Shopaholic Ties the Knot Read online

  “Really?” I stare at her, feeling a sudden swell of emotion. Mum and Dad have been saving all this time, and they never said a word. “I… I had no idea.”

  “Yes, well. We weren’t going to tell you, were we? Now!” Mum snaps back into businesslike mode. “Did Luke tell you we’ve found a date? You know, it wasn’t easy! Everywhere’s booked up. But I’ve spoken to Peter at the church, he’s had a cancellation, and he can fit us in at three on that Saturday. Otherwise it would be a question of waiting until November.”

  “November?” I pull a face. “That’s not very weddingy.”

  “Exactly. So I told him to pencil it in. I’ve put it on the calendar, look.”

  I glance over at the fridge calendar, which has a different recipe using Nescafé for each month. And sure enough, there in June is a big felt-tipped “BECKY’S WEDDING.”

  I stare at it, feeling slightly weird. I am going to get married. It’s something I’ve secretly thought about for so long — and now it really is happening.

  “I’ve been having a few ideas about the marquee,” adds Mum. “I saw a beautiful striped one in a magazine somewhere, and I thought, ‘I must show that to Becky…’ ”

  She reaches behind her and hauls out a stack of glossy magazines. Brides. Modern Bride. Wedding and Home. All shiny and succulent and inviting, like a plate of sticky doughnuts.

  “Gosh!” I say, forcing myself not to reach greedily for one. “I haven’t read any of those bridal things yet. I don’t even know what they’re like!”

  “Neither have I,” says Mum at once, as she flicks expertly through an issue of Wedding and Home. “Not properly. I’ve just glanced through for the odd idea. I mean, they’re really just adverts mainly…”

  I hesitate, my fingers running over the cover of You and Your Wedding. I can hardly believe I’m actually allowed to read these now. Openly! I don’t have to sidle up to the rack and take tiny, guilty peeks, like stuffing a biscuit into my mouth and all the time wondering if someone will see me.

  The habit’s so ingrained I almost can’t break it, even though I’ve got an engagement ring on my finger now.

  “I suppose it makes sense to have a very brief look,” I say casually. “You know, just for basic information… just to be aware what’s available…”

  Oh, sod it. Mum’s not even listening, anyway, so I might as well give up pretending I’m not going to read every single one of these magazines avidly from cover to cover. Happily I sink into a chair and reach for Brides, and for the next ten minutes we’re both completely silent, gorging on pictures.

  “There!” says Mum suddenly. She turns her magazine round so I can see a picture of a billowing white and silver striped marquee. “Isn’t that nice?”

  “Very pretty.” I run my gaze down interestedly to the picture of the bridesmaids’ dresses, and the bride’s bouquet… and then my eye comes to rest on the dateline.

  “Mum!” I exclaim. “This is from last year! How come you were looking at wedding magazines last year!”

  “I’ve no idea!” says Mum shiftly. “I must have… picked it up in a doctor’s waiting room or something. Anyway. Are you getting any ideas?”

  “Well… I don’t know,” I say vaguely. “I suppose I just want something simple.”

  A vision of myself in a big white dress and sparkly tiara suddenly pops into my head. Getting out of a carriage at St. Paul’s Cathedral… my handsome prince waiting for me… cheering crowds…

  OK, stop. I’m not going to go over the top. I’ve already decided that.

  “I agree,” Mum is saying. “You want something elegant and tasteful. Oh, look, grapes covered with gold leaf. We could do that!” She turns a page. “Look, identical twin bridesmaids! Don’t they look pretty? Do you know anyone with twins, love?”

  “No,” I say regretfully. “I don’t think so. Ooh, you can buy a special wedding countdown alarm clock! And a wedding organizer with matching bridal diary for those special memories. Do you think I should get one of those?”

  “Definitely,” says Mum. “If you don’t, you’ll only wish you had.” She puts down her magazine. “You know, Becky, one thing I will say to you is, don’t do this by half-measures. Remember, you only do it once—”

  “Hellooo?” We both look up as there’s a tap on the back door. “It’s only me!” Janice’s bright eyes look through the glass, and she gives a little wave. Janice is our next-door neighbor and I’ve known her forever. She’s wearing a floral shirtwaister in a virulent shade of turquoise, and eye shadow to match, and there’s a folder under her arm.

  “Janice!” cries Mum. “Come on in and have a coffee.”

  “I’d love one,” says Janice. “I’ve brought my Canderel.” She comes in and gives me a hug. “And here’s the special girl! Becky love, congratulations!”

  “Thanks,” I say, with a bashful grin.

  “Just look at that ring!”

  “Two carats,” says Mum at once. “Antique. It’s a family heirloom.”

  “A family heirloom!” echoes Janice breathlessly. “Oh, Becky!” She picks up a copy of Modern Bride and gives a wistful little sigh. “But how are you going to organize the wedding, living in New York?”

  “Becky doesn’t have to worry about a thing,” says Mum firmly. “I can do it all. It’s traditional, anyway.”

  “Well, you know where I am if you want any help,” says Janice. “Have you set a date yet?”

  “June 22nd,” says Mum over the shriek of the coffee grinder. “Three o’clock at St. Mary’s.”

  “Three o’clock!” says Janice. “Lovely.” She puts down the magazine and gives me a suddenly earnest look. “Now, Becky, there’s something I want to say. To both of you.”

  “Oh yes?” I say, slightly apprehensively, and Mum puts down the coffeepot.

  Janice takes a deep breath. “It would give me great pleasure to do your wedding makeup. You and the whole bridal party.”

  “Janice!” exclaims my mother in delight. “What a kind thought! Think of that, Becky. Professional makeup!”

  “Er… fantastic!”

  “I’ve learned such a lot on my course, all the tricks of the trade. I’ve got a whole book full of photographs you can browse through, to choose your style. In fact I’ve brought it with me, look!” Janice opens the folder and begins to flip over laminated cards of women who look as though they had their makeup applied during the seventies. “This look is called Prom Princess, for the younger face,” she says breathlessly. “Now, here we have Radiant Spring Bride, with extra-waterproof mascara… Or Cleopatra, if you wanted something more dramatic?”

  “Great!” I say feebly. “Perhaps I’ll have a look nearer the time.”

  There is no way in a million years I’m letting Janice near my face.

  “And you’ll be getting Wendy to do the cake, will you?” asks Janice as Mum puts a cup of coffee in front of her.

  “Oh, no question,” says Mum. “Wendy Prince, who lives on Maybury Avenue,” she adds to me. “You remember, she did Dad’s retirement cake with the lawnmower on it? The things that woman can do with a nozzle!”

  I remember that cake. The icing was virulent green and the lawnmower was made out of a painted matchbox. You could still see “Swan” through the green.

  “You know, there are some really amazing wedding cakes in here,” I say, tentatively holding out an issue of Brides. “From this special place in London. Maybe we could go and have a look.”

  “Oh, but love, we have to ask Wendy!” says Mum in surprise. “She’d be devastated if we didn’t. You know her husband’s just had a stroke? Those sugar roses are what’s keeping her going.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, putting down the magazine guiltily. “I didn’t know. Well… OK then. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”

  “We were very pleased with Tom and Lucy’s wedding cake.” Janice sighs. “We’ve saved the top tier for the first christening. You know, they’re with us at the moment. They’ll be round to offer their congratula
tions, I’m sure. Can you believe they’ve been married a year and a half already!”

  “Have they?” Mum takes a sip of coffee and gives a brief smile.

  Tom and Lucy’s wedding is still a very slightly sore point in our family. I mean, we love Janice and Martin to bits so we never say anything, but to be honest, we’re none of us very keen on Lucy.

  “Are there any signs of them…” Mum makes a vague, euphemistic gesture. “Starting a family,” she adds in a whisper.

  “Not yet.” Janice’s smile flickers briefly. “Martin and I think they probably want to enjoy each other first. They’re such a happy young couple. They just dote on each other! And of course, Lucy’s got her career—”

  “I suppose so,” says Mum consideringly. “Although it doesn’t do to wait too long…”

  “Well, I know,” agrees Janice. They both turn to look at me — and suddenly I realize what they’re driving at.

  For God’s sake, I’ve only been engaged a day! Give me a chance!

  I escape to the garden and wander round for a bit, sipping my coffee. The snow is starting to melt outside, and you can just see patches of green lawn and bits of rosebush. As I pick my way down the gravel path, I find myself thinking how nice it is to be in an English garden again, even if it is a bit cold. Manhattan doesn’t have any gardens like this. There’s Central Park, and there’s the odd little flowery square. But it doesn’t have any proper English gardens, with lawns and trees and flower beds.

  I’ve reached the rose arbor and am looking back at the house, imagining what a marquee will look like on the lawn, when suddenly there’s a rumble of conversation from the garden next door. I wonder if it’s Martin, and I’m about to pop my head over the fence and say “Hello!” when a girl’s voice comes clearly over the snow, saying: “Define frigid! Because if you ask me—”

  It’s Lucy. And she sounds furious! There’s a mumbled reply, which can only be Tom.

  “And you’re such a bloody expert, are you?”

  Mumble mumble.

  “Oh, give me a break.”

  I edge surreptitiously toward the fence, wishing desperately I could hear both sides.

  “Yeah, well, maybe if we had more of a life, maybe if you actually organized something once in a blue moon, maybe if we weren’t stuck in such a bloody rut…”

  Lucy’s voice is so hectoring. And now Tom’s voice is raised defensively in return.

  “We went out to… all you could do was complain… made a real bloody effort…”

  Crack!

  Shit. Shit. I’ve stepped on a twig.

  For an instant I consider running. But it’s too late, their heads have already appeared over the garden fence, Tom’s all pink and distressed, and Lucy’s tight with anger.

  “Oh, hi!” I say, trying to look relaxed. “How are you? I’m just… um… having a little stroll… and I dropped my… hanky.”

  “Your hanky?” Lucy looks suspiciously at the ground. “I can’t see any hanky.”

  “Well… erm… So… how’s married life?”

  “Fine,” says Lucy shortly. “Congratulations, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  There’s an awkward pause, and I find myself running my eyes over Lucy’s outfit, taking in her top (black polo-neck, probably M&S), trousers (Earl Jeans, quite cool, actually), and boots (high-heeled with laces, Russell & Bromley).

  This is something I’ve always done, checking out people’s clothes and listing them in my mind like on a fashion page. I thought I was the only one who did it. But then I moved to New York — and there, everyone does it. Seriously, everybody. The first time you meet anyone, whether it’s a rich society lady or a doorman, they give you a swift, three-second top-to-toe sweep. You can see them costing your entire outfit to the nearest dollar before they even say hello. I call it the Manhattan Onceover.

  “So how’s New York?”

  “It’s great! Really exciting… I love my job… it’s such a great place to live!”

  “I’ve never been,” says Tom wistfully. “I wanted to go there for our honeymoon.”

  “Tom, don’t start that again,” says Lucy sharply. “OK?”

  “Maybe I could come and visit,” says Tom. “I could come for the weekend.”

  “Er… yes! Maybe! You could both come…” I tail off lamely as Lucy rolls her eyes and stomps toward the house. “Anyway, lovely to see you and I’m glad married life is treating you… er… treating you, anyway.”

  I hurry back into the kitchen, dying to tell Mum what I just heard, but it’s empty.

  “Hey, Mum!” I call. “I just saw Tom and Lucy!”

  I hurry up the stairs, and Mum is halfway down the loft ladder, pulling down a big white squashy bundle all wrapped up in plastic.

  “What’s that?” I ask, helping her to get it down.

  “Don’t say anything,” she says, with suppressed excitement. “Just…” Her hands are trembling as she unzips the plastic cover. “Just… look!”

  “It’s your wedding dress!” I say in astonishment as she pulls out the white frothy lace. “I didn’t know you still had that!”

  “Of course I’ve still got it!” She brushes away some sheets of tissue paper. “Thirty years old, but still as good as new. Now, Becky, it’s only a thought…”

  “What’s a thought?” I say, helping her to shake out the train.

  “It might not even fit you…”

  Slowly I look up at her. She’s serious.

  “Actually, I don’t think it will,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’m sure you were much thinner than me! And… shorter.”

  “But we’re the same height!” says Mum in puzzlement. “Oh, go on, try it, Becky!”

  Five minutes later I stare at myself in the mirror in Mum’s bedroom. I look like a sausage roll in layered frills. The bodice is tight and lacy, with ruffled sleeves and a ruffled neckline. It’s tight down to my hips where there are more ruffles, and then it fans out into a tiered train.

  I have never worn anything less flattering in my life.

  “Oh, Becky!” I look up — and to my horror, Mum’s in tears. “I’m so silly!” she says, laughing and brushing at her eyes. “It’s just… my little girl, in the dress I wore…”

  “Oh, Mum…” Impulsively I give her a hug. “It’s a… a really lovely dress…”

  How exactly do I add, But I’m not wearing it?

  “And it fits you perfectly,” gulps Mum, and rummages for a tissue. “But it’s your decision.” She blows her nose. “If you don’t think it suits you… just say so. I won’t mind.”

  “I… well…”

  Oh God.

  “I’ll… think about it,” I manage at last, and give Mum a lame smile.

  We put the wedding dress back in its bag, and have some sandwiches for lunch, and watch an old episode of Changing Rooms on the new cable telly Mum and Dad have had installed. And then, although it’s a bit early, I go upstairs and start getting ready to see Elinor. Luke’s mother is one of those Manhattan women who always look completely and utterly immaculate, and today of all days I want to match her in the smartness stakes.

  I put on the DKNY suit I bought myself for Christmas, brand-new tights, and my new Prada sample sale shoes. Then I survey my appearance carefully, looking all over for specks or creases. I’m not going to be caught out this time. I’m not going to have a single stray thread or crumpled bit which her beady X-ray eyes can zoom in on.

  I’ve just about decided that I look OK, when Mum comes busting into my bedroom. She’s dressed smartly in a purple Windsmoor suit and her face is glowing with anticipation.

  “How do I look?” she says with a little laugh. “Smart enough for Claridges?”

  “You look lovely, Mum! That color really suits you. Let me just…”

  I reach for a tissue, dampen it under the tap, and wipe at her cheeks where she’s copied Janice’s badger-look approach to blusher.

  “There. Perfect.”

  “Thank you,
darling!” Mum peers at herself in the wardrobe mirror. “Well, this will be nice. Meeting Luke’s mother at last.”

  “Mmm,” I say noncommittally.

  “I expect we’ll get to be quite good friends! What with getting together over the wedding preparations… You know, Margot across the road is such good friends with her son-in-law’s mother, they take holidays together. She says she hasn’t lost a daughter, she’s gained a friend!”

  Mum sounds really excited. How can I prepare her for the truth?

  “And Elinor certainly sounds lovely! The way Luke describes her. He seems so fond of her!”

  “Yes, he is,” I admit grudgingly. “Incredibly fond.”

  “He was telling us this morning about all the wonderful charity work she does. She must have a heart of gold!”

  As Mum prattles on, I tune out and remember a conversation I had with Luke’s stepmum, Annabel, when she and his dad came out to visit us.

  I completely adore Annabel. She’s very different from Elinor, much softer and quieter, but with a lovely smile that lights up her whole face. She and Luke’s father live in a sleepy area of Devon near the beach, and I really wish we could spend more time with them. But Luke left home at eighteen, and he hardly ever goes back. In fact, I get the feeling he thinks his father slightly wasted his life by settling down as a provincial lawyer, instead of conquering the world.

  When they came to New York, Annabel and I ended up having an afternoon alone together. We walked around Central Park talking about loads of different things, and it seemed as though no subject was off-limits. So at last I took a deep breath and asked her what I’ve always wanted to know — which is how she can stand Luke being so dazzled by Elinor. I mean, Elinor may be his biological mother, but Annabel has been there for him all his life. She was the one who looked after him when he was ill and helped him with his homework and cooked his supper every night. And now she’s been pushed aside.

  For an instant I could see the pain in Annabel’s face. But then she kind of smiled and said she completely understood it. That Luke had been desperate to know his real mother since he was a tiny child, and now that he was getting the chance to spend time with her, he should be allowed to enjoy it.