“They’re going to plant ‘Luke and Becky’ in pansies!” says Mum. “Just in time for June.” And we’re having a new water feature put in, right by where the entrance to the marquee will be. I saw it in Modern Garden.”
“It sounds… great.”
“And it lights up at night, so when we have the fireworks—”
“What fireworks?” I say, and Mum looks at me in surprise.
“I sent you a fax about the fireworks, Becky! Don’t say you’ve forgotten.”
“No! Of course not!”
My mind flicks back to the pile of faxes Mum’s been sending me, and which I’ve been guiltily thrusting under the bed, some skimmed over, some completely unread.
What have I been doing? Why haven’t I paid attention to what’s been going on?
“Becky, love, you don’t look at all well,” says Mum. “You must be tired after the flight. Come and have a nice cup of coffee.”
We walk into the kitchen, and I feel my insides gripped with new horror.
“Have you installed a new kitchen too?”
“Oh, no!” says Mum gaily. “We just had the units repainted. They look pretty, don’t they? Now. Have a nice croissant. They come from the new bakery.”
She hands me a basket — but I can’t eat. I feel sick.
“Becky?” Mum peers at me. “Is something wrong?”
“No!” I say quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s all… perfect.”
What am I going to do?
“You know… I think I’ll just go and unpack,” I say, and manage a weak smile. “Sort myself out a bit.”
As I close my bedroom door behind me, the weak smile is still pasted to my face, but inside my heart is thumping wildly.
This is not going as planned.
This is not going remotely as planned. New wallpaper? Water features? Fireworks displays? How come I didn’t know about any of this? I should have been more attentive. This is all my own fault. Oh God, oh God…
How can I tell Mum and Dad this has all got to be called off? How can I do it?
I can’t.
But I have to.
But I can’t, I just can’t.
It’s my wedding, I remind myself firmly, trying to regain my New York kick-ass confidence. I can have it where I like.
But the words ring false in my brain, making me wince. Maybe that was true at the beginning. Before anything had been done, before any effort had been made. But now… this isn’t just my wedding anymore. This is Mum’s and Dad’s gift to me. It’s the biggest present they’ve ever given me in my life, and they’ve invested it with all the love and care they can muster.
And I’m proposing to reject it. To say thanks, but no thanks.
What have I been thinking?
Heart thumping, I reach into my pocket for the notes I scribbled on the plane, trying to remember all my justifications.
Reasons why our wedding should be at the Plaza:
1. Wouldn’t you love a trip to New York, all expenses paid?
2. The Plaza is a fantastic hotel.
3. You won’t have to make any effort.
4. A marquee would only mess up the garden.
5. You won’t have to invite Auntie Sylvia.
6. You get free Tiffany frames.
They seemed so convincing when I was writing them. Now they seem like jokes. Mum and Dad don’t know anything about the Plaza. Why would they want to fly off to some snooty hotel they’ve never clapped eyes on? Why would they want to give up hosting the wedding they’ve always dreamed of? I’m their only daughter. Their one and only child.
So… what am I going to do?
I sit staring at the page, breathing hard, letting my thoughts fight it out. I’m scrabbling desperately for a solution, a loophole to wriggle through, unwilling to give up until I’ve tried every last possibility. Round and round, over the same old ground.
“Becky?”
Mum comes in and I give a guilty start, crumpling the list in my hand.
“Hi!” I say brightly. “Ooh. Coffee. Lovely.”
“It’s decaffeinated,” says Mum, handing me a mug reading You Don’t Have to Be Mad to Organize a Wedding But Your Mother Does. “I thought maybe you were drinking decaffeinated these days.”
“No,” I say in surprise. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“And how are you feeling?” Mum sits down next to me and I surreptitiously transfer my screwed-up piece of paper from one hand to the other. “A little bit tired? Sick, too, probably.”
“Not too bad.” I give a slightly heavier sigh than I meant to. “The airline food was pretty grim, though.”
“You must keep your strength up!” Mum squeezes my arm. “Now, I’ve got something for you, darling!” She hands me a piece of paper. “What do you think?”
I unfold the paper and stare at it in bewilderment. It’s house details. A four-bedroom house in Oxshott, to be precise.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Mum’s face is glowing. “Look at all the features!”
“You’re not going to move, are you?”
“Not for us, silly! You’d be just round the corner from us! Look, it’s got a built-in barbecue, two en-suite bathrooms…”
“Mum, we live in New York.”
“You do at the moment. But you won’t want to stay in New York forever, will you? Not in the long term.”
There’s a sudden thread of concern in her voice; and although she’s smiling, I can see the tension in her eyes. I open my mouth to answer — then realize, to my own surprise, that Luke and I haven’t ever talked properly about the long term.