Shopaholic Ties the Knot

by Sophie Kinsella

  As I hover at the entrance, a skinny girl in jeans and strappy high heels is being led out by her mother, and they’re in the middle of a row.

  “You only had to taste it,” the mother is saying furiously. “How many calories could that be?”

  “I don’t care,” retorts the girl tearfully. “I’m going to be a size two on my wedding day if it kills me.”

  Size two!

  Anxiously I glance at my thighs. Should I be aiming for size two as well? Is that the size brides are supposed to be?

  “Becky!” I look up to see Robyn, who seems a little flustered. “Hello! You made it.”

  “Robyn.” As I see her, I feel my stomach clench with apprehension. “Listen. I need to talk to you. I tried calling Elinor, but she was… Anyway. There’s something I need to… tell you.”

  “Absolutely,” says Robyn distractedly. “Antoine and I will be with you in a moment, but we have a slight crisis on our hands.” She lowers her voice. “There was an accident with one of the cakes. Very unfortunate.”

  “Miss Bloomwood?” I look up to see a man with gray hair and twinkling eyes in a white chef’s outfit. “I am Antoine Montignac. The cake maker of cake makers. Perhaps you have seen me in my television show?”

  “Antoine, I don’t think we’ve quite resolved the problem with the… other client…” says Robyn anxiously.

  “I come in a moment.” He dismisses her with his hand. “Miss Bloomwood. Sit down.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I really want to…” I begin. But before I know what I’m doing, I’ve been seated on a plushy chair at a polished table, and Antoine is spreading glossy portfolios in front of me.

  “I can create for you the cake that will surpass all your dreams,” he announces modestly. “No image is beyond my powers of creativity.”

  “Really?” I look at a photograph of a spectacular sixtier cake decorated with sugar tulips, then turn the page to see one in the shape of five different butterflies. These are the hugest cakes I’ve ever seen in my life. And the decorations!

  “So, are these all fruitcakes inside?”

  “Fruitcake? Non, non, non!” Antoine laughs. “This is very English notion, the fruitcake at the wedding. This particular cake…” He points to the butterfly cake. “It was a light angel sponge, each tier layered with three different fillings: burnt orange caramel, passion-fruit-mango, and hazelnut soufflé.”

  Gosh.

  “If you like chocolate, we can construct a cake purely from different varieties of chocolate.” He turns to another page. “This was a dark chocolate sponge layered with chocolate fondant, white chocolate cream, and a Grand Marnier truffle filling.”

  I had no idea wedding cakes could be anything like this. I flip through dazedly, looking at cake after spectacular cake.

  “If you do not want the traditional tiers, I can make for you a cake to represent something you love. A favorite painting… or a sculpture…” He looks at me again. “A Louis Vuitton trunk, perhaps…”

  A Louis Vuitton trunk wedding cake! How cool would that be?

  “Antoine? If you could just come here a moment?” Robyn pokes her head out of a small meeting room to the right — and although she’s smiling, she sounds pretty harassed.

  “Excuse me, Miss Bloomwood,” says Antoine apologetically. “Davina. Some cake for Miss Bloomwood to taste.”

  A smiling assistant disappears through a pair of double doors — then returns with a glass of champagne and a china plate holding two slices of cake and a sugar lily. She hands me a fork and says, “This one is passion-fruit-mango, strawberry, and tangerine mousseline, and this is caramel creme with pistachio and mocha truffle. Enjoy!”

  Wow. Each slice is a light sponge, with three different pastel-colored fillings. I don’t know where to start!

  OK… let’s go for mocha truffle.

  I put a piece in my mouth and nearly swoon. Now this is what wedding cakes should all be like. Why don’t we have these in England?

  I take a few sips of champagne and nibble the sugar lily, which is all yummy and lemony — then take a second piece and munch blissfully, watching a girl nearby as she painstakingly makes a spray of lilies of the valley.

  You know, maybe I should get Suze a nice cake for her baby’s christening. I mean, I’ll get a present as well — but I could always buy a cake as a little extra.

  “Do you know how much these cakes are?” I ask the girl as I polish off the second slice.

  “Well… it really varies,” she says, looking up. “But I guess they start at about a thousand dollars.”

  I nearly choke on my champagne. A thousand dollars? They start at $1,000?

  For a cake?

  I mean, how much have I eaten, just now? That must have been at least $50 worth of cake on my plate!

  “Would you like another slice?” says the girl, and glances at the meeting room. “It looks like Antoine is still held up.”

  “Ooh, well… Why not! And could I try one of those sugar tulips? You know. Just for research purposes.”

  “Sure,” says the girl pleasantly. “Whatever you like.”

  She gives me a tulip and a spray of tiny white flowers, and I crunch through them happily, washing them down with champagne.

  Then I look idly around and spy a huge, elaborate flower, yellow and white with tiny drops of dew. Wow. That looks yummy. I reach over a display of sugar hearts, pick it up, and it’s almost in my mouth when I hear a yell.

  “Stooooop!” A guy in whites is pounding across the studio toward me. “Don’t eat the jonquil!”

  “Oops!” I say, stopping just in time. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. Is it very special?”

  “It took me three hours to make,” he says, taking it gently from my hand. “No harm done, though.” He smiles at me, but I notice there’s sweat on his forehead.

  Hmm. Maybe I should just stick to the champagne from now on. I take another sip, and am looking around for the bottle, when raised voices start coming from the side room where Robyn and Antoine are closeted.

  “I deed not do this deliberately! Mademoiselle, I do not have a vendetta.”

  “You do! You bloody hate me, don’t you?” comes a muffled voice.

  I can hear Robyn’s voice, saying something soothing, which I can’t make out.

  “It’s just one thing after another!” The girl’s voice is raised now — and as I hear it clearly, I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth.

  I don’t believe it.

  It can’t be.

  “This bloody wedding is jinxed!” she’s exclaiming. “Right from the word go, everything’s gone wrong.”

  The door swings open and now I can hear her properly.

  It is. It’s Alicia.

  I feel my whole body stiffen.

  “First the Plaza couldn’t fit us in! Now this fiasco with the cake! And do you know what I just heard?”

  “What?” says Robyn fearfully.

  “My maid of honor dyed her hair red! She won’t match the others! Of all the bloody inconsiderate, selfish…”

  The door is flung open and out stalks Alicia, her stilettos echoing like gunfire on the wooden floor. When she sees me, she stops dead and I look at her, my heart thumping hard.

  “Hi, Alicia,” I say, forcing myself to sound relaxed. “Sorry to hear about your cake. That was delicious, by the way, Antoine.”

  “What?” says Alicia blankly. Her eyes flash to my engagement ring, to my face, back to my ring, to my shoes, to my bag — taking in my skirt on the way — and finally back to my ring. It’s like the Manhattan Onceover in a hall of mirrors.

  “You’re getting married?” she says at last. “To Luke?”

  “Yes.” I glance nonchalantly at the diamond on my left hand, then smile innocently up at her.

  I’m starting to relax now. I’m starting to enjoy this.

  (Also, I just gave Alicia the Manhattan Onceover myself. And my ring is a teeny bit bigger than hers. Not that I’m comparing or anything.)

&
nbsp; “How come you didn’t say?”

  You didn’t ask, I want to reply, but instead I just give a little shrug.

  “So where are you getting married?” Alicia’s old supercilious expression is returning and I can see her getting ready to pounce.

  “Well… as it happens…” I clear my throat.

  OK, this is the moment. This is the time to make the big announcement. To tell Robyn I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to get married in Oxshott.

  “Actually…”

  I take a deep breath. Come on. It’s like a Band-Aid. The quicker I do it, the quicker it’ll be over. Just say it.

  And I really am on the brink of it — when I make the fatal mistake of looking up. Alicia’s looking as patronizing and smug as she ever did. I feel years of feeling stupid and small welling up in me like a volcano — and I just can’t help it, I hear my voice saying, “Actually, we’re getting married at the Plaza.”

  Alicia’s face snaps in shock, like an elastic band. “The Plaza? Really?”

  “It should be rather lovely,” I add casually. “Such a beautiful venue, the Plaza. Is that where you’re getting married?”

  “No,” says Alicia, her chin rather tight. “They couldn’t fit us in at such short notice. When did you book?”

  “Oh… a week or two ago,” I say, and give a vague shrug.

  Yes! Yes! Her expression!

  “It’s going to be wonderful,” puts in Robyn enthusiastically. “I spoke to the designer this morning, by the way. He’s ordered two hundred birch trees, and they’re going to send over some samples of pine needles…”

  I can see Alicia’s brain working hard.

  “You’re the one having the enchanted forest in the Plaza,” she says at last. “I’ve heard about that. Sheldon Lloyd’s designing it. Is that true?”

  “That’s the one,” I say, and smile at Robyn, who beams back as though I’m an old ally.

  “Mees Bloomwood.” Antoine appears from nowhere and presses my hand to his lips. “I am now completely at your service. I apologize for the delay. One of these irritating little matters…”

  Alicia’s face goes rigid.

  “Well,” she says. “I’ll be off then.”

  “Au revoir,” says Antoine, without even looking up.

  “Bye, Alicia,” I say innocently. “Have a lovely wedding.”

  As she stalks out, I subside back in my seat, heart still pumping wth exhilaration. That was one of the best moments of my life. Finally getting the better of Alicia Bitch Longlegs. Finally! I mean, how often has she been horrible to me? Answer: approximately one thousand times. And how often have I had the perfect put-down at my lips? Answer: never.

  Until today!

  I can see Robyn and Antoine exchanging looks, and I’m dying to ask them what they think of Alicia. But… it wouldn’t be becoming in a bride-to-be.

  Plus if they bitch about her, they might bitch about me too.

  “Now!” says Robyn. “On to something more pleasant. You’ve seen the details of Becky’s wedding, Antoine.”

  “Indeed,” says Antoine, beaming at me. “Eet will be a most beautiful event.”

  “I know,” I hear myself saying happily. “I’m so looking forward to it!”

  “So… we discuss the cake… I must fetch some pictures for you… meanwhile, can I offer you some more champagne, perhaps?”

  “Yes, please,” I say, and hold out my glass. “That would be lovely!”

  The champagne fizzes, pale and delicious, into my glass. Then Antoine disappears off again and I take a sip, smiling to hide the fact that inside, I’m feeling a slight unease.

  Now that Alicia’s gone, there’s no need to pretend anymore. What I should do is put my glass down, take Robyn aside, apologize for having wasted her time — and inform her that the wedding is off and I’m getting married in Oxshott. Quite simple and straightforward.

  That’s what I should do.

  But… something very strange has happened since this morning. I can’t quite explain it — but somehow, sitting here, drinking champagne and eating thousand-dollar cake, I just don’t feel like someone who’s going to get married in a garden in Oxshott.

  If I’m really honest, hand on heart — I feel exactly like someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza.

  More than that, I want to be someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza. I want to be that girl who swans around expensive cake shops and has people running after her and gets treated like a princess. If I call off the wedding, then it’ll all stop. Everyone will stop making a fuss. I’ll stop being that special, glossy person.

  Oh God, what’s happened to me? I was so resolved this morning.

  Determinedly I close my eyes and force myself to think back to Mum and her flowering cherry tree. But even that doesn’t work. Perhaps it’s the champagne — but instead of being overcome with emotion, and thinking: I must get married at home, I find myself thinking: Maybe we can incorporate the cherry tree into the enchanted forest.

  “All right, Becky?” says Robyn, beaming at me. “Penny for them!”

  “Oh!” I say, my head jerking up guiltily. “I was just thinking that… the um… wedding will be fantastic.”

  What am I going to do? Am I going to say something?

  Am I not going to say anything?

  Come on, Becky. Decide.

  “So — you want to see what I have in my bag?” says Robyn brightly.

  “Er… yes, please.”

  “Ta-daah!” She pulls out a thick, embossed card, covered in swirly writing, and hands it to me.

  Mrs. Elinor Sherman

  requests the honour of your presence

  at the marriage of

  Rebecca Bloomwood

  to her son

  Luke Brandon

  I stare at it, my heart thumping hard.

  This is real. This is really real. Here it is, in black and white.

  Or at least, bronze and taupe.

  I take the stiff card from her and turn it over and over in my fingers.

  “What do you think?” Robyn beams. “It’s exquisite, isn’t it? The card is 80 percent linen.”

  “It’s… lovely.” I swallow. “It seems very soon to be sending out invitations, though.”

  “We aren’t sending them out yet! But I always like to get the invitations done early. What I always say is, you can’t proofread too many times. We don’t want to be asking our guests to wear ‘evening press,’ like one bride I could mention…” She trills with laughter.

  “Right.” I stare down at the words again.

  Saturday June 21st at seven o’clock

  at the Plaza Hotel

  New York City

  This is serious. If I’m going to say anything, I have to say it now. If I’m going to call this wedding off, I have to do it now. Right this minute.

  My mouth remains closed.

  Does this really mean I’m choosing the Plaza after all? That I’m selling out? That I’m choosing the gloss and glitter? That I’m going with Elinor instead of Mum and Dad?

  “I thought you’d like to send one to your mother!” says Robyn.

  My head jerks up sharply — but Robyn’s face is blithely innocent. “Such a shame she isn’t here to get involved with the preparations. But she’ll love to see this, won’t she?”

  “Yes,” I say after a long pause. “Yes, she’ll… love it.”

  I put the invitation into my bag and snap the clasp shut, feeling slightly sick.

  So this is it. New York it is.

  Mum will understand. When I tell her all about it properly, she’ll come round. She has to.

  Antoine’s new mandarin and lychee cake is fabulous. But somehow as I nibble at it, my appetite’s gone.

  After I’ve tried several more flavors and am no nearer a decision, Antoine and Robyn exchange looks and suggest I probably need time to think. So with one last sugar rose for my purse, I say good-bye and head to Barneys, where
I deal with all my clients perfectly pleasantly, as though nothing’s on my mind.

  But all the time I’m thinking about the call I’ve got to make. About how I’m going to break the news to Mum. About how I’m going to explain to Mum.

  I won’t say anything as strong as I definitely want to get married in the Plaza. Not initially. I’ll just tell her that it’s there as a possibility, if we both want it. That’s the key phrase. If we both want it.

  The truth is, I didn’t present it properly to her before. She’ll probably leap at the chance once I explain it all to her fully. Once I tell her about the enchanted forest and the string orchestra, and the dance band and the thousand-dollar cake. A lovely luxury wedding, all expenses paid! I mean, who wouldn’t leap at it?

  But my heart’s thumping as I climb the stairs to our apartment. I know I’m not being honest with myself. I know what Mum really wants.

  I also know that if I make enough fuss, she’ll do anything I ask her.

  I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. Two seconds later, the doorbell rings behind me and I jump with fright. God, I’m on edge at the moment.

  “Hi,” I say, opening it. “Oh, Danny, it’s you. Listen, I need to make quite an important phone call. So if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “OK, I have to ask you a favor,” he says, coming into the apartment and completely ignoring me.

  “What is it?”

  “Randall’s been pressuring me. He’s like, where exactly do you sell your clothes? Who exactly are your customers? Do you have a business plan? So I’m like, of course I have a business plan, Randall. I’m planning to buy up Coca-Cola next year, what do you think?”

  “Danny?”

  “So then he starts saying if I don’t have any genuine client base I should give up and he’s not going to subsidize me anymore. He used the word subsidize! Can you believe it?”

  “Well,” I say distractedly. “He does pay your rent. And he bought you all those rolls of pink suede you wanted…”

  “OK,” says Danny after a pause. “OK. So the pink suede was a mistake. But Jesus! He just wouldn’t leave it alone. I told him about your dress — but he was like, Daniel, you can’t base a commercial enterprise on one customer who lives downstairs.” Danny chews the skin on his thumb nervously. “So I told him I just had a big order from a department store.”