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by Sophie Kinsella

  “I thought I’d come home and see you,” I hear myself saying in a rush. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m coming home.”

  Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

  251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

  New York, NY 10014

  April 18, 2002

  Dear Miss Bloomwood:

  Thank you for your letter of April 16 regarding your will. I confirm that under the fourth clause, section (e) I have added the line “And also my new denim high-heeled boots,” as requested.

  With kind regards,

  Jane Cardozo

  Twelve

  AS SOON AS I see Mum, I feel nervous. She’s standing next to Dad at Terminal 4, scanning the arrivals gate, and as she sees me her whole face lights up with a mixture of delight and anxiety. She was quite taken aback when I told her I was coming home without Luke—in fact, I had to reassure her several times that everything was still OK between us.

  Then I had to reassure her that I hadn’t been sacked.

  And then promise I wasn’t being chased by international loan sharks.

  You know, when I think back over the last few years, I sometimes feel a teeny bit bad about everything I’ve put my parents through.

  “Becky! Graham, she’s here!” She runs forward, elbowing a family in turbans out of the way. “Becky, love! How are you? How’s Luke? Is everything all right?”

  “Hi, Mum,” I say, and give her a huge hug. “I’m well. Luke sends his love. Everything’s fine.”

  Except one tiny matter—I’ve been planning a big wedding in New York behind your back.

  Stop it, I instruct my brain firmly, as Dad gives me a kiss and takes my luggage. There’s no point mentioning it yet. There’s no point even thinking about it yet. I’ll bring the subject up later, when we’re all at home, when there’s a natural opening in the conversation.

  Which there’s bound to be.

  “So, Becky, did you think any more about getting married in America?”

  “Well, Mum. It’s funny you should ask that . . .”

  Exactly. I’ll wait for some opportunity like that.

  But although I act as relaxed as I can, I can’t think about anything else. All the while that Mum and Dad are finding the car, disagreeing on which way the exit is, and arguing over whether £3.60 for an hour’s parking is a reasonable amount, I’ve got an anxious knot in my stomach that tightens every time the words wedding, Luke, New York, or America are mentioned, even in passing.

  This is just like the time when I told my parents I was doing the Further Maths GCSE. Tom next door was doing Further Maths and Janice was really smug about it, so I told Mum and Dad I was too. then the exams came, and I had to pretend I was sitting an extra paper (I spent three hours in Top Shop instead). And then the results came out and they kept saying, “But what did you get in Further Maths?”

  So then I made up this story that it took the examiners longer to mark Further Maths than the other subjects because it was harder. And I honestly think they would have believed me, except then Janice came running in, saying, “Tom got an A in Further Maths, what did Becky get?”

  Bloody Tom.

  “You haven’t asked about the wedding yet,” says Mum as we zoom along the A3 toward Oxshott.

  “Oh! No, I haven’t, have I?” I force a bright note into my voice. “So—er . . . how are preparations going?”

  “To be honest, we haven’t done very much,” says Dad as we approach the turning for Oxshott.

  “It’s early days yet,” says Mum easily.

  “It’s only a wedding,” adds Dad. “People get far too het up about these things in my opinion. You can put it all together at the last minute.”

  “Absolutely!” I say in slight relief. “I couldn’t agree more!”

  Well, thank goodness for that. I sink back in my seat and feel the anxiety drain out of me. This is going to make everything a lot easier. If they haven’t arranged very much yet, it’ll take no time to call it all off. In fact, it sounds like they’re really not bothered about it. This is going to be fine. I’ve been worrying about nothing!

  “Suzie phoned, by the way,” says Mum as we start to get near home. “She said, would you like to meet up later on today? I said I was sure you would . . . Oh, and I should warn you.” Mum turns in her seat. “Tom and Lucy.”

  “Hmm?” I resign myself to hearing the details of the latest kitchen they’ve had put in, or which promotion Lucy has won at work.

  “They’ve split up.” Mum lowers her voice, even though it’s just the three of us in the car.

  “Split up?” I stare at her, taken aback. “Are you serious? But they’ve only been married for . . .”

  “Not even two years. Janice is devastated, as you can imagine.”

  “What happened?” I say blankly, and Mum purses her lips.

  “That Lucy ran off with a drummer.”

  “A drummer?”

  “In a band. Apparently he’s got a pierced . . .” She pauses disapprovingly, and my mind ranges wildly over all the possibilities, some of which I’m sure Mum’s never heard of. (To be honest, I hadn’t either, till I moved to the West Village.) “Nipple,” she says at last, to my slight relief.

  “Let me get this straight. Lucy’s run off . . . with a drummer . . . with a pierced nipple.”

  “He lives in a trailer,” puts in Dad, signaling left.

  “After all the work Tom did on that lovely conservatory,” says Mum, shaking her head. “Some girls have no gratitude.”

  I can’t get my head round this. Lucy works for Wetherby’s Investment Bank. She and Tom live in Reigate. Their curtains match their sofa. How on earth did she meet a drummer with a pierced nipple?

  Suddenly I remember that conversation I overheard in the garden when I was here last. Lucy didn’t exactly sound happy. But then she didn’t exactly sound like she was about to run off, either.

  “So how’s Tom?”

  “He’s coping,” says Dad. “He’s at home with Janice and Martin at the moment, poor lad.”

  “If you ask me, he’s well out of it,” says Mum crisply. “It’s Janice I feel sorry for. After that lovely wedding she put on. They were all fooled by that girl.”

  We pull up outside the house, and to my surprise there are two white vans parked in the drive.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “Nothing,” says Mum.

  “Plumbing,” says Dad.

  But they’ve both got slightly strange expressions. Mum’s eyes are bright, and she glances at Dad a couple of times as we walk up to the front door.

  “So, are you ready?” says Dad casually. He puts his key into the lock and swings open the door.

  “Surprise!” cry Mum and Dad simultaneously, and my jaw drops to the ground.

  The old hall wallpaper has gone. The old hall carpet has gone. The whole place has been done in light, fresh colors, with pale carpet and new lighting everywhere. As my eye runs disbelievingly upward I see an unobtrusive man in overalls repainting the banisters; on the landing are two more, standing on a stepladder and putting up a candelabra. Everywhere is the smell of paint and newness. And money being spent.

  “You’re having the house done up,” I say feebly.

  “For the wedding!” says Mum, beaming at me.

  “You said—” I swallow. “You said you hadn’t done much.”

  “We wanted to surprise you!”

  “What do you think, Becky?” says Dad, gesturing around. “Do you like it? Does it meet with your approval?”

  His voice is jokey. But I can tell it really matters to him whether I like it. To both of them. They’re doing all this for me.

  “It’s . . . fantastic,” I say huskily. “Really lovely.”

  “Now, come and look at the garden!” says Mum, and I follow her dumbly through to the French windows, where I see a team of uniformed gardeners working away in the flower beds.

  “They’re going to plant ‘Luke and Becky’ in pansies!” says Mum. “Just in time
for June.” And we’re having a new water feature put in, right by where the entrance to the marquee will be. I saw it in Modern Garden.”

  “It sounds . . . great.”

  “And it lights up at night, so when we have the fireworks—”

  “What fireworks?” I say, and Mum looks at me in surprise.

  “I sent you a fax about the fireworks, Becky! Don’t say you’ve forgotten.”

  “No! Of course not!”

  My mind flicks back to the pile of faxes Mum’s been sending me, and which I’ve been guiltily thrusting under the bed, some skimmed over, some completely unread.

  What have I been doing? Why haven’t I paid attention to what’s been going on?

  “Becky, love, you don’t look at all well,” says Mum. “You must be tired after the flight. Come and have a nice cup of coffee.”

  We walk into the kitchen, and I feel my insides gripped with new horror.

  “Have you installed a new kitchen too?”

  “Oh, no!” says Mum gaily. “We just had the units repainted. They look pretty, don’t they? Now. Have a nice croissant. They come from the new bakery.”

  She hands me a basket—but I can’t eat. I feel sick.

  “Becky?” Mum peers at me. “Is something wrong?”

  “No!” I say quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s all . . . perfect.”

  What am I going to do?

  “You know . . . I think I’ll just go and unpack,” I say, and manage a weak smile. “Sort myself out a bit.”

  As I close my bedroom door behind me, the weak smile is still pasted to my face, but inside my heart is thumping wildly.

  This is not going as planned.

  This is not going remotely as planned. New wallpaper? Water features? Fireworks displays? How come I didn’t know about any of this? I should have been more attentive. This is all my own fault. Oh God, oh God . . .

  How can I tell Mum and Dad this has all got to be called off? How can I do it?

  I can’t.

  But I have to.

  But I can’t, I just can’t.

  It’s my wedding, I remind myself firmly, trying to regain my New York kick-ass confidence. I can have it where I like.

  But the words ring false in my brain, making me wince. Maybe that was true at the beginning. Before anything had been done, before any effort had been made. But now . . . this isn’t just my wedding anymore. This is Mum’s and Dad’s gift to me. It’s the biggest present they’ve ever given me in my life, and they’ve invested it with all the love and care they can muster.

  And I’m proposing to reject it. To say thanks, but no thanks.

  What have I been thinking?

  Heart thumping, I reach into my pocket for the notes I scribbled on the plane, trying to remember all my justifications.

  Reasons why our wedding should be at the Plaza:

  1. Wouldn’t you love a trip to New York, all expenses paid?

  2. The Plaza is a fantastic hotel.

  3. You won’t have to make any effort.

  4. A marquee would only mess up the garden.

  5. You won’t have to invite Auntie Sylvia.

  6. You get free Tiffany frames.

  They seemed so convincing when I was writing them. Now they seem like jokes. Mum and Dad don’t know anything about the Plaza. Why would they want to fly off to some snooty hotel they’ve never clapped eyes on? Why would they want to give up hosting the wedding they’ve always dreamed of? I’m their only daughter. Their one and only child.

  So . . . what am I going to do?

  I sit staring at the page, breathing hard, letting my thoughts fight it out. I’m scrabbling desperately for a solution, a loophole to wriggle through, unwilling to give up until I’ve tried every last possibility. Round and round, over the same old ground.

  “Becky?”

  Mum comes in and I give a guilty start, crumpling the list in my hand.

  “Hi!” I say brightly. “Ooh. Coffee. Lovely.”

  “It’s decaffeinated,” says Mum, handing me a mug reading You Don’t Have to Be Mad to Organize a Wedding But Your Mother Does. “I thought maybe you were drinking decaffeinated these days.”

  “No,” I say in surprise. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  “And how are you feeling?” Mum sits down next to me and I surreptitiously transfer my screwed-up piece of paper from one hand to the other. “A little bit tired? Sick, too, probably.”

  “Not too bad.” I give a slightly heavier sigh than I meant to. “The airline food was pretty grim, though.”

  “You must keep your strength up!” Mum squeezes my arm. “Now, I’ve got something for you, darling!” She hands me a piece of paper. “What do you think?”

  I unfold the paper and stare at it in bewilderment. It’s house details. A four-bedroom house in Oxshott, to be precise.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Mum’s face is glowing. “Look at all the features!”

  “You’re not going to move, are you?”

  “Not for us, silly! You’d be just round the corner from us! Look, it’s got a built-in barbecue, two en-suite bathrooms . . .”

  “Mum, we live in New York.”

  “You do at the moment. But you won’t want to stay in New York forever, will you? Not in the long term.”

  There’s a sudden thread of concern in her voice; and although she’s smiling, I can see the tension in her eyes. I open my mouth to answer—then realize, to my own surprise, that Luke and I haven’t ever talked properly about the long term.

  I suppose I’ve always assumed that we’ll come back to Britain one day. But when?

  “You’re not planning to stay there for good, surely?” she adds, and gives a little laugh.

  “I don’t know,” I say confusedly. “I don’t know what we want to do.”

  “You couldn’t bring up a family in that poky flat! You’ll want to come home! You’ll want a nice house with a garden! Especially now.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now . . .” She makes a euphemistic circling gesture.

  “What?”

  “Oh, Becky.” Mum sighs. “I can understand if you’re a little . . . shy about telling people. But it’s all right, darling! These days, it’s perfectly acceptable. There’s no stigma!”

  “Stigma? What are you—”

  “The only thing we’ll need to know”—she pauses delicately—“is how much to let the dress out by? For the day?”

  Let out the dress? What on . . .

  Hang on.

  “Mum! You haven’t got the idea that I’m . . . I’m . . .” I make the same euphemistic gesture that she made.

  “You’re not?” Mum’s face falls in disappointment.

  “No! Of course I’m not! Why on earth would you think that?”

  “You said you had something important to discuss with us!” says Mum, defensively taking a sip of coffee. “It wasn’t Luke, it wasn’t your job, and it wasn’t your bank manager. And Suzie’s having a baby, and you two girls always do things together, so we assumed . . .”

  “Well, I’m not, OK? And I’m not on drugs either, before you ask.”

  “So, then, what did you want to tell us?” She puts her coffee down and looks at me anxiously. “What was so important that you had to come home?”

  There’s silence in the bedroom. My fingers tighten around my mug.

  This is it. This is my lead-in moment. This is my opportunity to confess everything. If I’m going to do it, I have to do it right now. Before they go any further. Before they spend any more money.

  “Well, it’s . . .” I clear my throat. “It’s just that . . .”

  I stop, and take a sip of coffee. My throat is tight and I feel slightly sick. How can I possibly do this?

  I close my eyes and allow the glitter of the Plaza to flash before my eyes, trying to summon up all the excitement and glamour again. The gilded rooms, the plushiness everywhere. Images of myself sweeping around that huge shiny dance floor before an admiring crowd.
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  But somehow . . . it doesn’t seem quite as overpowering as it did before. Somehow it doesn’t seem as convincing.

  Oh God. What do I want? What do I really want?

  “I knew it!”

  I look up to see Mum gazing at me in dismay. “I knew it! You and Luke have fallen out, haven’t you?”

  “Mum—”

  “I just knew it! I said to your father several times, ‘I can feel it in my bones, Becky’s coming home to call off the wedding.’ He said nonsense, but I could just feel it, here.” Mum clasps her chest. “A mother knows these things. And I was right, wasn’t I? You do want to cancel the wedding, don’t you?”

  I stare at her dumbly. She knows I came home to cancel the wedding. How does she know that?

  “Becky? Are you all right?” Mum puts an arm round my shoulders. “Darling, listen. We won’t mind. All Dad and I want is the best for you. And if that means calling off the wedding, then that’s what we’ll do. Love, you mustn’t go ahead with it unless you’re 100 percent sure—110 percent!”

  “But . . . but you’ve made so much effort . . .” I mumble. “You’ve spent all this money . . .”

  “That doesn’t matter! Money doesn’t matter!” She squeezes me tight. “Becky, if you have any doubts at all, we’ll cancel straight away. We just want you to be happy. That’s all we want.”

  Mum sounds so sympathetic and understanding, for a few instants I can’t speak. Here she is, offering me the very thing I came home to ask for. Without any questions, without any recriminations. Without anything but love and support.

  As I look at her kind, cozy, familiar face, I know, beyond any doubt, that it’s impossible.

  “It’s all right,” I manage at last. “Mum, Luke and I haven’t fallen out. The . . . the wedding’s still on.” I rub my face. “You know, I think I’ll just go outside and . . . and get some air.”

  As I step out into the garden, a couple of of the hired gardeners look up and say hello, and I smile weakly back. I feel completely paranoid, as though my secret is so huge, I must somehow be giving it away. As though people must be able to see it, bulging out of me, or floating above my head in bubble captions.