“I’m not sure that would do any good right now.” Michael looks at me kindly. “Becky, don’t let this spoil your evening. And don’t go and give Luke a hard time. It’s obviously a very sensitive topic.” He squeezes my arm. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
“I won’t. I promise!” I force myself to smile brightly. “And thanks for coming, Michael. It meant a lot to us. Both of us.”
I give him a warm hug and watch as he walks away. Then, when he’s gone, I head out of the room. I have to talk to Luke, as quickly as possible.
Obviously, Michael’s right. It’s a very sensitive subject, so I won’t go charging in. I’ll just ask a few probing, tactful questions, and gently steer him in the right direction. Just like a future wife should.
Eventually I find him upstairs, sitting in a chair in his mother’s bedroom, staring into space.
“Luke, I just spoke to Michael!” I exclaim. “He told me you were sending the Brandon Communications staff over to work for your mother’s charity!”
Oops. That didn’t quite come out right.
“One assistant,” says Luke without turning his head. “OK?”
“Can’t she hire her own assistant? Luke, what if your investors find out?”
“Becky, I’m not completely stupid. This whole charity thing will be good for the company too.” At last he turns his head to look at me. “This business is all about image. When I’m photographed handing over some enormous check to a deserving charity, the positive effect will be enormous. These days, people want to be associated with companies that give something back. I’ve already planned a photo opportunity in the New York Post in a couple of weeks’ time, plus a couple of carefully placed features. The effect on our profile will be huge!”
“So why didn’t Michael see it like that?”
“He wasn’t listening. All he could talk about was how I was ‘setting the wrong precedent.’ ”
“Well, maybe he has a point! I mean, surely you hire staff in order to work for you, not to send off to other companies—”
“This is a one-off example,” says Luke impatiently. “And in my opinion, the benefits to the company will far outweigh any costs.”
“Michael’s your partner! You should listen to him. You should trust him.”
“And he should trust me!” retorts Luke angrily. “There won’t be a problem with the investors. Believe me, when they see the publicity we’re going to generate, they’ll be more than happy. If Michael could just understand that, instead of quibbling over stupid details . . . Where is he, anyway?”
“Michael had to go,” I say—and see Luke’s face tighten in shock.
“He left? Oh, well. Great.”
“It wasn’t like that. He had to.” I sit down on the bed and take hold of Luke’s hand. “Luke, don’t fight with Michael. He’s been such a good friend. Come on, remember everything he’s done for you? Remember the speech he made on your birthday?”
I’m trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Luke doesn’t seem to notice. His face is taut and defensive and his shoulders are hunched up. He’s not going to listen to a word I say. I give an inward sigh and take a sip of champagne. I’ll just have to wait until a better time.
There’s silence for a few minutes—and after a while we both relax. It’s as though we’ve called a truce.
“I’d better go,” I say at last. “Suze doesn’t know anybody down there.”
“How long is she in New York for?” asks Luke, looking up.
“Just a few days.”
I look idly around the room. I’ve never been in Elinor’s bedroom before. It’s immaculate, like the rest of the place, with pale walls and lots of expensive-looking custom-made furniture.
“Hey, guess what,” I say, suddenly remembering. “Suze and I are going to choose a wedding dress tomorrow!”
Luke looks at me in surprise. “I thought you were going to wear your mother’s wedding dress.”
“Yes. Well.” I frown. “The thing is, there was this awful accident . . .”
And all I can say is thank God. Thank God for Suze and her well-aimed cup of coffee.
As we approach the window of Dream Dress on Madison Avenue the next morning, I suddenly realize what Mum was asking me to do. How could she want me to dress up in white frills, instead of one of these gorgeous, amazing, Oscar-winner creations? We open the door and silently look around the hushed showroom, with its champagne-colored carpet and painted trompe l’oeil clouds on the ceiling—and, hanging in gleaming, glittery, sheeny rows on two sides of the room, wedding dresses.
I can feel overexcitement rising through me like a fountain. Any minute I might giggle out loud.
“Rebecca!” Cynthia has spotted us and is coming forward with a beam. “I’m so glad you came. Welcome to Dream Dress, where our motto is—”
“Ooh, I bet I know!” interrupts Suze. “Is it ‘Live out your dream at Dream Dress’?”
“No. It’s not.” Cynthia smiles.
“Is it ‘Dreams come true at Dream Dress’?”
“No.” Cynthia’s smile tightens slightly. “It’s ‘We’ll find your Dream Dress.’”
“Oh, lovely!” Suze nods politely.
Cynthia ushers us into the hushed room and seats us on a cream sofa. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she says pleasantly. “Have a browse through some magazines meanwhile.” Suze and I grin excitedly at each other—then she reaches for Contemporary Bride, and I pick up Martha Stewart Weddings.
I adore Martha Stewart Weddings.
Secretly, I want to be Martha Stewart Weddings. I just want to crawl inside the pages with all those beautiful people getting married in Nantucket and South Carolina and riding to the chapel on horses and making their own place-card holders out of frosted russet apples.
I stare at a picture of a wholesome-looking couple standing in a poppy field against a staggeringly beautiful backdrop of mountains. You know, maybe we should get married in a poppy field too, and I could have barley twined round my hair and Luke could make us a loving seat with his own bare hands because his family has worked in wood crafting for six generations. Then we’d ride back to the house in an old country wagon—
“What’s ‘French white-glove service’?” says Suze, peering puzzledly at an ad.
“I dunno.” I look up dazedly. “Hey, Suze, look at this. Shall I make my own bouquet?”
“Do what?”
“Look!” I point to the page. “You can make your own flowers out of crepe paper for an imaginative and individual bouquet.”
“You? Make paper flowers?”
“I could!” I say, slightly nettled by her tone. “I’m a very creative person, you know.”
“And what if it rains?”
“It won’t rain—” I stop myself abruptly.
I was about to say, “It won’t rain in the Plaza.”
“I just . . . know it won’t rain,” I say instead, and quickly turn a page. “Ooh, look at those shoes!”
“Ladies! Let’s begin.” We both look up to see Cynthia coming back, a clipboard in her hand. She sits down on a small gilt chair and we both look at her attentively.
“Nothing in your life,” she says, “can prepare you for the experience of buying your wedding dress. You may think you know about buying clothes.” Cynthia gives a little smile and shakes her head. “Buying a wedding dress is different. We at Dream Dresses like to say, you don’t choose your dress . . .”
“Your dress chooses you?” suggests Suze.
“No,” says Cynthia with a flash of annoyance. “You don’t choose your dress,” she repeats, turning to me, “you meet your dress. You’ve met your man . . . now it’s time to meet your dress. And let me assure you, there is a dress waiting for you. It might be the first dress you try on.” Cynthia gestures to a halter-top sheath hanging up nearby. “It might be the twentieth. But when you put on the right dress . . . it’ll hit you here.” She clasps her solar plexus. “It’s like falling in love. You’ll know.”
>
“Really?” I look around, feeling tentacles of excitement. “How will I know?”
“Let’s just say . . . you’ll know.” She gives me a wise smile. “Have you had any ideas at all yet?”
“Well, obviously I’ve had a few thoughts . . .”
“Good! It’s always helpful if we can narrow the search down a little. So before we start, let me ask you a few basic questions.” She unscrews her pen. “Were you after something simple?”
“Absolutely,” I say, nodding my head. “Really simple and elegant. Or else quite elaborate,” I add, my eye catching sight of an amazing dress with roses cascading down the back.
“Right. So . . . simple or elaborate . . .” She scribbles on her notebook. “Did you want beading or embroidery?”
“Maybe.”
“OK . . . now. Sleeves or strapless?”
“Possibly strapless,” I say thoughtfully. “Or else sleeves.”
“Did you want a train?”
“Ooh, yes!”
“But you wouldn’t mind if you didn’t have a train, would you?” puts in Suze, who is leafing through Wedding Hair. “I mean, you could always have one of those really long veils for the procession.”
“That’s true. But I do like the idea of a train . . .” I stare at her, gripped by a sudden thought. “Hey, Suze, if I waited a couple of years to get married, your baby would be two—and it could hold my train up!”
“Oh!” Suze claps her hand over her mouth. “That would be so sweet! Except, what if it fell over? Or screamed?”
“I wouldn’t mind! And we could get it a really gorgeous little outfit . . .”
“If we could just get back to the subject . . .” Cynthia smiles at us and surveys her clipboard. “So we’re after something either simple or elaborate, with sleeves or strapless, possibly with beading and/or embroidery and either with a train or without.”
“Exactly!” My eye follows hers around the shop. “But you know, I’m quite flexible.”
“Right.” Cynthia stares at her notes silently for a few moments. “Right,” she says again. “Well, the only way you can know is by trying a few dresses on . . . so let’s get started!”
Why have I never done this before? Trying on wedding dresses is simply the most fun I’ve had ever, in my whole life. Cynthia shows me into a large fitting room with gold and white cherub wallpaper and a big mirror and gives me a lacy basque and high satin shoes to put on—and then her assistant brings in dresses in lots of five. I try on silk chiffon sheaths with low backs, ballerina dresses with tight bodices and layers of tulle, dresses made from duchesse satin and lace, starkly plain dresses with dramatic trains, simple dresses, glittery dresses . . .
“When you see the right one, you’ll know,” Cynthia keeps saying as the assistant heaves the hangers up onto the hooks. “Just . . . keep trying.”
“I will!” I say happily, as I step into a strapless dress with beaded lace and a swooshy skirt. I come outside and parade around in front of Suze.
“That’s fantastic!” she says. “Even better than the one with the little straps.”
“I know! But I still quite like that one with the lace sleeves off the shoulder . . .” I stare critically at myself. “How many have I tried on now?”
“That takes us up to . . . thirty-five,” says Cynthia, looking at her list.
“And how many have I marked so far as possibles?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Really?” I look up in surprise. “Which ones didn’t I like?”
“The two pink dresses and the coatdress.”
“Oh no, I still quite like the coatdress. Put it down as a possible.” I parade a bit more, then look around the shop, trying to see if there’s anything I haven’t looked at yet. I stop in front of a rail of baby flower-girls’ dresses and sigh, slightly more heavily than I meant to. “God, it’s tricky, isn’t it? I mean . . . one dress. One.”
“I don’t think Becky’s ever bought one thing before,” says Suze to Cynthia. “It’s a bit of a culture shock.”
“I don’t see why you can’t wear more than one. I mean, it’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life, isn’t it? You should be allowed five dresses.”
“That would be cool!” says Suze. “You could have a really sweet romantic one for walking in, then a more elegant one to walk out . . . then one for cocktails . . .”
“And a really sexy one for dancing . . . and another one for . . .”
“For Luke to rip off you,” says Suze, her eyes gleaming.
“Ladies,” says Cynthia, giving a little laugh. “Rebecca. I know it’s hard . . . but you are going to have to choose sometime! For a June wedding, you’re already leaving it very late.”
“How can I be leaving it late?” I say in astonishment. “I’ve only just got engaged!”
Cynthia shakes her head. “In wedding dress terms, that’s late. What we recommend is that if brides think they may have a short engagement, they begin to look for a dress before they get engaged.”
“Oh God.” I give a gusty sigh. “I had no idea it was all going to be so difficult.”
“Try on that one at the end,” suggests Suze. “The one with the chiffon trumpet sleeves. You haven’t tried that, have you?”
“Oh,” I say, looking at it in surprise. “No, I haven’t.”
I carry the dress back to the fitting room, clamber out of the swooshy skirt, and step into it.
It skims sleekly over my hips, hugs my waist, and falls to the floor in a tiny, rippling train. The neckline flatters my face, and the color is just right against my skin. It feels good. It looks good.
“Hey,” says Suze, sitting up as I come out. “Now, that’s nice.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” I say, stepping up onto the podium.
I stare at my reflection and a feel a little glow of pleasure. It’s a simple dress—but I look fantastic in it. It makes me look really thin! It makes my skin look radiant and . . . God, maybe this is the one!
There’s silence in the shop.
“Do you feel it here?” says Cynthia, clutching her stomach.
“I . . . don’t know! I think so!” I give an excited little laugh. “I think I might!”
“I knew it. You see? When you find the right dress, it just hits you. You can’t plan for it, you can’t work it out on paper. You just know when it’s right.”
“I’ve found my wedding dress!” I beam at Suze. “I’ve found it!”
“At last!” There’s a ring of relief to Cynthia’s voice. “Let’s all have a glass of champagne to celebrate!”
As she disappears I admire myself again. It just shows, you can’t tell. Who would have thought I’d go for trumpet sleeves?
An assistant is carrying past another dress and I catch sight of an embroidered silk corset bodice, tied up with ribbons.
“Hey, that looks nice,” I say. “What’s that?”
“Never mind what that is!” says Cynthia, handing me a glass of champagne. “You’ve found your dress!” She lifts her glass, but I’m still looking at the ribboned bodice.
“Maybe I should just try that one on. Just quickly.”
“You know what I was thinking?” says Suze, looking up from Brides. “Maybe you should have a dress that isn’t a wedding dress. Like a color!”
“Wow!” I stare at Suze, my imagination gripped. “Like red or something.”
“Or a trouser suit!” suggests Suze, showing me a magazine picture. “Don’t those look cool?”
“But you’ve found your dress!” chips in Cynthia, her voice slightly shrill. “You don’t need to look any further! This is The One!”
“Mmm . . .” I pull a tiny face. “You know . . . I’m not so sure it is.”
For an awful moment I think Cynthia’s going to throw the champagne at me.
“I thought this was the dress of your dreams!”
“It’s the dress of some of my dreams,” I explain. “I have a lot of dreams. Could we put it down as another p
ossible?”
“Right,” she says at last. “Another possible. I’ll just write that down.”
As she walks off, Suze leans back on the sofa and beams at me. “Oh, Bex, it’s going to be so romantic! Tarkie and I went to look at the church you’re getting married in. It’s beautiful!”
“It is nice,” I agree, quelling an automatic wave of guilt.
Although nothing’s been decided yet. I haven’t definitely chosen the Plaza. We still might get married in Oxshott.
Maybe.
“Your mum’s planning to put this gorgeous arch of roses over the gate, and bunches of roses on all the pews . . . and then everyone will get a rose buttonhole. She thought maybe yellow, but it depends on the other colors . . .”
“Oh, right. Well, I’m not really sure yet . . .” I tail off as I see the shop door opening behind me.
Robyn is coming into the shop, dressed in a mauve suit and clutching her Mulberry bag. She catches my eye in the mirror and gives a little wave.
What’s Robyn doing here?
“And then on the tables, maybe some sweet little posies . . .”
Robyn’s heading toward us. I’m not sure I like this.
“Hey, Suze!” I turn with what I hope is a natural smile. “Why don’t you go and look at those . . . um . . . ring cushions over there?”
“What?” Suze stares at me as though I’ve gone mad. “You’re not having a ring cushion, are you? Please don’t tell me you’ve turned into an American.”
“Well, then . . . the tiaras. I might have one of those!”
“Bex, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” I say brightly. “I just thought you might want to . . . oh, hi, Robyn!” As she approaches, I force myself to give her a friendly smile.
“Becky!” says Robyn, clasping her hands. “Isn’t that gown beautiful? Don’t you look adorable? Is that the one, do you think?”
“I’m not sure yet.” My smile is so fixed, it’s hurting. “So, Robyn, how on earth did you know I’d be here? You must be telepathic!”
“Cynthia told me you’d be coming in. She’s an old friend.” Robyn turns to Suze. “And is this your chum from England?”
“Oh . . . yes. Suze, Robyn, Robyn, Suze.”