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For New York




1. I get to have the most amazing wedding in the world

 

I bury my head in my hands. It isn’t any easier on paper.

In fact it’s harder, because it’s thrusting the dilemma right in my face, instead of where I want it — which is in a little box at the back of my mind where I don’t have to look at it.

“Becky?”

“Yes?” I look up, automatically covering up the sheet of paper with my hand. Standing at the door of my fitting room is Elise, one of my clients. She’s a thirty-five-year-old corporate lawyer who’s just been assigned to Hong Kong for a year. I’ll quite miss her actually. She’s always nice to chat to, even though she doesn’t really have a sense of humor. I think she’d like to have one — it’s just that she doesn’t quite understand what jokes are for.

“Hi, Elise!” I say in surprise. “Do we have an appointment? I thought you were leaving today.”

“Tomorrow. But I wanted to buy you a wedding gift before I go.”

“Oh! You don’t have to do that!” I exclaim, secretly pleased.

“I just need to find out where you’re registered.”

“Well, actually, we haven’t registered yet,” I say, feeling a flicker of frustration. It’s not my fault we haven’t registered yet. It’s Luke’s! He keeps saying he’s too busy to spend a day in the shops, which frankly just doesn’t make sense.

“You haven’t?” Elise frowns. “So how can I buy you a gift?”

“Well… um… you could just… buy something. Maybe.”

“Without a list?” Elise stares at me blankly. “But what would I get?”

“I don’t know! Anything you felt like!” I give a little laugh. “Maybe a… toaster?”

“A toaster. OK.” Elise roots around in her bag for a piece of paper. “What model?”

“I’ve no idea! It was just off the top of my head! Look, Elise, just… I don’t know, get me something in Hong Kong.”

“Are you registering there too?” Elise looks alert. “Which store?”

“No! I just meant…” I sigh. “OK, look. When we register, I’ll let you know the details. You can probably do it online.”

“Well. OK.” Elise puts her piece of paper away, giving me a reproving look. “But you really should register. People will be wanting to buy you gifts.”

“Sorry,” I say. “But anyway, have a fabulous time in Hong Kong.”

“Thanks.” Elise hesitates, then awkwardly comes forward and pecks me on the cheek. “Bye, Becky. Thanks for all your help.”

When she’s gone, I sit down again and look at my piece of paper, trying to concentrate.

But I can’t stop thinking about what Elise said.

What if she’s right? What if there are loads of people out there, all trying to get us presents and unable to?

Suddenly I feel a fresh stab of fear. What if they abandon the attempt in frustration? Or what if they all buy us nasty green glass decanters, like the one Auntie Jean bought for Mum and Dad that still gets brought out every Christmas?

This is serious. I pick up my phone and speed-dial Luke’s number.

As it rings, I suddenly remember promising the other day to stop phoning him at work with what he called “wedding trivia.” I’d made him stay on the line for half an hour while I described three different table settings, and apparently he missed a really important call from Japan.

But surely this is an exception?

“Listen!” I say urgently as he picks up. “We need to register! We can’t put it off any longer!”

“Becky, I’m in a meeting. Can this wait?”

“No! It’s important!”

There’s silence — then I hear Luke saying, “If you could excuse me for a moment—”

“OK,” he says, returning to the phone. “Start again. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, people are trying to buy us presents! We need a list! If there’s nothing for them to buy, who knows what they might get us!”

“Well, let’s register, then.”

“I’ve been wanting to!” I squeak in frustration. “You know I have! I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to have a spare day, or even an evening—”

“I’ve been tied up with things,” he says, a defensive edge to his voice. “That’s just the way it is.”

I know why he’s so defensive. It’s because he’s been working every night on some stupid promotion for Elinor’s charity. And he knows what I think about that.

“Well, we need to get started,” I say. “We need to decide what we want.”

“Look, Becky. Do I really need to be there?”

“Of course you need to be there! Don’t you care what plates we have?”

“Frankly, no.”

“No?” I take a deep breath, about to launch into a tirade along the lines of, “If you don’t care about our plates, then maybe you don’t care about our relationship!”

Then, just in time I realize, this way I get to choose everything exactly as I want it.

“Well, OK,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

“Great. And I agreed we’d have a drink with my mother tonight, at her apartment. Six thirty.”

“Oh,” I say, pulling a face. “All right. See you then. Shall I call you after I’ve been to Tiffany to let you know what I registered?”

“Becky,” says Luke, deadpan. “If you call me again with any more wedding talk during office hours, it’s entirely possible we may not be having a wedding.”

“Fine!” I say. “Fine! If you’re not interested, I’ll just organize it all and see you at the altar, shall I? Would that suit you?”

There’s a pause, and I can tell Luke’s laughing.

“Do you want an honest answer or the Cosmo ‘Does Your Man Really Love You?’ full marks answer?”

“Give me the full marks answer,” I say after a moment’s thought.

“I want to be involved in every tiny detail of our wedding,” says Luke earnestly. “I understand that if I show any lack of interest at any stage it is a sign that I am not committed to you as a woman and beautiful, caring, all-round special person, and, frankly, don’t deserve you.”

“That was pretty good, I suppose,” I say, a little grudgingly. “Now give me the honest answer.”

“See you at the altar.”

“Ha-di-ha. Well, all I can say is, you’ll be sorry when I put you in a pink tuxedo.”

“You’re right,” says Luke. “I will. Now I have to go. Really. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

I put down the phone, reach for my coat, and pick up my bag. As I’m zipping it up, I glance at my piece of paper again and bite my lip. Maybe I should stay here and think a bit more, and try to come to a decision.

But then… whether we get married in England or America, we’ll need a wedding present list, won’t we? So in a way it’s more sensible to go and register first — and decide about which country to get married in later.

Exactly.

 

OK, so perhaps I should have realized that lots of brides might want to register at Tiffany. And this is a very busy time of day, and they only have so many members of staff available at one time. I told them it was an emergency, and I have to say, they were very sympathetic, but even so, they couldn’t fit me in right at that moment. They asked if I could possibly come back at two o’clock, or tomorrow.

But I’m working at two o’clock. And tomorrow I’ll be so busy, I already know I won’t get a proper lunch hour. God, how are you supposed to plan a wedding and have a job at the same time? As I walk back to Barneys, I’m fizzing with frustration. Now that I’ve decided to register, I can’t wait a minute longer. I want to do it now, while I’m all excited, and before anyone goes and buys us a green decanter. I’m just wondering whether I should quickly call all our relations to let them know there will be a list… when my eye is caught by an ad for Crate and Barrel. “Walk right in and register,” it says, above a picture of a big shiny tea kettle.

I stop still in the middle of the street. There’s a huge Crate and Barrel about two minutes away. I mean, it’s not Tiffany — but it’s presents, isn’t it? It’s all cool pans and stuff… Oh, I’m going. I start to walk again, quicker and quicker, until I’m almost running down the sidewalk.

It’s only as I’m pushing my way into the store, out of breath, that I realize I don’t know anything about registering. In fact, I don’t know much about wedding lists at all. For Tom and Lucy’s wedding I chipped in with Mum and Dad, and Mum organized it all — and the only other person I know who’s got married is Suze, and she and Tarquin didn’t have a list.

I look randomly around the shop, wondering where to start. It’s bright and light, with colorful tables here and there laid out as though for dinner, and lots of displays full of gleaming glasses, racks of knives, and stainless-steel cookware.

As I wander toward a pyramid of shiny saucepans, I notice a girl in a high swingy ponytail who is going around marking things on a form. I edge nearer, trying to see what she’s doing, and spot the words “Crate and Barrel Registry” on the paper. She’s registering! OK, I can watch what she does.

“Hey,” she says, looking up. “You know anything about cookware? You know what this thing is?”

She holds up a pan, and I can’t help hiding a smile. Honestly. These Manhattanites don’t know anything. She’s probably never cooked a meal in her life!

“It’s a frying pan,” I say kindly. “You use it to fry things with.”

“OK. What about this?”

She holds up another pan with a ridged surface and two looped handles. Blimey. What on earth’s that for?

“I… um… I think it’s an… omelette… griddle… skillet… pan.”

“Oh, right.” She looks at it puzzledly and I back quickly away. I pass a display of pottery cereal bowls and find myself at a computer terminal marked “Registry.” Maybe this is where you get the forms.

“Welcome to Crate and Barrel,” says a cheerful message on the screen. “Please enter the choice you require.”

Distractedly I punch a few times at the screen. I’m half listening to a couple behind me arguing about plates.

“I just don’t want to be taupe stoneware,” the girl is saying almost tearfully.

“Well, what do you want to be?” retorts the man.

“I don’t know!”

“Are you saying I’m taupe stoneware, Marie?”

Oh God, I must stop eavesdropping. I look down at the screen again, and stop in surprise. I’ve arrived at the place where you look up people’s lists so you can buy them a gift. I’m about to press “Clear” and walk away, when I pause.

It would be quite cool to see what other people put down, wouldn’t it?

Cautiously I enter the name “R. Smith” and press “Enter.”

To my astonishment the screen starts filling up with a whole series of couples’ names.

Rachel Smith and David Forsyth, Oak Springs, Miss.

Annie M. Winters and Rod Smith, Raleigh, N.C.

Richard Smith and Fay Bullock, Wheaton, Ill.

Leroy Elms and Rachelle F. Smith…

This is so cool! OK, let’s see what Rachel and David chose. I press “Enter” and a moment later the machine starts spewing out pieces of paper.

Glass Caviar/Shrimp Server — 4

Footed Cake Platter with Dome — 1

Water Lily Bowl — 2

Classic Decanter 28 oz

Wow, that all sounds really nice. I definitely want a water lily bowl. And a shrimp server.

OK, now let’s see what Annie and Rod chose. I press “Enter” again, and another list starts appearing in front of me.

Gosh, Annie and Rod are keen on barware! I wonder why they want three ice buckets.

This is completely addictive! Let’s see what Richard and Fay are getting. And then Leroy and Rachelle… I print them both out, and am just wondering whether to try another name, like Brown, when a voice says, “Can I help you, miss?” My head jerks up and I see a salesman wearing a name badge reading “Bud” smiling at me. “Are you having some trouble locating the list you want?”

I feel myself prickle with embarrassment.

I can’t admit I’m just snooping.

“I… actually… I’ve just found it.” I grab randomly for Richard and Fay’s list. “They’re friends of mine. Richard and Fay.” I clear my throat. “I want to buy them a wedding present. That’s why I’m here. Also, I want to register myself.”

“Well, let’s deal with the purchase first. What would you like to buy?”

“Umm… well…” I look down at the list. “Um…”

Come on. I’m not really going to buy a present for a pair of complete strangers. Just admit the truth. I was nosy.

“Actually… I think I’ll leave it for another day,” I say. “But I would like to register a list myself.”

“No problem!” says Bud cheerily. “Here’s the form for you to fill in as you go around… you’ll see that most of our merchandise breaks down into sections…”

“Oh, right. What sort of—”

“Kitchenware, flatware, hollowware, barware, stemware, glassware…” He pauses for breath. “And miscellaneous.”

“Right…”

“It can be a little overwhelming, deciding what you’re going to want in your new home.” He smiles at me. “So what I suggest is, you start with the basics. Think about your everyday needs — and work up from there. If you need me, just give me a shout!”

“Great! Thanks very much!”

Bud moves away and I look around the store with a fizz of anticipation. I haven’t been so excited since I used to write out lists for Father Christmas. And even then, Mum would stand over my shoulder, saying things like “I’m not sure Father Christmas can give you the real ruby slippers, darling. Why not ask for a nice coloring book instead?”

Now, no one’s telling me what I can or can’t have. I can write down anything I like! I can ask for those plates over there… and that jug… and that chair… I mean, if I wanted to, I could ask for everything! The whole shop!

You know. In theory.

But I’m not going to get carried away. I’ll start with everyday needs, just as Bud suggested. Feeling pleasantly grown-up, I wander toward a display of kitchen equipment and start perusing the shelves.

Ooh. Lobster crackers! Let’s get some of those. And those cute little corn holders. And those sweet little plastic daisies. I don’t know what they’re for, but they look so gorgeous!

I note the numbers carefully down on my list. OK. What else? As I look around again, my attention is caught by a gleaming array of chrome.

Wow. We just have to have a frozen yogurt maker. And a waffle maker. And a bread cooker, and a juicer, and a Pro Chef Premium Toaster Oven. I write down all the numbers and look around with a sigh of satisfaction. Why on earth have I never registered before? Shopping without spending any money!

You know, I should have got married a long time ago.

“Excuse me?” The girl with the ponytail is over in the knife section. “Do you know what poultry shears are?” She holds up a piece of equipment I’ve never seen before in my life.

“They’re… shears for poultry… I guess…”

For a moment we stare at each other blankly, then the girl shrugs, says “OK,” and writes it down on her list.

Maybe I’ll get some poultry shears too. And one of those cool herb-chopper things. And a professional blowtorch for making crème brûlée.

Not that I’ve ever made crème brûlée — but you know. When I’m married, I’m bound to. I have a sudden vision of myself in an apron, nonchalantly brûléeing with one hand and drizzling a homemade fruit coulis with the other, while Luke and an assortment of witty guests look on admiringly.

“So where else are you registering?” says the girl, picking up an egg whisk and peering at it.

I look at her in surprise. “What do you mean? Are you allowed more than one list?”

“Of course! I’m having three. Here, Williams-Sonoma, and Bloomies. It’s really cool there, you scan everything on this gun—”

“Three lists!” I can’t keep the elation out of my voice.

And actually, when you think about it, why stop at three?

 

So by the time I arrive at Elinor’s apartment that evening I’ve made appointments to register at Tiffany, Bergdorf, Bloomingdale’s, and Barneys, ordered the Williams-Sonoma catalogue, and started an online wedding list.

I haven’t managed to think any more about where we’re going to get married — but then, first things first.

As Elinor opens the door, music is playing and the apartment smells pleasantly of flowers. Elinor’s wearing a wrap dress and her hair looks slightly softer than usual — and as she kisses me she gives my hand a little squeeze.

“Luke’s already here,” she says as we walk along the corridor. “That’s a pretty pair of shoes. Are they new?”

“Er, actually, they are. They’re Dolce and Gabbana! Thanks!” I can’t help gaping at her in astonishment. I’ve never known Elinor to compliment me before. Not once.

“You look like you’ve lost a little weight,” she adds. “It suits you.”

I’m so gobsmacked I stop, right in the middle of the doorway — then have to hurry to catch up. Is Elinor Sherman finally, after all this time, going to start making an effort to be nice to me? I can’t quite believe it.

But then… come to think of it, she was quite nice at the end of the engagement party too. She said it had been a mistake about me not being on the door list and that she was really sorry.

Actually no, she didn’t exactly say she was sorry — she said she would sue the party planners. But still. That shows concern, doesn’t it?

God, maybe Elinor has a hidden nice side, I find myself thinking. Maybe there’s a whole different persona under that icy exterior. Yes! She’s all vulnerable and insecure but she’s put up a protective shell around herself. And I’m the only one who can see beneath it, and when I coax the true Elinor into the world, all New York society will marvel, and Luke will love me even more, and people will call me The Girl Who Changed Elinor Sherman, and—

“Becky?” Luke’s voice penetrates my thoughts. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing with a start that I’m blundering into the coffee table. “Yes, I’m fine!”

I sit down next to him on the sofa, Elinor hands me a glass of icy-cold wine, and I sip it, gazing out the window over the glittering Manhattan lights stretching into the distance. Elinor and Luke are in the middle of some discussion about the foundation, and I nibble a salted almond and tune out. Somehow I’ve arrived in the middle of a dreamlike picture in which Elinor is saying to a crowded room, “Becky Bloomwood is not only a model daughter-in-law, but a valued friend,” and I’m smiling modestly as people start applauding, when there’s a snapping sound, and I come to, slightly spilling my drink.

Elinor has closed the crocodile notebook she’s been writing in. She puts it away, turns down the music slightly, and looks directly at me.

“Rebecca,” she says.

“Yes?”

“I asked you here tonight because there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” She refreshes my drink and I smile at her.

“Oh yes?”

“As you know, Luke is a very wealthy young man.”

“Oh. Right,” I say, a little embarrassed. “Well… yes, I suppose so.”

“I’ve been speaking with my lawyers… and with Luke’s lawyers… and we are all agreed. So if I could just give you this…” She gives me a glittering smile and hands over a thick white envelope — then hands another to Luke.

As I take it I feel a tingle of anticipation. You see? Elinor’s already becoming friendlier. This is just like Dallas. She’s probably making me an associate of some family company or something, to welcome me into the dynasty. God, yes! And I’ll get to go to board meetings and everything and we’ll mount some amazing takeover together and I’ll wear big earrings…

Excitedly, I open the envelope and pull out a thick, typed document. But as I read the words I can feel my excitement ebb away.

 

Memorandum of Agreement

Between Luke James Brandon (hereinafter called “The Groom”)

and Rebecca Jane Bloomwood (hereinafter called “The Bride”) of—

I don’t get it. Memorandum of what agreement? Is this—

Surely this isn’t a—

I look bewilderedly at Luke, but he’s flipping over the pages, looking as taken aback as me.

“Mother, what’s this?” he says.

“It’s simply a precaution,” says Elinor with a distant smile. “A form of insurance.”

Oh my God. It is. It’s a prenuptial contract.

Feeling slightly sick, I flip through the contract. It’s about ten pages long, with headings like “Property Settlement in the Case of Divorce.”

“Insurance against what, exactly?” Luke’s voice is unreadable.

“Let’s not pretend we’re living in a fairy-tale world,” says Elinor crisply. “We all know what might happen.”

“What’s that, exactly?”

“Don’t be obstructive, Luke. You know perfectly well what I mean. And bearing in mind Rebecca’s… shall we say, history of spending?” She glances meaningfully at my shoes — and with a start of humiliation I realize why she asked me about them.

She wasn’t trying to be nice. She was gathering ammunition to attack me.

Oh, how could I be so stupid? There is no soft center to Elinor. It just doesn’t exist.

“Let me get this straight,” I say, breathing hard. “You think I’m just after Luke for his money.”

“Becky, of course she doesn’t,” exclaims Luke.

“Yes, she does!”

“A prenuptial contract is simply a sensible premarital step.”

“Well, it’s a step I really don’t think we need to take,” says Luke with a little laugh.

“I would beg to differ,” says Elinor. “I’m only trying to protect you. Both of you,” she adds unconvincingly.

“What do you think, I’m going to… divorce Luke and get all his money?”

Just like you did with your husbands, I’m about to add, but stop myself just in time. “You think that’s why I want to marry him?”

“Becky—”

“You may, of course, look the contract over in your own time—”

“I don’t need to look it over.”

“Do I take it you’re refusing to sign?” Elinor gives me a triumphant look as though I’ve confirmed every suspicion she had.

“No!” I say in a trembling voice. “I’m not refusing to sign! I’ll sign whatever you like! I’m not going to have you think I want Luke’s money!” I grab the pen off the table and furiously start scrawling my signature on the first page, so hard I rip the paper.

“Becky, don’t be stupid!” exclaims Luke. “Mother—”

“It’s fine! I’ll sign every single… bloody…”

My face is hot and my eyes a little blurry as I turn the pages, signing again and again without even looking at the text above. Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca Bloomwood.

“Well, I’m not signing it,” says Luke. “I never wanted a prenup! And I’m certainly not going to sign something I’ve never seen before in my life.”

“There. Done.” I put down my pen and pick up my bag. “I think I’ll go now. Bye, Elinor.”

“Becky—” says Luke. “Mother, what on earth possessed you to do this?”

As I head out of Elinor’s apartment my head is still pounding. I wait for the lift for a few seconds — but when it doesn’t come, head for the stairs instead. I feel shaky with fury, with mortification. She thinks I’m a gold digger.

Is that what everyone thinks?

“Becky!” Luke is coming down the stairs after me, three at a time. “Becky, wait. I’m so sorry. I had no idea…” As we reach the ground floor he envelops me in his arms and I stand there rigidly.

“Believe me. That was as much of a shock for me as it was for you.”

“Well… you know… I think you should sign it,” I say, staring at the floor. “You should protect yourself. It’s only sensible.”

“Becky. This is me. This is us.” Gently he lifts my chin until I haven’t got anywhere to look except into his dark eyes. “I know you’re angry. Of course you are. But you have to excuse my mother. She’s lived in America a long time. Prenups are standard issue here. She didn’t mean—”

“She did,” I say, feeling a fresh surge of humiliation. “That’s exactly what she meant. She thinks I’ve got some plan to… to take all your money and spend the whole lot on shoes!”

“That’s not your plan?” Luke feigns shock. “You’re telling me this now? Well, if you’re going to change the ground rules, perhaps we should have a prenup—”

I give a half-smile — but I’m still raw inside.

“I know loads of people have prenups here,” I say. “I know that. But she shouldn’t just… draw one up without consulting either of us! Do you know how she made me feel?”

“I know.” Luke strokes my back soothingly. “I’m furious with her.”

“You’re not.”

“Of course I am.”

“No, you’re not! You’re never furious with her! That’s the trouble.” I break away from his arms, trying to keep calm.

“Becky?” Luke stares at me. “Is something else wrong?”

“It’s not just this. It’s… everything! The way she’s taken over the wedding. The way she was so supercilious and horrible with my parents…”

“She’s naturally a very formal person,” says Luke defensively. “It doesn’t mean she’s trying to be supercilious. If your parents really got to know her—”

“And the way she uses you!” I know I’m on dangerous ground — but now I’ve started, I can’t stop everything pouring out. “You’ve given her hours and hours of your time. You’ve provided staff for her charity. You’ve even fallen out with Michael because of her. I just don’t understand it! You know Michael cares about you. You know he’s only got your best interests at heart. But because of your mother, you’re not even talking to him.”

Luke’s face flinches, and I can see I’ve touched a nerve.

“And now she wants us to move to this building. Don’t you see? She just wants to get her claws into you! She’ll have you running errands for her all day long, and she’ll never leave us alone… Luke, you’re already giving her so much!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Luke’s expression is gradually becoming tighter. “She’s my mother.”

“I know she is! But come on. She was never even interested in you before you became a success over here. Remember our first trip to New York? You were so desperate to impress her — and she didn’t even make the effort to see you! But now that you’ve made it here, you’ve got a name, you’ve got contacts in the media, you’ve got resources — and all of a sudden she wants to get all the credit and just use you…”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true! You just can’t see it! You’re too dazzled by her!”

“Look, Becky, it’s easy for you to criticize,” says Luke hotly. “You have a fantastic relationship with your mother. I barely saw mine when I was growing up—”

“Exactly!” I cry, before I can stop myself. “That proves my point! She didn’t give a shit about you then either!”

Oh, bugger. I shouldn’t have said that. A flash of pain passes through Luke’s eyes and suddenly he looks about ten years old.

“You know that’s not true,” he says. “My mother wanted me. It wasn’t her fault.”

“I know. I’m sorry—” I move toward him, but he jerks away.

“Put yourself in her shoes for a change, Becky. Think about what she’s gone through. Having to leave behind her child; having to put on a brave face. She’s been used to hiding her feelings for so long, no wonder her manner can be a little awkward.”

Listening to him, I almost want to cry. He’s got it all worked out. He’s still like the boy who made every excuse in the world for why his mother never came to see him.

“But now we’re having a chance to forge our relationship once again,” Luke is saying. “Maybe she is a bit tactless now and then. But she’s doing her best.”

Yeah, right, I want to say. She’s really trying hard with me.

Instead I give a tiny shrug and mumble, “I suppose so.”

Luke walks over and takes hold of my hand. “Come back upstairs. We’ll have another drink. Forget this ever happened.”

“No.” I exhale sharply. “I think I’ll… go home. You go. I’ll see you later.”

 

As I make my way home it starts to rain, big splashy drops that puddle in the gutters and drip off canopies. They spatter on my hot cheeks and wet my hair and make marks on my new suede-trimmed shoes. But I barely notice them. I’m still too wound up by the evening; by Elinor’s gimlet gaze; by my own humiliation; by my frustration with Luke.

The moment I get inside the apartment there’s a crack of thunder outside. I switch all the lights on and the television, and pick up the post. There’s an envelope from Mum and I open it first. A swatch of fabric falls out and a long letter smelling faintly of her perfume.

Darling Becky,

Hope all’s well in the Big Apple!Here’s the color we were thinking of for the table napkins. Janice says we should have pink but I think this pale plum is very pretty, especially with the colors we were thinking of for the flowers. But let me know what you think, you’re the bride, darling!The photographer that Dennis recommended came round yesterday and we were all very impressed. Dad has heard good things about him at the golf club, which is always a good sign. He can do color and black-and-white, and includes a photograph album in the price, which seems a very good deal. Also, he can turn the picture you like best into one hundred mini jigsaw puzzles to send to all the guests as a little thank-you!The most important thing of all, I told him, is that we have lots of pictures of you by the flowering cherry tree. We planted that when you were born, and it’s always been my secret dream that our little baby Rebecca would grow up and one day stand beside it on her wedding day. You are our only child and this day is so important to us.

Yours with lots of love,

Mum

 

By the end, I’m crying. I don’t know why I ever thought I wanted to get married in New York. I don’t know why I let Elinor even show me the stupid Plaza. Home is where I want to get married. With Mum and Dad, and the cherry tree, and my friends, and everything that really matters to me.

That’s it, I’ve made my choice.

“Becky?”

I give a startled jump and turn round. There’s Luke, standing at the door, out of breath and drenched from head to foot. His hair is plastered to his head and raindrops are still running down his face. “Becky…” he says urgently. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go like that. I saw the rain… I don’t know what I was thinking—” He breaks off as he sees my tear-stained face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I wipe my eyes. “And Luke… I’m sorry too.”

Luke gazes at me for a long time, his face trembling, his eyes burning.

“Becky Bloomwood,” he says at last. “You’re the most generous-spirited… giving… loving… I don’t deserve…”

He breaks off and comes toward me, his face almost fierce with intent. As he kisses me, raindrops spatter from his hair onto my mouth and mingle with the warm salty taste of him. I close my eyes and let my body gradually unwind, the pleasure gradually begin. I can already feel him hard and determined, gripping my hips and wanting me right now, right this minute, to say sorry, to say he loves me, to say he’ll do anything for me…

God, I love make-up sex.

 




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