small smile. “Or do you object?”
“No! Of course not! I just . . . kind of . . . didn’t expect it.”
I feel a strange glow of pleasure inside me. Luke’s leaving everything to me!
I don’t know why that should be a surprise. I mean, we live together. We’re getting married. It’s obvious. But still, I can’t help feeling a bit proud.
“Do I take it you’re not planning to leave anything to me?” inquires Luke mildly.
“Of course!” I exclaim. “I mean—of course I will!”
“No pressure,” says Luke, grinning at Michael.
“I will!” I say, growing flustered. “I just hadn’t really thought about it!”
To cover my confusion I reach for a pear and start munching it. Come to think of it, why have I never made a will?
I suppose because I’ve never really thought I’ll die. But I could easily, couldn’t I? I mean, our train could crash on the way back to New York. Or an ax murderer could break into our apartment . . .
And who would get all my stuff?
Luke’s right. This is an emergency.
“Becky? Are you OK?” I look up to see Luke putting on his coat. “We must go.”
“Thanks for coming,” says Michael, and squeezes my hand as I bend to kiss him. “I really appreciate it.”
“And I’ll be in touch about the wedding,” says Luke, and smiles at Michael. “No skiving your best-man duties.”
“Absolutely not!” says Michael. “But that reminds me, I got a little confused at the engagement party, talking to different people. Are you two getting married in New York or England?”
“New York,” says Luke, frowning in slight puzzlement. “That has been finally decided, hasn’t it, Becky? I never even asked how your mother took the news.”
“I . . . um . . .” I play for time, wrapping my scarf around my neck.
I can’t admit the truth. I can’t admit that Mum still doesn’t know about the Plaza.
Not here. Not now.
“Yes!” I say, feeling my cheeks flame. “Yes, she was fine. New York it is!”
As we get onto the train, Luke looks pale and drained. I think it upset him more than he’s letting on, seeing Michael looking so helpless. He sits staring out of the darkening window, and I try to think of something that will cheer him up.
“Look!” I say at last. I reach into my bag and take out a book I bought just the other day called The Promise of Your Life. “We need to talk about composing our wedding vows.”
“Composing them?” Luke frowns. “Aren’t they always the same?”
“No! That’s old hat. Everyone writes their own these days. Listen to this. ‘Your wedding vows are the chance for you to show the world what you mean to each other. Together with the proclamation by the officiant that you are now married, they are the linchpin of the entire ceremony. They should be the most beautiful and moving words spoken at your wedding.’ ”
I look up expectantly at Luke, but he’s gazing out of the window again.
“It says in this book, we must think about what sort of couple we are,” I press on. “Are we Young Lovers or Autumn Companions?”
Luke isn’t even listening. Perhaps I should find a few specific examples. My eye falls on a page marked Summertime Wedding,
which would be quite appropriate.
“‘As the roses bloom in summertime, so did my love bloom for you. As the white clouds soar above, so does my love soar,’” I read aloud.
I pull a face. Maybe not. I flick through a few more pages, glancing down as I go.
You helped me through the pain of rehab . . .
Though you are incarcerated for murder, our love will
shine like a beacon . . .
“Ooh, look,” I say suddenly. “This is for high school sweethearts. ‘Our eyes met in a math class. How were we to know that trigonometry would lead to matrimony?’ ”
“Our eyes met across a crowded press conference,” says Luke. “How were we to know love would blossom as I announced an exciting new range of unit trusts investing in European growth companies with tracking facility, fixed-rate costs, and discounted premiums throughout the first accounting period?”
“Luke—”
Well, OK. Maybe this isn’t the time for vows. I shut the book and look anxiously at Luke. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you worried about Michael?” I reach for his hand. “Because honestly, I’m sure he’s going to be fine. You heard what he said. It was just a wake-up call.”
There’s silence for a while—then Luke turns his head.
“While you were going to the rest room,” he says slowly, “I met the parents of the guy in the room next to Michael’s. He had a heart attack last week. Do you know how old he is?”
“How old?” I say apprehensively.
“Thirty-three.”
“God, really? That’s awful!”
Luke’s only a year older than that.
“He’s a bond trader, apparently. Very successful.” He exhales slowly. “It makes you think, doesn’t it? Think about what you’re doing with your life. And wonder.”
“Er . . . yes,” I say, feeling as though I’m walking across eggshells. “Yes, it does.”
Luke’s never spoken like this before. Usually if I start conversations about life and what it all means—which, OK, I don’t do very often—he either brushes me off or turns it into a joke. He certainly never confesses to doubting what he’s doing with his life. I really want to encourage him—but I’m worried I might say the wrong thing and put him off.
Now he’s staring silently out of the window again.
“What exactly were you thinking?” I prompt gently.
“I don’t know,” says Luke after a pause. “I suppose it just makes you see things differently for a moment.”
He looks at me—and just for an instant I think I can see deep inside him, to a part of him I rarely have access to. Softer and quieter and full of doubts like everyone else.
Then he blinks—and it’s as though he’s closed the camera shutter. Back into normal mode. Businesslike. Sure of himself.
“Anyway. I’m glad Michael and I were able to make up,” he says, taking a sip from the water bottle he’s carrying.
“Me too.”
“He saw my point of view in the end. The publicity that we’ll get through the foundation will benefit the company enormously. The fact that it’s my mother’s charity is largely irrelevant.”
“Yes,” I say reluctantly. “I suppose so.”
I really don’t want to get into a conversation about Luke’s mother right now, so I open the vows book again.
“Hey, here’s one in rhyme . . .”
As we arrive back at Penn Station, it’s crowded with people. Luke heads off to a rest room, and I head to a kiosk to buy a candy bar. I walk straight past a stand of newspapers—then stop. Hang on a minute. What was that?
I retrace my steps and stare at the New York Post. Right at the top, flagging an inside feature, is a little picture of Elinor.
I grab the paper and turn quickly to the inside page.
There’s a headline, “How to Fight Charity Fatigue.” Then there’s a picture of Elinor with a frosty smile, standing on the steps of some big building and handing over a check to some man in a suit. My eyes run puzzledly over the caption. Elinor Sherman has battled against apathy to raise money for a cause she believes in.
Wasn’t the photo opportunity supposed to be for Luke?
I scan the piece quickly, searching for any mention of Brandon Communications. For any mention of Luke. But I get to the end of the page—and his name hasn’t appeared once. It’s as though he doesn’t figure at all.
I stare down at the page in disbelief.
After everything he’s done for her. How can she treat him like this?
“What’s that?”
I give a startled jump at Luke’s voice. For an instant I consider hiding the paper under my coat. But then, there’s no point, is there? He’ll see it sooner or later.
“Luke . . .” I hesitate—then swivel the page so he can see it.
“Is that my mother?” Luke looks astounded. “She never told me anything was set up. Let me have a look.”
“Luke . . .” I take a deep breath. “It doesn’t mention you anywhere. Or the company.”
I wince as I see him scanning the page; as I watch the sheer disbelief growing on his face. It’s been a hard enough day already, without discovering that his mother has completely screwed him.
“Didn’t she even tell you she was doing the interview?”
Luke doesn’t reply. He takes out his mobile, jabs in a number, and waits for a few moments. Then he makes a noise of frustration.
“I forgot. She’s gone back to Switzerland.”
I’d forgotten that too. She’s gone to “visit her friends” again, in time for the wedding. This time she’s staying for two whole months, which means she’s having the full works. She must have done the interview just before she left.
I try to take Luke’s hand, but he doesn’t respond. God knows what he’s thinking.
“Luke . . . maybe there’s some explanation—”
“Let’s forget it.”
“But—”
“Just forget it.” There’s an edge to his voice that makes me flinch. “It’s been a long, difficult day. Let’s just get home.”
I, REBECCA JANE BLOOMWOOD, do make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.
FIRST: I hereby revoke all former Wills and Codicils by me made.
SECOND: (a) I give and bequeath to SUSAN CLEATH-STUART my collection of shoes, all my jeans, my tan leather coat, all my makeup except the Chanel lipstick, my leather floor cube, my red Kate Spade handbag,1 my silver ring with the moonstone, and my painting of two elephants.
(b) I give and bequeath to my mother JANE BLOOMWOOD all my remaining handbags, my Chanel lipstick, all my jewelry, my Barneys white cotton duvet set, my waffle-weave dressing gown, my suede cushions, my Venetian glass vase, my collection of jam spoons, and my Tiffany watch.2
(c) I give and bequeath to my father GRAHAM BLOOMWOOD my chess set, my CDs of classical music that he gave me for Christmas, my Bill Amberg weekend bag, my titanium desk lamp, and the incomplete manuscript of my self-help book Manage Money the Bloomwood Way, all rights of which are hereby passed to him.
(d) I give and bequeath to my friend DANNY KOVITZ all my old copies of British Vogue,3 my lava lamp, my customized denim jacket, and my juicer.
(e) I give and bequeath to my friend ERIN GAYLER my Tse cashmere jumper, my Donna Karan evening dress, all my Betsey Johnson dresses, and my Louis Vuitton hair bobbles.
THIRD: I bequeath all the rest, residue, and remainder of my property of whatsoever kind or character and wheresoever situated, apart from any clothes found in carrier bags at the bottom of the wardrobe,4 to LUKE JAMES BRANDON.
1. Unless she would prefer the new DKNY bag with the long straps.
2. Also my Tiffany keyring, which I have lost, but must be in the apartment somewhere.
3. Plus any other magazines I subsequently buy.
4. Which are to be disposed of discreetly, in secret.
Eleven
THIS IS NOT a good tim
e.
In fact, it’s horrendous. Ever since he saw that piece in the paper, Luke has been really withdrawn and silent. He won’t talk about it, and the atmosphere in the apartment is getting really tense, and I just don’t know how to make things better. A few days ago I tried buying some soothing scented candles, but they didn’t really smell of anything except candle wax. So then yesterday I tried rearranging the furniture to make it more feng shui and harmonious. But Luke came into the living room just as I’d jammed a sofa leg into the DVD player, and I don’t think he was very impressed.
I wish he’d open up to me, like they do on Dawson’s Creek. But whenever I say, “Do you want to talk?” and pat the sofa invitingly, instead of saying, “Yes, Becky, I have some issues I’d like to share,” he either ignores me or tells me we’ve run out of coffee.
I know he’s tried calling his mother, but the patients at her stupid Swiss clinic aren’t allowed mobile phones, so he hasn’t been able to speak to her. I also know that he’s been on the phone to Michael several times. And that the assistant who had been assigned to work for the Elinor Sherman Foundation is now back working for Brandon Communications. When I asked him about it, though, he just shut off and wouldn’t say anything. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to admit any of it has happened.
The only thing that is going at all well at the moment is the wedding preparations. Robyn and I have had several meetings with the event designer, whose ideas for the room are absolutely spectacular. Then we had the dessert tasting at the Plaza the other day, and I nearly swooned at all the amazing, out-of-this-world sweets there were to choose from. It was champagne all the way through, and deferential waiters, and I was treated exactly like a princess . . .
But if I’m really honest, even that didn’t feel quite as relaxed and wonderful as it should. Even while I was sitting there, being served poached white peaches with pistachio mousse and anise biscotti on a gilded plate, I couldn’t help feeling little pricks of guilt through the pleasure, like tiny pinpoints of light through a blanket.
I think I’ll feel a lot better when I’ve broken the news to Mum.
I mean, not that there’s any reason to feel bad. Because I couldn’t do anything about it while they were in the Lake District, could I? I wasn’t exactly going to interrupt their nice relaxing holiday. But they get back tomorrow. So then what I’ll do is very calmly phone up Mum, and tell her that I really appreciate everything she’s done, and it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, but that I’ve decided . . .
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