I march into the bedroom, dump my bag on the bed, and dial the number.
“Hi, Dad,” I say as he answers. “Is Mum there? There’s something I need to talk to her about. It’s rather important.”
As I glance at my face in the mirror, I feel like a newsreader on NBC, all crisp and cool and in charge.
“Becky?” says Dad puzzledly. “Are you all right?”
“I’m very well,” I say. “I just have to discuss a… a couple of issues with Mum.”
As Dad disappears off the line I take a deep breath and push my hair back, feeling suddenly very grown-up. Here I am, about to have an adult-to-adult, straight-down-the-line conversation with my mother, for probably the first time in my life.
You know, maybe this is the beginning of a whole new relationship with my parents. A new mutual respect. A shared understanding of life.
“Hello, darling?”
“Hi, Mum.” I take a deep breath. Here goes. Calm and mature. “Mum—”
“Oh, Becky, I was going to give you a ring. You’ll never guess who we saw up in the Lake District!”
“Who?”
“Auntie Zannie! You used to dress up in all her old necklaces, do you remember? And her shoes. We were laughing about it, the sight you made, tottering around…”
“Mum. There’s something important I need to discuss with you.”
“And they’ve still got the same grocer in the village. The one who used to sell you strawberry ice-cream cones. Do you remember the time you ate too many and weren’t very well? We laughed about that too!”
“Mum—”
“And the Tivertons still live in the same house… but…”
“What?”
“I’m afraid, love… Carrot the donkey has…” Mum lowers her voice. “Gone to donkey heaven. But he was very old, darling, and he’ll be very happy up there…”
This is impossible. I don’t feel like a grown-up. I feel about six years old.
“They all send you their love,” Mum says, eventually coming to the end of her reminiscences, “and of course they’ll all be at the wedding! So, Dad said you wanted to talk about something?”
“I…” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of the echoey silence on the line; of the distance between us. “Well, I wanted to… um…”
Oh God. My mouth is trembling and my newsreader voice has turned into a nervous squeak.
“What is it, Becky?” Mum’s voice rises in concern. “Is something wrong?”
“No! It’s just that… that…”
It’s no good.
I know what Christina said is right. I know there’s no need to feel guilty. It’s my wedding, and I’m a grown-up, and I should have it wherever I like. I’m not asking Mum and Dad to pay. I’m not asking them to make any effort.
But even so.
I can’t tell Mum I want to get married in the Plaza over the phone. I just can’t do it.
“I thought I’d come home and see you,” I hear myself saying in a rush. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m coming home.”
FINERMAN WALLSTEIN
Attorneys at Law
Finerman House
1398 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10105
Miss Rebecca Bloomwood
251 W. 11th Street, Apt. B
New York, NY 10014
April 18, 2002
Dear Miss Bloomwood:
Thank you for your letter of April 16 regarding your will. I confirm that under the fourth clause, section (e) I have added the line “And also my new denim high-heeled boots,” as requested.
With kind regards,
Jane Cardozo
Twelve
AS SOON AS I see Mum, I feel nervous. She’s standing next to Dad at Terminal 4, scanning the arrivals gate, and as she sees me her whole face lights up with a mixture of delight and anxiety. She was quite taken aback when I told her I was coming home without Luke — in fact, I had to reassure her several times that everything was still OK between us.
Then I had to reassure her that I hadn’t been sacked.
And then promise I wasn’t being chased by international loan sharks.
You know, when I think back over the last few years, I sometimes feel a teeny bit bad about everything I’ve put my parents through.
“Becky! Graham, she’s here!” She runs forward, elbowing a family in turbans out of the way. “Becky, love! How are you? How’s Luke? Is everything all right?”
“Hi, Mum,” I say, and give her a huge hug. “I’m well. Luke sends his love. Everything’s fine.”
Except one tiny matter — I’ve been planning a big wedding in New York behind your back.
Stop it, I instruct my brain firmly, as Dad gives me a kiss and takes my luggage. There’s no point mentioning it yet. There’s no point even thinking about it yet. I’ll bring the subject up later, when we’re all at home, when there’s a natural opening in the conversation.
Which there’s bound to be.
“So, Becky, did you think any more about getting married in America?”
“Well, Mum. It’s funny you should ask that…”
Exactly. I’ll wait for some opportunity like that.
But although I act as relaxed as I can, I can’t think about anything else. All the while that Mum and Dad are finding the car, disagreeing on which way the exit is, and arguing over whether £3.60 for an hour’s parking is a reasonable amount, I’ve got an anxious knot in my stomach that tightens every time the words wedding, Luke, New York, or America are mentioned, even in passing.