“Tom, I haven’t got any feelings for you,” I say. “And I’m getting married in two minutes. So can you get out of my way?”
“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for! You have no idea of the reality of marriage! Becky, tell me honestly. Do you really envisage yourself spending the rest of your days with Luke? Day after day, night after night? Hour after endless hour?”
“Yes!” I say, losing my temper. “I do! I love Luke very much and I do want to spend the rest of my days with him! Tom, it has taken a lot of time and effort and trouble for me to get to this moment. More than you can possibly imagine. And if you don’t get out of my way right now and let me get to my wedding, I’ll… I’ll…”
“Tom,” puts in Dad. “I think the answer’s no.”
“Oh.” Tom is silent for a moment. “Well… OK.” He gives an abashed shrug. “Sorry.”
“You never did have any sense of timing, Tom Webster,” says Clive scornfully. “I remember the first time you ever pulled out into a roundabout. Nearly killed us both, you did!”
“It’s OK. No harm done. Can we go now?” I step into the car, arranging my dress around me, and Dad gets in beside me.
“I’ll see you there, then, shall I?” says Tom mournfully, and I raise my eyes heavenward.
“Tom, do you want a lift to the church?”
“Oh, thanks. That’d be great. Hi, Graham,” he says awkwardly to my father as he clambers in. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s quite all right, Tom,” says my father, patting him on the back. “We all have our little moments.” He pulls a face at me over Tom’s head and I quell a giggle.
“So. Are we all set?” says Clive, turning in his seat. “Any sudden changes of heart? Any more last-minute protestations of love? Any three-point turns?”
“No!” I say. “There’s nothing else. Let’s go already!”
As we arrive at the church, the bells are ringing, the sun is shining, and a couple of last-minute guests are hurrying in. Tom opens the car door and dashes down the path without a backward glance, while I fluff out my train to the admiring glances of passersby.
God, it is fun being a bride. I’m going to miss it.
“All set?” says Dad, handing me my bouquet.
“I think so.” I grin at him and take his outstretched arm.
“Good luck,” says Clive, then nods ahead. “You’ve got a couple of late ones here.”
A black taxi is pulling up in front of the church, and both passenger doors are flung open. I stare ahead incredulously, wondering if I’m dreaming, as Michael gets out, still in his evening dress from the Plaza. He extends a hand back into the taxi, and the next moment Laurel appears, still in her Yves St. Laurent with the sleeves rolled up.
“Don’t let us put you off!” she says. “We’ll just sneak in somewhere—”
“But… but what the hell are you doing here?”
“Language,” says Clive reprovingly.
“What’s the point of being in control of a hundred private jets if you can’t fly wherever you want?” says Laurel as she comes over to hug me. “We decided we wanted to see you get married.”
“For real,” says Michael into my ear. “Hats off to you, Becky.”
Dad and I wait until they’ve disappeared into the church, then make our way down the path to the porch where Suze is excitedly waiting. She’s wearing a silvery blue dress and carrying Ernie, who’s wearing a matching romper suit. As I peep inside the church, I can see the gathered faces of all my family, all my old friends, all Luke’s friends and relations. Sitting side by side, happy and expectant.
The organ stops playing, and I feel a stab of nerves.
It’s finally happening. I’m finally getting married. For real.
Then the “Bridal March” starts and Dad gives my arm a squeeze, and we start to walk up the aisle.
Twenty-three
WE’RE MARRIED.
We’re really married.
I look down at the shiny wedding band that Luke slid onto my finger in the church. Then I look around at the scene before me. The marquee is glowing in the summer dusk, and the band is playing a ropy version of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and people are dancing. Maybe the music isn’t as smooth as it was at the Plaza. And maybe the guests aren’t all as well dressed. But they’re ours. They’re all ours.
We had a lovely dinner of watercress soup, rack of lamb, and summer pudding, and we drank lots of champagne and the wine that Mum and Dad got in France. And then Dad rattled his fork in a glass and made a speech about me and Luke. He said that he and Mum had often talked about the kind of man I would marry, and they’d always disagreed on everything except one thing—“he’ll have to be on his toes.” Then he looked at Luke, who obligingly got up and turned a pirouette, and everyone roared with laughter. Dad said he’d become very fond of Luke and his parents and that this was more than just a marriage, it was a joining of families. And then he said he knew I would be a very loyal and supportive wife, and told the story of how when I was eight I wrote to Downing Street and proposed my father as prime minister — and then a week later wrote again to ask why they hadn’t replied — and everyone laughed again.
Then Luke made a speech about how we met in London when I was a financial journalist, and how he noticed me at my very first press conference, when I asked the PR director of Barclays Bank why they didn’t make fashion checkbook covers like they have for mobile phones. And then he confessed that he’d started sending me invitations to PR events even when they weren’t relevant to my magazine, just because I always livened up proceedings.