Fifteen

INVOICE no. 10956

Total $1,050

New York, NY 10105

Avenue of the Americas

Finerman House

Attorneys at Law

FINERMAN WALLSTEIN

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B

New York, NY 10014

May 21, 2002 April 3rd Receiving instructions to redraft your will $150

April 6th Receiving further instructions to redraft your will $150

Aprill 11th Receiving instructions for further amendments to your will $150

April 17th Receiving further instructions to redraft your will $150

April 19th Receiving instructions for further amendments to your will $150

April 24th Receiving further instructions to redraft your will $150

April 30th Receiving instructions for further amendments to your will $150

With thanks

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 couple 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.

“She is,” I agree. “She adores him. Even when he screams.”

“They seem bonded already.” He stares at a photo of Suze laughing as Ernie grabs her hair.

“Oh, they are. Even by the time I left, he yelled if I tried to take him away from her.”

I look at Luke, feeling touched. He’s completely transfixed by these photographs. Which actually quite surprises me. I never thought he’d be particularly into babies. I mean, most men, if you handed them a load of baby pictures—

“I don’t have any pictures of myself as a tiny baby,” he says, turning to a picture of Ernie peacefully asleep on Suze.

“Don’t you? Oh well…”

“My mother took them all with her.”

His face is unreadable, and tiny alarm bells start to ring inside my head.

“Really?” I say casually. “Well, anyway—”

“Maybe she wanted to keep them nearby.”

“Yes,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe she did.”

Oh God. I should have realized these pictures would set Luke off brooding about his mother again.

I’m not quite sure what happened between them while I was away. All I know is that eventually Luke managed to get through to her at the clinic. And apparently she came up with some lame explanation for why that newspaper article didn’t mention Luke. Something about the journalist wasn’t interested.

I don’t know whether Luke believed her. I don’t know whether he’s forgiven her or not. To be honest, I don’t think he knows. Every so often he goes all blank and withdrawn, and I can tell he’s thinking about it.

Part of me wants to say, “Look, Luke, just forget it! She’s a complete cow and she doesn’t love you and you’re better off without her.”

Then I remember something his stepmother, Annabel, said — when we had that chat, all those months ago. As we were saying good-bye, she said, “As hard as it may be to believe, Luke needs Elinor.”

“No, he doesn’t!” I replied indignantly. “He’s got you, he’s got his dad, he’s got me…”

But Annabel shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s had this longing for Elinor ever since he was a child. It’s driven him to work so hard; it’s sent him to America; it’s part of who he is now. Like a vine twisted round an apple tree.” And she gave me this rather penetrating look and said, “Be careful, Becky. Don’t try to chop her out of his life. Because you’ll damage him too.”

How did she read my mind? How did she know that I was exactly picturing myself, and Elinor, and an ax…

I look at Luke, and he’s staring, mesmerized, at a picture of Suze kissing Ernie on the tummy.

“Anyway!” I say brightly, gathering up the photos and shoving them back into the envelopes. “You know, the bond is just as strong between Tarquin and Ernie. You should have seen them together. Tarquin’s making a wonderful dad. He changes nappies and everything! In fact, I often think a mother’s love is overrated…”

Oh, it’s no good. Luke isn’t even listening.

The phone rings, and he doesn’t move, so I go into the sitting room to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is that Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange man’s voice.

“Yes it is,” I say, noticing a new catalogue from Pottery Barn on the table. Perhaps I should register there too. “Who’s this?”

“This is Garson Low, from Low and Associates.”

My whole body freezes. Garson Low himself? Calling me at home?

“I apologize for calling so early,” he’s saying.

“No! Not at all!” I say, coming to life and quickly kicking the door shut so Luke can’t hear. “Thanks for calling!”

Thank God. He must think I have a case. He must want to help me take on Robyn. We’ll probably make groundbreaking legal history or something, and stand outside the courtroom while cameras flash and it’ll be like Erin Brockovich!

“I received your letter yesterday,” says Garson Low. “And I was intrigued by your dilemma. That’s quite a bind you’ve got yourself in.”

“I know it is,” I say. “That’s why I came to you.”

“Is your fiancé aware of the situation?”

“Not yet.” I lower my voice. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find a solution first — and then tell him. You understand, Mr. Low.”

“I certainly do.”

This is great. We’ve got rapport and everything.

“In that case,” says Garson Low, “let’s get down to business.”

“Absolutely!” I feel a swell of relief. You see, this is what you get when you consult the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. You get quick results.

“First of all, the contract has been very cleverly drawn up,” says Garson Low.

“Right.” I nod.

“There are several extremely ingenious clauses, covering all eventualities.”

“I see.”

“I’ve examined it thoroughly. And as far as I can see, there is no way you can get married in Britain without incurring the penalty.”

“Right.” I nod expectantly.

There’s a short silence.

“So… what’s the loophole?” I ask eventually.

“There is no loophole. Those are the facts.”

“What?” I stare confusedly at the phone. “But… that’s why you rang, isn’t it? To tell me you’d found a loophole. To tell me we could win!”

“No, Miss Bloomwood. I called to tell you that if I were you, I would start making arrangements to cancel your British wedding.”

I feel a stab of shock. “But… but I can’t. That’s the whole point. My mum’s had the house done up, and everything. It would kill her.”

“Then I’m afraid you will have to pay Wedding Events Ltd. the full penalty.”

“But…” My throat is tight. “I can’t do that either. I haven’t got a hundred thousand dollars! There must be another way!”

“I’m afraid—”

“There must be some brilliant solution!” I push back my hair, trying not to panic. “Come on! You’re supposed to be the cleverest person in America or something! You must be able to think of some way out!”

“Miss Bloomwood, let me assure you. I have looked at this from all angles and there is no brilliant solution. There is no way out.” Garson Low sighs. “May I give you three small pieces of advice?”

“What are they?” I say with a flicker of hope.

“The first is, never sign any document before reading it first.”

“I know that!” I cry before I can stop myself. “What’s the good of everyone telling me that now?”

“The second is — and I strongly recommend this — tell your fiancé.”

“And what’s the third?”

“Hope for the best.”

Is that all a million-pound lawyer can come up with? Tell your fiancé and hope for the best? Bloody stupid… expensive… complete rip-off…

OK, keep calm. I’m cleverer than him. I can think of something. I know I can. I just know I—

Hang on.

I saunter casually into the kitchen, where Luke has stopped gazing at the pictures of Suze and is staring broodingly into space instead.

“Hi,” I say, running a hand along the back of his chair. “Hey, Luke. You’ve got loads of money, haven’t you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” I say, slightly affronted. “Of course you have!”

“I’ve got assets,” says Luke. “I’ve got a company. That’s not necessarily the same as money.”

“Whatever.” I wave my hand impatiently. “And we’re getting married. You know, ‘All thy worldly goods’ and everything. So in a way…” I pause carefully, “it’s mine, too.”

“Yeee-s. Is this going anywhere?”

“So… if I asked you for some money, would you give it to me?”

“I expect so. How much?”

“Er… a hundred thousand dollars,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

Luke raises his head. “A hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes! I mean, it’s not that much really—”

Luke sighs. “OK, Becky. What have you seen? Because if it’s another customized leather coat—”

“It’s not a coat! It’s a… a surprise.”

“A hundred-thousand-dollar surprise.”

“Yes,” I say after a pause. But even I don’t sound that convinced.

Maybe this isn’t a brilliant solution after all.

“Becky, a hundred thousand dollars is that much. It’s a lot of money!”

“I know,” I say. “I know. Look… OK… it doesn’t matter.” And I hurry out before he can question me further.

OK, forget the lawyers. Forget the money. There has to be another solution to this. I just need to think laterally.

I mean, we could always elope. Get married on a beach and change our names and never see our families again.

No, this is it. I go to the Oxshott wedding. And Luke goes to the New York wedding. And we each say we’ve been jilted… and then we secretly meet up…

No! I have it! We hire standins! Genius!

I’m riding up the escalator to work as this idea comes to me — and I’m so gripped, I almost forget to step off. This is it. We hire look-alikes, and they stand in for us at the Plaza wedding, and no one ever realizes. I mean, all the guests there are going to be Elinor’s friends. People Luke and I barely know. We could get the bride look-alike to wear a really thick veil… and the Luke look-alike could say he’d cut his face shaving, and wear a huge bandage… and meanwhile we’d have flown back to England…

“Watch out, Becky!” says Christina with a smile, and I look up, startled. I was about to walk right into a mannequin.

“Busy thinking about the wedding?” she adds as I go into the personal shopping department.

“That’s right,” I say brightly.

“You know, you look so much more relaxed these days,” says Christina approvingly. “Your break obviously did you the world of good. Seeing your mom… catching up with home…”

“Yes, it was… great!”

“I think it’s admirable the way you’re so laid-back.” Christina takes a sip of coffee. “You’ve barely mentioned the wedding to any of us since you’ve been back! In fact, you’ve almost seemed to be avoiding the subject!”

“I’m not avoiding it!” I say, my smile fixed. “Why would I do that?”

“Some brides seem to make so much of a wedding. Almost let it take over their life. But you seem to have it all under control—”

“Absolutely!” I say, even more brightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get ready for my first client—”

“Oh, I had to switch your appointments around,” says Christina as I open the door of my room. “You have a first-timer at ten. Amy Forrester.”

“I don’t like yellow or orange.” Amy Forrester’s voice is still droning on. “And when I say dressy, I mean not too dressy. Just kind of formal… but sexy. You know what I mean?” She snaps her gum and looks at me expectantly.

“Er… yes!” I say, not having a clue what she’s talking about. I can’t even remember what she wants. Come on, Becky. Concentrate.

“So, just to recap, you’re after… an evening dress?” I risk, scribbling on my notebook.

“Or a pantsuit. Whatever. I can pretty much wear any shape.” Amy Forrester gazes complacently at herself in the mirror, and I give her a surreptitious Manhattan Onceover, taking in her tight lilac top and turquoise stirrup leggings. She looks like a model in an ad for some dodgy piece of home exercise equipment. Same tacky blond haircut and everything.

“You have a wonderful figure!” I say, realizing a bit late that she’s waiting for a compliment.

“Thank you! I do my best.”

With the help of Rollaflab! Just roll away that flab…

“I already bought my vacation wardrobe.” She snaps her gum again. “But then my boyfriend said, why not buy a few more little things? He loves to treat me. He’s a wonderful man. So — do you have any ideas?”

“Yes,” I say, finally forcing myself to concentrate. “Yes, I do. I’ll just go and fetch some pieces that I think might suit you.”

I go out onto the floor and start gathering up dresses. Gradually, as I wander from rail to rail, I begin to relax. It’s a relief to focus on something else; to think about something other than weddings…

“Hi, Becky!” says Erin, passing by with Mrs. Zaleskie, one of her regular clients. “Hey, I was just saying to Christina, we have to plan your shower!”

Oh God.

“You know, my daughter works at the Plaza,” puts in Mrs. Zaleskie. “She says everyone’s talking about your wedding.”

“Are they?” I say after a pause. “Well, it’s really no big deal—”

“No big deal? Are you kidding? The staff is fighting over who’s going to serve! They all want to see the enchanted woodland!” She peers at me through her spectacles. “Is it true you’re having a string orchestra, a DJ, and a ten-piece band?”

“Er… yes.”

“My friends are so jealous I’m going,” says Erin, her face all lit up. “They’re like, you have to show us the pictures afterward! We are allowed to take pictures, right?”

“I… don’t know. I guess so.”

“You must be excited,” says Mrs. Zaleskie. “You’re a lucky girl.”

“I… I know.”

I can’t bear this.

“I have to go,” I mutter, and hurry back to the personal shopping department.

I can’t win. Whatever I do. Either way, I’m going to let down a whole load of people.

As Amy wriggles into the first dress, I stand, staring blankly at the floor, my heart thumping hard. I’ve been in trouble before. I’ve been stupid before. But never on this level. Never so large, so expensive, so important…

“I like this,” says Amy, staring at herself critically. “But is there enough cleavage?”

“Er…” I look at her. It’s a black chiffon dress, slashed practically to the navel. “I think so. But we could always have it altered…”

“Oh, I don’t have time for that!” says Amy. “I’m only in New York for one more day. We go on vacation tomorrow and then we’re moving to Atlanta. That’s why I came out shopping. They’re packing up the apartment and it’s driving me nuts.”

“I see,” I say absently.

“My boyfriend adores my body,” she says smugly as she clambers out of it. “But then, his wife never bothered with her appearance at all. Ex-wife, I should say. They’re getting a divorce.”

“Right,” I say politely, handing her a white and silver sheath dress.

“I can’t believe he put up with her for so long. She’s this completely jealous harridan. I’m having to take legal action!” Amy steps into the sheath dress. “You know, she mailed me this really offensive letter. It was like a list of completely insulting stuff about me! Our lawyer says we have an excellent case.”

That sounds familiar. I look up, my brain starting to tweak. “You’re sure it was her who sent it?”

“Oh yes! I mean, she signed it and everything. Plus it was definitely her writing. William recognized it.”

I stare at her, my skin prickling. “What… what did you say your boyfriend’s name was?”

“William.” Her lip curls scornfully. “She called him Bill.”

Oh my God.

It is. It’s the blond intern. Right here in front of me.

OK. Just… keep smiling. Don’t let her know you suspect anything.

Inside I’m hot with outrage. This is the woman Laurel was cast aside for? This stupid, tacky airhead?

“That’s why we’re moving to Atlanta,” Amy says, examining her reflection complacently. “We want to start a new life together, so William asked the firm for a transfer. You know, discreetly. We don’t want the old witch following us.” She frowns. “Now, I like this one better.”

She bends down farther and I freeze. Hang on. She’s wearing a pendant. A pendant with a… is that green stone an emerald?

“Amy, I just have to make a call,” I say casually. “Keep trying on the dresses!” And I slide out of the room.

When I eventually get through to Laurel’s office, her assistant, Gina, tells me she’s in a meeting with American Airlines and can’t be disturbed.

“Please,” I say. “Get her out. It’s important.”

“So is American Airlines,” says Gina. “You’ll have to wait.”

“But you don’t understand! It really is crucial!”

“Becky, a new skirt length from Prada is not crucial,” says Gina a little wearily. “Not in the world of airplane leasing.”

“It’s not clothes!” I say indignantly — then hesitate for a second, wondering how much Laurel confides in Gina. “It’s Amy Forrester,” I say at last in a lowered voice. “You know who I mean?”

“Yes, I know,” says Gina in a voice that makes me thinks she knows even more than I do. “What about her?”

“I have her.”

“You have her? What do you—”

“She’s in my fitting room right now!” I glance behind me to make sure no one can hear. “Gina, she’s wearing this pendant with an emerald in it! I’m sure it’s Laurel’s grandmother’s! The one the police couldn’t find.”

There’s a long pause.

“OK,” says Gina at last. “I’ll get Laurel out of the meeting. She’ll probably come right over. Just don’t let… her leave.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Gina.”

I put down the phone and stand still for a moment, thinking. Then I head back to my fitting room, trying to look as natural as possible.

“So!” I say breezily as I go in. “Let’s get back to trying on dresses! And remember, Amy, just take your time over each one. As long as you like. We can take all day, if we need to—”

“I don’t need to try on any more,” says Amy, turning round in a tight red sequined dress. “I’ll take this one.”

“What?” I say blankly.

“It’s great! Look, it fits me perfectly.” She does a little twirl, admiring herself in the mirror.

“But we haven’t even started yet!”

“So what? I’ve made my decision. I want this one.” She looks at her watch. “Besides, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can you unzip me, please?”

“Amy…” I force a smile. “I really think you should try on some others before you make a decision.”

“I don’t need to try any others! You have a very good eye.”

“No, I don’t! It looks terrible!” I say without thinking, and she gives me a strange look. “I mean… there was a wonderful pink dress I wanted to see on you…” I grab for the hanger. “Just imagine that on you! Or… or this halter neck…”

Amy Forrester gives me an impatient look. “I’m taking this one. Please, will you help me out of it?”

What can I do? I can’t force her to stay.

I glance surreptitiously at my watch. Laurel’s office is only a block or two away. She should be here any minute.

“Please, will you help me out of it?” she repeats, her voice hardening.

“Yes!” I say flusteredly. “All right!”

I reach for the zip of the sequined red dress and start to pull it down. Then I have a sudden thought.

“Actually,” I say. “Actually, it’ll be easier to get it off if I pull it over your head—”

“OK,” says Amy Forrester impatiently. “Whatever.”

I undo the zip a tiny bit more, then tug the tight-fitting dress up over her hips and right over her head.

Ha! She’s trapped! The stiff red fabric covers her face completely, but the rest of her is clad only in underwear and high heels. She looks like a Barbie doll crossed with a Christmas cracker.

“Hey. It’s gotten stuck.” She waves one of her arms fruitlessly, but it’s pinned to her head by the dress.

“Really?” I exclaim innocently. “Oh dear. They do that sometimes.”

“Well, get me out!” She takes a couple of steps, and I back away nervously in case she grabs my arm. I feel like I’m six years old and playing blindman’s bluff at a birthday party.

“Where are you?” comes a furious muffled voice. “Get me out!”

“I’m just… trying to…” Gingerly I give a little tug at the dress. “It’s really stuck,” I say apologetically. “Maybe if you bent over and wriggled…”

Come on, Laurel. Where are you? I open my fitting room and have a quick glance out, but nothing.

“OK! I’m getting somewhere!”

I look up and feel a plunge of dismay. Amy’s hand has appeared out of nowhere and somehow she’s managed to grasp the zip with two manicured nails. “Can you help me pull the zipper down?”

“Erm… I can try…”

I take hold of the zip and start pulling it in the opposite direction from the way she’s tugging.

“It’s stuck!” she says in frustration.

“I know! I’m trying to get it undone…”

“Wait a minute.” Her voice is suddenly suspicious. “Which way are you pulling?”

“Er… the same way as you…”

“Hi, Laurel,” I suddenly hear Christina saying in surprise. “Are you all right? Did you have an appointment?”

“No. But I think Becky has something for me—”

“Here!” I say, hurrying to the door and looking out. And there’s Laurel, cheeks flushed with animation, wearing her new Michael Kors skirt with a navy blue blazer, which looks completely wrong.

How many times have I told her? Honestly, I should do more spot-checks on my clients. Who knows what they’re all wearing out there?

“Here she is,” I say, nodding toward the Barbie-doll-Christmas-cracker hybrid, who is still trying to unzip the dress.

“It’s OK,” says Laurel, coming into the fitting room. “You can leave her to me.”

“What? Who’s that?” Amy’s head jerks up disorientedly. “Oh Jesus. No. Is that—”

“Yes,” says Laurel, closing the door. “It’s me.”

I stand in front of the door, trying to ignore the raised voices coming from my room. After a few minutes, Christina comes out of her room and looks at me.

“Becky, what’s going on?”

“Um… Laurel bumped into an acquaintance. I thought I’d give them some privacy.” A thumping sound comes from the room and I cough loudly. “I think they’re… chatting.”

“Chatting.” Christina gives me a hard look.

“Yes! Chatting!”

The door suddenly opens, and Laurel emerges, a bunch of keys in her hand.

“Becky, I’m going to need to pay a little visit to Amy’s apartment, and she’d like to stay here until I come back. Isn’t that right, Amy?”

I glance past Laurel into the fitting room. Amy is sitting in the corner in her underwear, minus the emerald pendant, looking completely shell-shocked. She nods silently.

As Laurel strides off, Christina gives me an incredulous look. “Becky—”

“So!” I say quickly to Amy, in my best Barneys employee manner. “While we’re waiting, would you care to try some more dresses?”

Forty minutes later, Laurel arrives back, her face alive with animation.

“Did you get the rest of it?” I say eagerly.

“I got it all.”

Christina, on the other side of the department, looks up, then looks away again. She’s said that the only way she can’t fire me for what just happened is not to know about it.

So we’re basically agreed, she doesn’t know about it.

“Here you are.” Laurel tosses the keys to Amy. “You can go now. Give my regards to Bill. He deserves you.”

As Amy totters, almost running, toward the escalator, Laurel puts an arm round me.

“Becky, you’re an angel,” she says warmly. “I can’t even begin to repay you. But whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“Don’t be silly!” I say at once. “I just wanted to help.”

“I’m serious!”

“Laurel—”

“I insist. Name it, and it’ll be there in time for your wedding.”

My wedding.

It’s as though someone’s opened a window and the cold air is rushing in.

In all the excitement and urgency, I’d managed briefly to forget about it. But now it all comes piling back into my head.

My two weddings. My two fiascos.

Like two trains traveling toward me. Quicker and quicker, getting nearer even when I’m not looking at them. Gathering momentum with every minute. If I manage to dodge one, I’ll only get hit by the other.

I stare at Laurel’s warm, open face, and all I want to do is bury my head in her shoulder and wail, “Sort out my life for me!”

“Whatever you want,” says Laurel again, and squeezes my shoulders.

As I walk slowly back to my fitting room, the adrenaline has gone. I can feel a familiar, wearying anxiety creeping over me. Another day has gone by, and I’m no nearer to a brilliant solution. I have no idea what I’m going to do. And I’m running out of time.

Maybe the truth is, I can’t solve this on my own, I think, sinking heavily down in my chair. Maybe I need help. Fire rescue trucks and SWAT teams.

Or maybe just Luke.

Дата добавления: 2014-11-26