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by Sophie Kinsella

  “Robyn, I need to talk to you.”

  “Absolutely. If it’s about the dessert flatware, I’ve spoken to the Plaza—”

  “It’s not about the flatware!” I cry. “Robyn, listen! While I was England, I canceled the wedding. I left a message! But you didn’t get it.”

  There’s silence in the plushy room. Then Robyn’s face creases up into laughter.

  “Ha-ha-ha! Becky, you’re priceless! Isn’t she priceless, Kirsten?”

  “Robyn, I’m serious. I want to call the whole thing off. I want to get married in England. My mum’s organizing a wedding, it’s all arranged—”

  “Can you imagine if you did that?” says Robyn with a gurgle. “Well, of course you couldn’t, because of the prenup. If you canceled now, you’d be in for a lot of money!” She laughs gaily. “Would you like some champagne?”

  I stare at her, momentarily halted. “What do you mean, the prenup?”

  “The contract you signed, sweetheart.” She hands me a glass of champagne, and my fingers automatically close round it.

  “But . . . but Luke didn’t sign it. He said it wasn’t valid if he didn’t sign—”

  “Not between you and Luke! Between you and me! Or, rather, Wedding Events Ltd.”

  “What?” I swallow. “Robyn, what are you talking about? I never signed anything.”

  “Of course you did! All my brides do! I gave it to Elinor to pass along to you, and she returned it to me . . . I have a copy of it somewhere!” She takes a sip of champagne, swivels on her chair, and reaches into an elegant wooden filing cabinet.

  “Here we are!” She hands me a photocopy of a document. “Of course, the original is with my lawyer . . .”

  I stare at the page, my heart pounding. It’s a typed sheet, headed “Terms of Agreement.” I look straight down to the dotted line at the bottom—and there’s my signature.

  My mind zooms back to that dark, rainy night. Sitting in Elinor’s apartment. Indignantly signing every single sheet in front of me. Not bothering to read the words above.

  Oh God. What have I done?

  Feverishly I start to scan the contract, only half taking in the legal phrases.

  “The Organizer shall prepare full plans . . . time frame to be mutually agreed . . . the Client shall be consulted on all matters . . . liaise with service providers . . . budget shall be agreed . . . final decisions shall rest with the Client . . . any breach or cancellation for any reason whatsoever . . . reimbursement . . . 30 days . . . full and final payment . . . Furthermore . . .”

  As I read the next words, slugs are crawling up and down my back.

  “Furthermore, in the case of cancellation, should the Client marry within one year of the date of cancellation, the Client will be liable to a penalty of $100,000, payable to Wedding Events Ltd.”

  A hundred-thousand-dollar penalty.

  And I’ve signed it.

  “A hundred thousand dollars?” I say at last. “That . . . that seems a lot.”

  “That’s only for the silly girls who pretend to cancel and then get married anyway,” says Robyn cheerily.

  “But why—”

  “Becky, if I plan a wedding, then I want that wedding to happen. We’ve had girls pull out before.” Her voice suddenly hardens. “Girls who decided to go their own way. Girls who decided to use my ideas, my contacts. Girls who thought they could exploit my expertise and get away with it.” She leans forward with glittering eyes, and I shrink back fearfully.

  “Becky, you don’t want to be those girls.”

  She’s crazy. The wedding planner’s crazy.

  “G-good idea,” I say quickly. “You have to protect yourself!”

  “Of course, Elinor could have signed it herself—but we agreed, this way, she’s protecting her investment too!” Robyn beams at me. “It’s a neat arrangement.”

  “Very clever!” I give a shrill laugh and take a slug of champagne.

  What am I going to do? There must be some way out of this. There must be. People can’t force other people to get married. It’s not ethical.

  “Cheer up, Becky!” Robyn snaps back into cheery-chirrupy mood. “Everything’s under control. We’ve been taking care of everything while you were in Britain. The invitations are being written as we speak.”

  “Invitations?” I feel a fresh shock. “But they can’t be. We haven’t done a guest list yet.”

  “Yes you have, silly girl! What’s this?”

  She presses a couple of buttons on her computer and a list pops up, and I stare at it, my mouth open. Familiar names and addresses are scrolling past on the screen, one after another. Names of my cousins. Names of my old school friends. With a sudden lurch I spot “Janice and Martin Webster, The Oaks, 41 Elton Road, Oxshott.”

  How does Robyn know about Janice and Martin? I feel as though I’ve stumbled into some arch-villainess’s lair. Any minute a panel will slide back and I’ll see Mum and Dad tied to a chair with gags in their mouths.

  “Where . . . where did you get those names?” I ask, trying to make it sound like a lighthearted inquiry.

  “Luke gave us a list! I was pressuring him about it, so he had a look around your apartment. He said he found it hidden under the bed, or someplace odd. I said, that’s probably the safest place to put it!”

  She produces a piece of paper, and my eyes focus on it in disbelief.

  Mum’s handwriting.

  The guest list she faxed over to us, weeks ago. The names and addresses of all the family friends and relations who are being invited to the wedding. The wedding at home.

  Robyn’s inviting all the same people as Mum.

  “Have the invitations . . . gone out yet?” I say in a voice I don’t quite recognize.

  “Well, no.” Robyn wags her finger at me. “Elinor’s all went out last week. But we got your guest list so late, I’m afraid yours are still with the calligrapher! She’s going to mail them off just as soon as she’s finished . . .”

  “Stop her,” I say desperately. “You have to stop her!”

  “What?” Robyn looks at me in surprise, and I’m aware of Kirsten lifting her head in interest. “Why, sweetheart?”

  “I . . . I have to post the invitations myself,” I say. “It’s a . . . a family tradition. The bride always, er . . . posts her own invitations.”

  I rub my hot face, trying to keep cool. Across the room, I can see Kirsten staring curiously at me. They probably think I’m a complete control freak now. But I don’t care. I have to stop those invitations from going out.

  “How unusual!” says Robyn. “I never heard that custom before!”

  “Are you saying I’m making it up?”

  “No! Of course not! I’ll let Judith know,” says Robyn, picking up the phone and flicking her Rolodex, and I subside, breathing hard.

  My head is spinning. Too much is happening. While I’ve been closeted with Suze and Ernie, everything has been steaming ahead without me realizing it, and now I’ve completely lost control of the situation. It’s like this wedding is some big white horse that was trotting along quite nicely but has suddenly reared up and galloped off into the distance without me.

  Robyn wouldn’t really sue me. Would she?

  “Hi, Judith? Yes, it’s Robyn. Have you . . . you have? Well, that was quick work!” Robyn looks up. “You won’t believe this, but she’s already finished them!”

  “What?” I look up in horror.

  “She’s at the mailbox already! Isn’t that a—”

  “Well, stop her!” I shriek. “Stop her!”

  “Judith,” says Robyn urgently. “Judith, stop. The bride is very particular. She wants to mail the invitations herself. Some family tradition,” she says in a lower tone. “British. Yes. No, I don’t know either.”

  She looks up with a careful smile, as though I’m a tricky three-year-old.

  “Becky, I’m afraid a few already went into the mailbox. But you’ll get to mail all the rest!”

  “A few?” I say agitate
dly. “How many?”

  “How many, Judith?” says Robyn, then turns to me. “She thinks three.”

  “Three? Well . . . can she reach in and get them back?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Couldn’t she find a . . . a stick or something . . .”

  Robyn stares at me silently for a second, then turns to the phone.

  “Judith, let me get the location of that mailbox.” She scribbles on a piece of paper, then looks up. “You know what, Becky, I think the best thing is if you go down there, and just . . . do whatever you have to do . . .”

  “OK. I will. Thanks.”

  As I put my coat on, I can see Robyn and Kirsten exchanging glances.

  “You know, Becky, you might want to chill out a little,” says Robyn. “Everything’s under control. There’s nothing for you to worry about!” She leans forward cozily. “As I often say to my brides, when they get a little agitated . . . it’s just a wedding!”

  I can’t even bring myself to reply.

  The mailbox is off the corner of Ninety-third and Lexington. As I turn into the street I can see a woman who must be Judith, dressed in a dark raincoat, leaning against the side of a building. As I hurry toward her, I see her look at her watch, give an impatient shrug, and head toward the mailbox, a stack of envelopes in her hand.

  “Stop!” I yell, increasing my pace to a sprint. “Don’t post those!”

  I arrive by her side, panting so hard I can barely speak.

  “Give me those invitations,” I manage to gasp. “I’m the bride. Becky Bloomwood.”

  “Here you are!” says Judith. “A few already went in. But you know, no one said anything to me about not mailing them,” she adds defensively.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “If Robyn hadn’t called when she did . . . they would’ve been gone. All of them!”

  “I . . . I appreciate that.”

  I flip through the thick taupe envelopes, feeling slightly shaky as I see all the names on Mum’s list, beautifully written out in Gothic script.

  “So are you going to mail them?”

  “Of course I am.” Suddenly I realize Judith’s waiting for me to do it. “But I don’t want to be watched,” I add quickly. “It’s a very private matter. I have to . . . say a poem and kiss each one . . .”

  “Fine,” says Judith, rolling her eyes. “Whatever.”

  She walks off toward the corner, and I stand as still as a rock until she’s vanished from sight. Then, clutching the pile of invitations to my chest, I hurry to the corner, raise my hand, and hail a cab to take me home.

  Luke is still out when I arrive, and the apartment is as dim and silent as it was when I left it. My suitcase is open on the floor—and as I walk in I can see inside it the pile of invitations to the Oxshott wedding that Mum gave me to pass on to Elinor.

  I pick up the second pile of invitations and look from one to the other. One pile of white envelopes. One pile of taupe envelopes. Two weddings. On the same day. In less than six weeks.

  If I do one, Mum will never speak to me again.

  If I do the other, I get sued for $100,000.

  OK, just . . . keep calm. Think logically. There has to be a way out of this. There has to be. As long as I keep my head and don’t get into a—

  Suddenly I hear the sound of the front door opening. “Becky?” comes Luke’s voice. “Is that you?”

  Fuck.

  In a complete panic, I open the cocktail cabinet, shove both lots of invitations inside, slam the door, and whip round breathlessly just as Luke comes in.

  “Sweetheart!” His whole face lights up and he throws his briefcase down. “You’re back! I missed you.” He gives me a huge hug—then draws back and looks anxiously at me. “Becky? Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine!” I say brightly. “Honestly, everything’s great! I’m just tired.”

  “You look wiped out. I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me all about Suze.”

  He goes out of the room and I collapse weakly on the sofa.

  What the hell am I going to do now?

  THE PINES

  43 Elton Road

  Oxshott

  Surrey

  FAX MESSAGE

  TO BECKY BLOOMWOOD

  FROM MUM

  20 May 2002

  Becky, love, I don’t want to worry you. But it looks like that deranged woman you were telling us about has gone one step further and actually printed invitations! Auntie Irene phoned up today and told us she’d got some peculiar invitation through the post, for the Plaza Hotel, just like you said. Apparently it was all bronze and beige, very odd and not like a proper wedding invitation at all!

  The best thing is to ignore these people, so I told her to put it straight in the bin and not worry about it. And you must do the same, darling. But I just thought I should let you know.

  Much love and talk soon,

  Mum xxxxxxxxx

  Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

  251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

  New York, NY 10014

  May 21, 2002

  INVOICE no. 10956

  With thanks

  Fifteen

  OK. THE REALLY vital thing is to keep a sense of proportion. I mean, let’s face it, every wedding has the odd glitch. You can’t expect the whole process to go smoothly. I’ve just bought a new book, called The Realistic Bride, which I’m finding very comforting at the moment. It has a huge chapter all about wedding hitches, and it says: “No matter how insurmountable the problem seems, there will always be a solution! So don’t worry!”

  So the example they give is of a bride who loses her satin shoe on the way to the reception. Not one who has arranged two different weddings on the same day on different continents, is hiding half the invitations in a cocktail cabinet, and has discovered her wedding planner is a litigious nutcase.

  But you know, I’m sure the principle’s broadly the same.

  I’ve been back in New York for a week now, and during that time I’ve been to see about seventeen different lawyers about Robyn’s contract. All of them have looked at it carefully, told me they’re afraid it’s watertight, and advised me in the future to read all documentation before signing it.

  Actually, that’s not quite true. One lawyer just said, “Sorry, miss, there’s nothing we can do,” as soon as I mentioned that the contract was with Robyn de Bendern. Another said, “Girl, you’re in trouble,” and put the phone down.

  I can’t believe there isn’t a way out, though. As a last resort, I’ve sent it off to Garson Low, the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. I read about him in People magazine, and it said he has the sharpest mind in the legal world. It said he can find a loophole in a piece of concrete. So I’m kind of pinning all my hopes on him—and meanwhile, trying very hard to act normally and not crumple into a gibbering wreck.

  “I’m having lunch with Michael today,” says Luke, coming into the kitchen with a couple of boxes in his arms. “He seems to have settled into his new place well.”

  Michael’s taken the plunge and moved to New York, which is fantastic for us. He’s working part time as a consultant at Brandon Communications, and the rest of the time, as he put it, he’s “reclaiming his life.” He’s taken up painting, and has joined a group that power-walks in Central Park, and last time we saw him he was talking about taking a course in Italian cookery.

  “That’s great!” I say.

  “He said we must come over soon . . .” He peers at me. “Becky, are you all right?”

  Abruptly I realize I’m drumming a pencil so hard it’s making indentations in the kitchen table.

  “I’m absolutely fine,” I say with an overbright smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I haven’t said a word about anything to Luke. In The Realistic Bride it says the way to stop your fiancé from getting bored with wedding details is to feed them to him on a need-to-know basis.

  I don’t feel Luke needs to know anything just yet.

  “A c
ouple more wedding presents,” he says. He dumps the boxes on the counter and grins at me. “It’s getting closer, isn’t it?”

  “Yes! Yes it is!” I attempt a laugh, not very successfully.

  “Another toaster . . . this time from Bloomingdale’s.” He frowns. “Becky, exactly how many wedding lists have we got?”

  “I don’t know. A few.”

  “I thought the whole point of a wedding list was that we didn’t end up with seven toasters.”

  “We haven’t got seven toasters!” I point to the box. “This is a brioche grill.”

  “And we also have . . . a Gucci handbag.” He raises his eyebrows quizzically at me. “A Gucci handbag for a wedding present?”

  “It’s his-and-hers luggage!” I say defensively. “I put down a briefcase for you . . .”

  “Which no one’s bought for me.”

  “That’s not my fault! I don’t tell them what to buy!”

  Luke shakes his head incredulously. “Did you put down his-and-hers Jimmy Choos too?”

  “Did someone get the Jimmy Choos?” I say joyfully—then stop as I see his face. “I’m . . . joking.” I clear my throat. “Here. Look at Suze’s baby.”

  I’ve just had three rolls of film developed, mostly of Suze and Ernie.

  “That’s Ernie in the bath . . .” I point out, handing him photographs. “And that’s Ernie asleep . . . and Suze asleep . . . and Suze . . . hang on a minute . . .” Hastily I pass over the ones of Suze breast-feeding with nothing on except a pair of knickers. She had actually bought a special breast-feeding top from a catalogue, which promised “discretion and ease at home and in public.” But she got so pissed off with the stupid concealed zip, she threw it away after one day. “And look! That’s the first day we brought him home!”

  Luke sits down at the table, and as he leafs through the pictures, a strange expression comes over his face.

  “She looks . . . blissful,” he says.