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by Sophie Kinsella

  I have another wedding planned.

  For the same day as this one.

  My parents have no idea.

  Yes, I know I’m in trouble.

  Yes, I know I’ve been stupid.

  Oh, just piss off and leave me alone, can’t you see how completely stressed out I am?

  “Hello, Becky.”

  I give a start of surprise and turn round. Standing at the garden fence in the next-door garden, looking mournfully at me, is Tom.

  “Tom! Hi!” I say, trying not to give away my shock at his appearance.

  But . . . blimey. He looks awful, all pale and miserable and wearing absolutely terrible clothes. Not that Tom’s ever been a style king—but while he was with Lucy, he did acquire a veneer of OK-ness. In fact, his hair went through quite a groovy stage. But now it’s back to greasy hair and the maroon jumper Janice gave him five Christmases ago.

  “Sorry to hear about . . .” I pause awkwardly.

  “That’s all right.”

  He hunches his shoulders miserably and looks around at all the gardeners digging and clipping away behind me. “So, how are the wedding preparations going?”

  “Oh . . . fine,” I say brightly. “You know, it’s all lists at this stage. Things to do, things to check, little details to . . . to . . . finalize . . .”

  Like which continent to get married in. Oh God. Oh God.

  “So . . . er, how are your parents?”

  “I remember the preparations for our wedding.” Tom shakes his head. “Seems a million years ago now. Different people.”

  “Oh, Tom.” I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. Let’s change the—”

  “You know the worst thing?” says Tom, ignoring me.

  “Er . . .” Your hair, I nearly say.

  “The worst thing is, I thought I understood Lucy. We understood each other. But all the time . . .” He breaks off, reaches in his pocket for a handkerchief, and blows his nose. “I mean, now I look back, of course I can see there were signs.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes,” says Tom. “I just didn’t pick up on them.”

  “Such as . . .” I prompt gently, trying not to give away how curious I am.

  “Well.” He thinks for a moment. “Like the way she kept saying if she had to live in Reigate for one more minute she’d shoot herself.”

  “Right,” I say, slightly taken aback.

  “Then there was the screaming fit she had in Furniture Village . . .”

  “Screaming fit?”

  “She began yelling, ‘I’m twenty-seven! I’m twenty-seven! What am I doing here?’ Security had to come in the end, and calm her down.”

  “But I don’t understand. I thought she loved Reigate! You two seemed so . . .”

  Smug is the word I’m searching for.

  “So . . . happy!”

  “She was happy until all the wedding presents were unwrapped,” says Tom thoughtfully. “Then . . . it was like she suddenly looked around and realized . . . this was her life now. And she didn’t like what she saw. Including me, I expect.”

  “Oh, Tom.”

  “She started saying she was sick of the suburbs, and she wanted to have a bit of life while she was young. But I thought, we’ve just repainted the house, we’re halfway through the new conservatory, this isn’t a good time to move—” He looks up, his eyes full of misery. “I should have listened, shouldn’t I? Maybe I should even have got the tattoo.”

  “She wanted you to get a tattoo?”

  “To match hers.”

  Lucy Webster with a tattoo! I almost want to laugh. But then, as I look at Tom’s miserable face, I feel a surge of anger. OK, Tom and I haven’t always seen eye to eye over the years. But he doesn’t deserve this. He is what he is. And if Lucy wasn’t happy with that, then why did she get married to him in the first place?

  “Tom, you can’t blame yourself,” I say firmly. “It sounds like Lucy was having her own problems.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Of course. She was very lucky to have you. More fool her, not appreciating it.” Impulsively I lean across the fence and give him a hug. As I draw away again, he stares at me with huge eyes, like a dog.

  “You’ve always understood me, Becky.”

  “Well, we’ve known each other a long time.”

  “No one else knows me like you do.”

  His hands are still round my shoulders, and he doesn’t seem about to let go, so I step backward under the pretext of gesturing at the house, where a man in overalls is painting a window frame.

  “Have you seen all the work Mum and Dad are having done? It’s incredible.”

  “Oh, yes. They’re really pushing the boat out. I heard about the fireworks display. You must be very excited.”

  “I’m really looking forward to it,” I say automatically. It’s what I’ve said at once, every time anyone’s mentioned the wedding to me. But now, as I watch our old, familiar house being smartened up, like a lady putting on makeup, I start to feel a strange sensation. A strange tugging at my heart.

  With a sudden pang, I realize I am looking forward to it.

  I’m looking forward to seeing our garden all bedecked with balloons. To seeing Mum all dressed up and happy. Getting ready in my own bedroom, at my own dressing table. Saying good-bye to my old life properly. Not in some impersonal suite in a hotel . . . but here. At home, where I grew up.

  While I was in New York, I couldn’t begin to envisage this wedding. It seemed so tiny and humdrum in comparison to the glamour of the Plaza. But now that I’m here, it’s the Plaza that’s starting to seem unreal. It’s the Plaza that’s slipping away, like an exotic, far-off holiday, which I’m already starting to forget. It’s been a lot of fun playing the part of a New York princess bride, tasting sumptuous dishes and discussing vintage champagne and million-dollar flower arrangements. But that’s the point. I’ve been playing a part.

  The truth is, this is where I belong. Right here in this English garden I’ve known all my life.

  So what am I going to do?

  Am I really going to . . .

  I can barely even think it.

  Am I really even contemplating canceling that whole, huge, expensive wedding?

  Just the thought of it makes my insides shrivel up.

  “Becky?” Mum’s voice penetrates my thoughts and I look up dazedly, to see her standing at the patio doors, holding a tablecloth. “Becky! There’s a phone call for you inside.”

  “Oh. OK. Who is it?”

  “Someone called Robin,” says Mum. “Hello, Tom, love!”

  “Robin?” I frown puzzledly as I walk back toward the house. “Robin who?”

  I’m not sure I know any Robins. Apart from Robin Anderson who used to work for Investment Monthly, but I hardly knew him, really—

  “I didn’t catch the surname, I’m afraid,” says Mum. “But she seems very nice. She said she was calling from New York . . .”

  Robyn?

  I can’t move. I’m pinioned with horror to the patio steps.

  Robyn is on the phone . . . here?

  This is all wrong. Robyn doesn’t belong in this world, she belongs in New York. This is like when people go back in time and mess up World War II.

  “Is she a friend?” Mum’s saying innocently. “We’ve just had a nice little chat about the wedding . . .”

  The ground wobbles beneath me.

  “What . . . what did she say?” I manage.

  “Nothing in particular!” Mum stares at me in surprise. “She asked me what color I was going to wear . . . and she kept saying something odd about violinists. You don’t want violinists at the wedding, do you, love?”

  “Of course not!” My voice rises shrilly. “What would I want violinists for?”

  “Becky, darling, are you all right?” Mum peers at me. “I’ll tell her you’ll call back, shall I?”

  “No! Don’t talk to her again! I mean . . . it’s fine. I’ll take it.”

  I hurry into the
house, heart thumping. What am I going to say? Should I tell her I’ve changed my mind?

  As I pick up the phone, I see that Mum’s followed me inside. Oh God. How am I going to manage this?

  “Robyn, hi!” I attempt a natural tone. “How are you?”

  OK. I’ll just get her off the phone, as quickly as possible.

  “Hi! Becky! I’m so glad I got a chance to speak with your mother!” says Robyn. “She seems a lovely lady. I’m so looking forward to meeting her!”

  “Me too,” I say as heartily as I can. “I can’t wait for you to . . . get together.”

  “Although I was surprised she didn’t know about the string orchestra. Tut tut! You really should keep your mom up-to-date, Becky!”

  “I know,” I say after a pause. “I’ve just been quite busy . . .”

  “I can understand that,” says Robyn sympathetically. “Why don’t I send her an information package? It would be so easy to FedEx it over. Then she’ll see the whole thing in front of her eyes! If you give me the address—”

  “No!” I cry before I can stop myself. “I mean . . . don’t worry. I’ll pass everything on. Really. Don’t . . . send anything. Nothing at all.”

  “Not even a few menu cards? I’m sure she’d love to see those!”

  “No! Nothing!”

  My hand is tight around the receiver and my face is sweating. I don’t even dare look at Mum.

  “Well, OK!” says Robyn at last. “You’re the boss! Now, I’ve spoken to Sheldon Lloyd about the table arrangements . . .”

  As she babbles on, I dart a glance at Mum, who is about three feet away from me. Surely she can hear the phone from there? Surely she just heard the word Plaza? Surely she just caught wedding and ballroom?

  “Right,” I say, without taking in anything that Robyn’s saying, “That all sounds fine.” I twist the cord around my fingers. “But . . . but listen, Robyn. The thing is, I’ve come home to get away from it all. So could you possibly not phone me here anymore?”

  “You don’t want to be updated?” says Robyn in surprise.

  “No. That’s fine. You just . . . do your thing, and I’ll catch up when I get back next week.”

  “No problem. I understand. You need time out! Becky, I promise, unless it’s an emergency, I’ll leave you alone. You have a lovely break now!”

  “Thanks. I will. Bye, Robyn.”

  I put the phone down, shaky with relief. Thank God she’s gone.

  But I don’t feel safe. Robyn’s got the number here now. She could phone at any time. I mean, what counts as an emergency in wedding planning? Probably anything. Probably a misplaced rose petal. She only has to say one wrong word to Mum, and both of them will realize what’s been going on. Mum will immediately realize why I came back here, what I was trying to say.

  She’d be so hurt. I can’t allow that to happen.

  OK, I have two options. Number one: get Mum and Dad to move house immediately. Number two . . .

  “Listen, Mum,” I say, turning round. “That woman Robyn. She’s . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s . . . deranged.”

  “Deranged?” Mum stares at me. “What do you mean, love?”

  “She . . . she’s in love with Luke!”

  “Oh my goodness!”

  “Yes, and she’s got this weird delusion that she’s going to marry him.”

  “Marry him?” Mum gapes at me.

  “Yes! At the Plaza Hotel! Apparently she even tried to . . . um . . . book it. Under my name!”

  My fingers are twisting into complicated knots. I must be crazy. Mum’ll never fall for this. Never. Not in a million—

  “You know, that doesn’t surprise me!” says Mum. “I could tell there was something a bit odd about her straight away. All this nonsense about violins! And she seemed obsessed by what color I was going to wear—”

  “Oh, she’s completely obsessed. So . . . if she ever rings again, just make an excuse and put the phone down. And whatever she says, even if it sounds quite plausible . . . don’t believe a word of it. Promise?”

  “All right, love,” says Mum, nodding. “Whatever you say.”

  As she goes into the kitchen, I hear her saying “Poor woman. You have to feel sorry for them, really. Graham, did you hear that? That lady from America who phoned for Becky. She’s in love with Luke!”

  I can’t cope with this anymore.

  I need to see Suze.

  Thirteen

  I’VE AGREED TO meet Suze at Sloane Square for a cup of tea. There’s a crowd of tourists milling around when I arrive, and for a moment I can’t see her. Then the throng disperses—and there she is, sitting by the fountain, her long blond hair haloed by the sun, and the hugest stomach I’ve ever seen.

  As I see her, I’m all set to rush up to her, exclaim, “Oh God, Suze, it’s all a nightmare!” and tell her everything.

  But then I stop. She looks like an angel, sitting there. A pregnant angel.

  Or the Virgin Mary, perhaps. All serene and lovely and perfect.

  And suddenly I feel all messed up in comparison. I’d been planning to unburden the entire situation on Suze, like I always do, and wait for her to think of an answer. But now . . . I just can’t. She looks so calm and happy. It would be like dumping toxic waste in some beautiful clear sea.

  “Bex! Hi!” As she sees me she stands up, and I feel a fresh shock at how . . . well, how big she looks.

  “Suze!” I hurry toward her and give her a huge hug. “You look amazing!”

  “I’m feeling great!” says Suze. “How are you? How’s the wedding?”

  “Oh . . . I’m fine!” I say after a pause. “It’s all fine. Come on. Let’s go and have some tea.”

  I’m not going to tell her. This is it. For once in my life, I’m going to sort out my problems on my own.

  We go to Oriel and get a table by the window. When the waiter comes, I order hot chocolate, but Suze produces a tea bag and hands it to the waiter.

  “Raspberry leaf tea,” she explains. “It strengthens the uterus. For labor.”

  “Right.” I nod. “Labor. Of course!”

  I feel a little shiver at the base of my spine and smile quickly to cover it.

  Secretly, I’m really not at all convinced about this whole giving birth thing. I mean, look at the size of Suze’s bump. Look at the size of a full-grown baby. And then tell me that’s going to fit through . . .

  I mean, I know the theory. It’s just . . . to be honest, I can’t see it working.

  “When are you due again?” I say, staring at Suze’s stomach.

  “Four weeks today!”

  “So . . . it’s going to grow even bigger?”

  “Oh yes!” Suze pats her bump fondly. “Quite a bit, I should think.”

  “Good,” I say weakly, as a waiter puts a cup of hot chocolate in front of me. “Excellent. So . . . how’s Tarquin?”

  “He’s fine!” says Suze. “He’s up on Craie at the moment. You know, his Scottish island? They’re lambing at the moment, so he thought he’d go and help out. Before the baby comes.”

  “Oh right. And you didn’t go with him?”

  “Well, it would have been a bit risky.” Suze stirs her raspberry tea thoughtfully. “And the thing is, I’m not quite as interested in sheep as he is. I mean, they are really interesting,” she adds loyally. “But you know, after you’ve seen a thousand of them . . .”

  “But he’ll be back in time, will he?”

  “Oh yes. He’s really excited! He’s been to all the classes and everything!”

  God, I can’t believe in a few weeks’ time Suze will have a baby. I won’t even be here.

  “Can I touch?” I put my hand gingerly on Suze’s stomach. “I can’t feel anything.”

  “That’s all right,” says Suze. “I expect it’s asleep.”

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “I haven’t found out.” Suze leans forward earnestly. “But I kind of think it’s a girl,
because I keep being drawn to all these sweet little dresses in the shops. Like a kind of a craving? And they say in all the books, your body will tell you what it needs. So, you know, maybe that’s a sign.”

  “So, what are you going to call her?”

  “We can’t decide. It’s so hard! You know, you buy these books, and all the names are crap . . .” She takes a sip of tea. “What would you call a baby?”

  “Ooh! I don’t know! Maybe Lauren, after Ralph Lauren.” I think for a few moments. “Or Dolce.”

  “Dolce Cleath-Stuart,” says Suze thoughtfully. “I quite like that! We could call her Dolly for short.”

  “Or Vera. After Vera Wang.”

  “Vera?” Suze stares at me. “I’m not calling my baby Vera!”

  “We’re not talking about your baby!” I retort. “We’re talking about mine. Vera Lauren Comme des Brandon. I think that’s got a really good ring to it.”

  “Vera Brandon sounds like a character off Coronation Street! But I like Dolce. What about if it was a boy?”

  “Harvey. Or Barney,” I say after a little thought. “Depending on whether it was born in London or New York.”

  I take another sip of hot chocolate—then look up, to see Suze gazing at me seriously.

  “You wouldn’t really have a baby in America, would you, Bex?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Who can tell? We probably won’t have children for years yet!”

  “You know, we all really miss you.”

  “Oh, not you, too, Suze.” I give a half-laugh. “I had Mum on at me today to move back to Oxshott.”

  “Well, it’s true! Tarkie was saying the other day, London just isn’t the same without you.”

  “Really?” I gaze at her, feeling ridiculously touched.

  “And your mum keeps asking me if I think you’ll stay in New York forever . . . you won’t, will you?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I say helplessly. “It all depends on Luke . . . and his business . . .”

  “He’s not the boss!” says Suze. “You have a say, too. Do you want to stay out there?”

  “I don’t know.” I screw up my face, trying to explain. “Sometimes I think I do. When I’m in New York, it seems like the most important place in the world. My job is fantastic, and the people are fantastic, and it’s all wonderful. But when I come home, suddenly I think, Hang on, this is my home. This is where I belong.” I pick up a sugar packet and begin to shred it. “I just don’t know whether I’m ready to come home yet.”