My throat’s so tight, I can’t speak. I give a tiny nod, and Luke takes my hand. He unfolds my fingers and takes out the ring. My heart is hammering. Luke wants to marry me. He must have been planning this all along. Without saying a thing.
I look at the ring, and feel my eyes start to blur. It’s an antique diamond ring, set in gold, with tiny curved claws. I’ve never seen another quite like it. It’s perfect.
“May I?”
“Yes,” I whisper, and watch as he slides it onto my finger. He looks at me again, his eyes more tender than I’ve ever seen them, and kisses me, and the cheering starts.
I don’t believe it. I’m engaged.
Three
OK. NOW, I may be engaged, but I’m not going to get carried away.
No way.
I know some girls go mad, planning the biggest wedding in the universe and thinking about nothing else . . . but that’s not going to be me. I’m not going to let this take over my life. I mean, let’s get our priorities right here. The most important thing is not the dress, or the shoes, or what kind of flowers we have, is it? It’s making the promise of lifelong commitment. It’s pledging our troth to one another.
I pause, halfway through putting on my moisturizer, and gaze at the reflection in my old bedroom mirror. “I, Becky,” I murmur solemnly. “I, Rebecca. Take thee, Luke.”
Those ancient words just send a shiver up your spine, don’t they?
“To be thine . . . mine . . . husband. For better, for richer . . .”
I break off with a puzzled frown. That doesn’t sound quite right. Still, I can learn it properly nearer the time. The point is, the vows are what matters, nothing else. We don’t have to go over the top. Just a simple, elegant ceremony. No fuss, no hoopla. I mean, Romeo and Juliet didn’t need a big wedding with sugared almonds and vol-au-vents, did they?
In fact, maybe we should even get married in secret, like they did! Suddenly I’m gripped by a vision of Luke and me kneeling before an Italian priest in the dead of night, in some tiny stone chapel. God, that would be romantic. And then somehow Luke would think I was dead, and he’d commit suicide, and so would I, and it would be incredibly tragic, and everyone would say we did it for love and the whole world should learn from our example . . .
“Karaoke?” Luke’s voice outside the bedroom door brings me back to reality. “Well, it’s certainly a possibility . . .”
The door opens and he holds out a cup of coffee to me. He and I have been staying here at my parents’ house since Suze’s wedding, and when I left the breakfast table, he was refereeing my parents as they argued over whether or not the moon landings actually happened.
“Your mother’s already found a possible date for the wedding,” he says. “What do you think about the—”
“Luke!” I put up a hand to stop him. “Luke. Let’s just take this one step at a time, shall we?” I give him a kind smile. “I mean, we’ve only just got engaged. Let’s just get our heads round that first. There’s no need to dash into setting dates.”
I glance at myself in the mirror, feeling quite grown-up and proud of myself. For once in my life I’m not getting overexcited.
“You’re right,” says Luke after a pause. “No, you are right. And the date your mother suggested would be a terrible hurry.”
“Really?” I take a thoughtful sip of coffee. “So . . . just out of interest . . . when was it?”
“June 22nd. This year.” He shakes his head. “Crazy, really. It’s only a few months away.”
“Madness!” I say, rolling my eyes. “I mean, there’s no hurry, is there?”
June 22nd. Honestly! What is Mum thinking?
Although . . . I suppose a summer wedding would be nice in theory.
There’s nothing actually stopping us getting married this year.
And if we did make it June, I could start looking at wedding dresses straight away. I could start trying on tiaras. I could start reading Brides! Yes!
“On the other hand,” I add casually, “there’s no real reason to delay, is there? I mean, now we’ve decided, in one sense, we might as well just . . . do it. Why hang around?”
“Are you sure? Becky, I don’t want you to feel pressured—”
“It’s OK. I’m quite sure. Let’s get married in June!” I give him an exhilarated beam. “Shall we go and register today?”
Oops. That just kind of slipped out.
“Today?” says Luke, looking taken aback. “You’re not serious.”
“Of course not!” I give a lighthearted laugh. “I’m joking! Although, you know, we could go and start looking at a few things, purely for information . . .”
“Becky, I’m busy today, remember?” He glances at his watch. “In fact, I must get going.”
“Oh yes,” I say, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Yes, you don’t want to be late, do you?”
Luke’s spending the day with his mother, Elinor, who is over in London on her way to Switzerland. The official version is that she’s going there to stay with some old friends and “enjoy the mountain air.” Of course everyone knows she’s really going to have her face lifted for the zillionth time.
Then this afternoon, Mum, Dad, and I are going up to meet them for tea at Claridges. Everyone has been exclaiming about what a lucky coincidence it is that Elinor’s over here, so the two families will be able to meet. But every time I think about it, my stomach turns over. I wouldn’t mind if it was Luke’s real parents—his dad and stepmum, who are really lovely and live in Devon. But they’ve just gone out to Australia, where Luke’s sister has moved, and they probably won’t be back until just before the wedding. So all we’re left with to represent Luke is Elinor.
Elinor Sherman. My future mother-in-law.
OK . . . let’s not think about that.
“Luke . . .” I pause, trying to find the right words. “How do you think it’ll be? Our parents meeting for the first time? You know—your mother . . . and my mother . . . I mean, they’re not exactly similar, are they?”
“It’ll be fine! They’ll get on wonderfully, I’m sure.”
He honestly hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about.
I know it’s a good thing that Luke adores his mother. I know sons should love their mothers. And I know he hardly ever saw her when he was tiny, and he’s trying to make up for lost time . . . but still. How can he be so devoted to Elinor?
As I arrive downstairs in the kitchen, Mum’s tidying up the breakfast things with one hand and holding the portable phone in the other.
“Yes,” she’s saying. “That’s right. Bloomwood, B-l-o-o-m-w-o-o-d. Of Oxshott, Surrey. And you’ll fax that over? Thank you.
“Good.” She puts away the phone and beams at me. “That’s the announcement gone in the Surrey Post.”
“Another announcement? Mum, how many have you done?”
“Just the standard number!” she says defensively. “The Times, the Telegraph, the Oxshott Herald, and the Esher Gazette.”
“And the Surrey Post.”
“Yes. So only . . . five.”
“Five!”
“Becky, you only get married once!” says Mum.
“I know. But honestly . . .”
“Now, listen.” Mum is rather pink in the face. “You’re our only daughter, Becky, and we’re not going to spare any expense. We want you to have the wedding of your dreams. Whether it’s the announcements, or the flowers, or a horse and carriage like Suzie had . . . we want you to have it.”
“Mum, I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say awkwardly. “Luke and I will contribute to the cost—”
“Nonsense!” says Mum briskly. “We wouldn’t hear of it.”
“But—”
“We’ve always hoped we’d be paying for a wedding one day. We’ve been putting money aside especially, for a few years now.”
“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 congratulations, 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?”