“Enough!” says Luke in exasperation. “You win! If it’s really going to be a problem, forget it! You don’t have to come to the engagement party if you don’t want to — and we’ll get married in Oxshott. Happy now?”
“I…” I break off, and rub my nose. Of course, it is a fairly amazing offer. And if I could somehow persuade Mum and Dad, maybe we’d all have the most fantastic time of our lives.
“It’s not necessarily a question of getting married in Oxshott,” I say at last. “It’s a question of… of… coming to the right decision. Look, you were the one saying we didn’t have to rush into anything…”
Luke’s expression softens, and he gets up.
“I know.” He sighs. “Look, Becky, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” I mumble.
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” He puts his arms around me and kisses my forehead. “All I wanted to do was give you the wedding you’ve always dreamed of. If you really don’t want to get married at the Plaza, then of course we won’t.”
“What about your mother?”
“We’ll just explain to her how you feel.” Luke gazes at me for a few moments. “Becky, it doesn’t matter to me where we get married. It doesn’t matter to me whether we have pink flowers or blue flowers. What matters to me is we’re going to become a couple — and the whole world is going to know it.”
He sounds so sure and steady, I feel a sudden lump in my throat.
“That’s what matters to me too,” I say, and swallow hard. “That’s the most important thing.”
“OK. So let’s agree. You can make the decision. Just tell me where to turn up — and I’ll turn up.”
“OK.” I smile back at him. “I promise to give you at least forty-eight hours’ notice.”
“Twenty-four will do.” He kisses me again, then points to the sideboard. “That arrived, by the way. An engagement present.”
I look over and gape. It’s a robin’s-egg-blue box, tied up with white ribbon. A present from Tiffany!
“Shall I open it?”
“Go ahead.”
Excitedly I untie the ribbon and open the box to find a blue glass bowl nestling in tissue paper, and a card reading “With best wishes from Marty and Alison Gerber.”
“Wow! This is nice! Who are the Gerbers?”
“I don’t know. Friends of my mother’s.”
“So… will everyone who comes to the party bring us a present?”
“I expect so.”
“Oh… right.”
Gosh. When Tom and Lucy had their engagement party, only about three people brought presents. And they certainly weren’t from Tiffany. I stare at the bowl thoughtfully, running my finger over its gleaming surface.
You know, maybe Luke does have a point. Maybe it would be churlish to throw Elinor’s generosity back in her face.
OK, what I’ll do is, I’ll wait until the engagement party’s over. And then I’ll decide.
The engagement party is at six o’clock the following Friday. I mean to get there early, but we have a frantic day at work, with three big emergencies — one of which involves our most demanding celebrity client, who clearly has not got over her recent breakup, whatever she may say in People magazine. Anyway, so I don’t arrive until ten past six, feeling a little flustered. On the plus side, I’m wearing a completely fabulous black strapless dress, which fits me perfectly. (Actually, it was earmarked for Regan Hartman, one of my clients. But I’ll just tell her I don’t think it would suit her after all.)
Elinor’s duplex is in a grand building on Park Avenue, with the most enormous marble-floored foyer and walnut-lined elevators that always smell of expensive scent. As I step out at the sixth floor I can hear the hubbub and tinkle of piano music. There’s a queue of people waiting at the door, and I wait politely behind an elderly couple in matching fur coats. I can just see through to the apartment, which is dimly lit and already seems to be full of people.
To be honest, I’ve never really liked Elinor’s apartment. It’s all done in pale blue, with silk sofas and heavy curtains and the dullest pictures in the world hanging on the walls. I can’t believe she really likes any of them. In fact, I can’t believe she ever looks at any of them.
“Good evening.” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I realize I’ve reached the head of the queue. A woman in a black trouser suit, holding a clipboard, is giving me a professional smile.
“May I have your name?”
“Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say modestly, expecting her to gasp, or at least light up with recognition.
“Bloomwood… Bloomwood…” The woman looks down the list, turns a page, and runs her finger to the bottom before looking up. “I don’t see it.”
“Really?” I stare at her. “It must be there somewhere!”
“I’ll look again…” The woman goes up to the top and runs her eyes down more slowly. “No,” she says at last. “I’m afraid not. Sorry.” She turns to a blond woman who has just arrived. “Good evening! May I take your name?”
“But… but… the party’s for me!”
“Vanessa Dillon.”
“Ah yes,” says the door woman, and crosses off her name with a smile. “Please go in. Serge will take your coat. Could you please step aside, miss?” she adds coldly to me. “You’re blocking the doorway.”