I creep downstairs in a borrowed hooded jacket, averting my face when I pass anyone, feeling ridiculously naughty. I’ve seen the designer’s plans, and as I push open the double doors to the Terrace Room, I think I know roughly what I’m expecting to see. Something spectacular. Something theatrical.
Nothing could have prepared me for walking into that room.
It’s like walking into another land.
A silvery, sparkling, magical forest. Branches are arching high above me as I look up. Flowers seem to be growing out of clumps of earth. There are vines and fruits and an apple tree covered with silver apples, and a spider’s web covered with dewdrops… and are those real birds flying around up there?
Colored lights are dappling the branches and falling on the rows of chairs. A pair of women are methodically brushing lint off every upholstered seat. A man in jeans is taping a cable to the carpet. A man on a lighting rig is adjusting a silvery branch. A violinist is playing little runs and trills, and there’s the dull thud of timpani being tuned up.
This is like being backstage at a Broadway show.
I stand at the side, staring around, trying to take in every detail. I have never seen anything like this in my life before, and I don’t think I ever will again.
Suddenly I see Robyn entering the room at the far end, talking into her headpiece. Her eyes scan the room, and I shrink into my hooded jacket. Before she can spot me, I back out of the Terrace Room and get into the lift to go up to the Grand Ballroom.
As the doors are about to close, a couple of elderly women in dark skirts and white shirts get in.
“Did you see the cake?” says one of them. “Three thousand dollars minimum.”
“Who’s the family?”
“Sherman,” says the first woman. “Elinor Sherman.”
“Oh, this is the Elinor Sherman wedding.”
The doors open and they walk out.
“Bloomwood,” I say, too late. “I think the bride’s name is Becky…”
They weren’t listening, anyway.
I cautiously follow them into the Grand Ballroom. The enormous white and gold room where Luke and I will lead the dancing.
Oh my God. It’s even huger than I remember. It’s even more gilded and grandiose. Spotlights are circling the room, lighting up the balconies and chandeliers. They suddenly switch to strobe effects, then flashing disco lights, playing on the faces of waiters putting finishing touches to the tables. Every circular table has an ornate centerpiece of cascading white flowers. The ceiling has been tented with muslin, festooned with fairy lights like strings of pearls. The dance floor is vast and polished. Up on the stage, a ten-piece band is doing a sound check. I look round dazedly and see two assistants from Antoine’s cake studio balancing on chairs, sticking the last few sugar tulips into the eight-foot cake. Everywhere is the smell of flowers and candle wax and anticipation.
“Excuse me.” I jump aside as a waiter wheels a cart past.
“Can I help you?” says a woman with a Plaza badge on her lapel.
“I was just, er… looking around…” I say.
“Looking around?” Her eyes narrow suspiciously.
“Yes! In case I ever… er… want to get married.” I back away before she can ask any more. I’ve seen enough, anyway.
I’m not sure how to get back to the suite from here, and this place is so huge I’m bound to get lost, so I head back down to the ground floor and walk as inconspicuously as I can past the Palm Court to the elevators.
As I pass an alcove containing a sofa, I stop. There’s a familiar dark head. A familiar hand, holding what looks like a gin and tonic.
“Luke?” He turns round and peers at me blankly — and I suddenly realize my face is half hidden. “It’s me!” I hiss.
“Becky?” he says incredulously. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see it all. Isn’t it amazing?” I look around to see if I’m being observed, then slide into the chair opposite him. “You look great.”
He looks more than great. He’s looking completely gorgeous, in an immaculate dinner jacket and crisp white dress shirt. His dark hair is glossy under the lights, and I can just smell the familiar scent of his aftershave. As he meets my eyes, I feel something release inside me, like a coil unwinding. Whatever happens today — whether I pull this off or not — the two of us are together. The two of us will be all right.
“We shouldn’t be talking to each other, you know,” he says with a little smile. “It’s bad luck.”
“I know,” I say, and take a sip of his gin and tonic. “But to be honest, I think we’re beyond superstition by now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh… nothing.” I count to five, psyching myself up, then say, “Did you hear about your parents being delayed?”
“Yes, I was told.” Luke frowns. “Did you speak to them? Do you know when they’ll get here?”
“Oh, soon, I expect,” I say vaguely. “Don’t worry, they said they would definitely be there to see you walk down the aisle.”
Which is true. In its way.
Luke doesn’t know anything of my plans. He’s had enough to deal with as it is. For once, I’m the one in charge.
I feel like I’ve seen a completely different Luke over the last few weeks. A younger, more vulnerable Luke, whom the rest of the world doesn’t know anything about. After he had that meeting with Elinor, he was very quiet for a while. There was no huge emotional outburst, no dramatic scene. In some ways, he simply went back to normal. But he was still fragile, still exhausted. Still nowhere near being able to go to work. For about two weeks, he just slept and slept, fourteen or fifteen hours a day. It was as though ten years of driving himself too hard were finally catching up with him.