But… I just don’t care. All I care about right now is getting into bed.
“Hey, a bunch of boxes arrived from QVC.” Danny looks at me curiously. “Did you order a set of Marie Osmond dolls?”
“I don’t know,” I say blankly. “I expect so. I ordered pretty much everything they had.”
I have a dim memory of myself at three in the morning, rocking Ernest on my lap so Suze could have a sleep, staring groggily at the screen.
“Do you know how terrible the telly is in Britain at three in the morning?” I rub my dry cheeks. “And there’s no point watching a film, because the minute it gets to a good bit, the baby cries and you have to leap up and start joggling him around, singing ‘Old Macdonald Had a Farm, Ee-I Ee-I Oh…’ and he still doesn’t stop crying. So you have to go into ‘Oh what a beautiful mooorr-rning…’ but that doesn’t work either…”
“Right,” says Danny, backing away. “I’ll… take your word for it. Becky, I think you need a nap.”
“Yes. So do I. See you later.”
I stumble into the apartment, shove all the post on the sofa, and head for the bedroom, as single-minded as a junkie craving a hit.
Sleep. I need sleep…
A light is blinking on our message machine and as I lie down, I automatically reach out and press the button.
“Hi, Becky! Robyn here. Just to say the meeting with Sheldon Lloyd to discuss table centerpieces has been changed to next Tuesday the twenty-first, at two-thirty. Byee!”
I have just enough time to think “That’s odd,” before my head hits the pillow and I pass out into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Eight hours later I wake up and sit bolt upright.
What was that?
I reach out to the machine and press the “Repeat” button. Robyn’s voice chirps exactly the same message again, and the computer display informs me it was left yesterday.
But… that doesn’t make any sense. The New York wedding’s off.
I look disorientedly around the dim apartment. My body clock’s so screwed up, it could be any time at all. I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water and look blearily out of the window at the mural of dancers on the building opposite.
I canceled the wedding. There were witnesses. Why is Robyn still organizing table centerpieces? I mean, it wasn’t as though I was vague about it.
What’s happened?
I drink my water, pour another glass, and go into the living room. It’s 4 P.M. according to the VCR clock, so there’s still time to call her. Find out what’s going on.
“Hello! Wedding Events Ltd.!” says a girl I don’t recognize. “How may I help you?”
“Hi! Excuse me, this is Becky Bloomwood. You’re… you were organizing a wedding for me?”
“Oh, hi, Becky! I’m Kirsten, Robyn’s assistant. Can I just say that I thought your Sleeping Beauty concept was totally inspired? I told all my friends about it, and they were all, like, ‘I love Sleeping Beauty! That’s what I’m going to do when I get married.’ ”
“Oh. Er… thanks. Listen, Kirsten, this might seem like a strange question…”
How am I going to put this? I can’t say, Is my wedding still on?
“Is my… wedding still on?”
“I certainly hope so!” says Kirsten with a laugh. “Unless you’ve had a row with Luke!” Her tone suddenly changes. “Have you had a row with Luke? Because we have a procedure if that happens…”
“No! I haven’t! It’s just… didn’t you get my message?”
“Which message was that?” says Kirsten brightly.
“The message I left about two weeks ago!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What with the flood…”
“Flood?” I stare at the phone in dismay. “You had a flood?”
“I was sure Robyn had called you in England to let you know! It’s OK, nobody was drowned. We just had to evacuate the office for a few days, and some of the telecoms were affected… plus unfortunately an antique ring cushion belonging to one of our clients was ruined…”
“So you didn’t get the message?”
“Was it the one about the hors d’oeuvres?” says Kirsten thoughtfully.
I swallow several times, feeling almost light-headed.
“Becky, Robyn’s just stepped in,” Kirsten’s saying, “if you’d like to speak to her…”
No way. I’m not trusting the phone anymore.
“Can you tell her,” I say, trying to keep calm, “that I’m coming into the office. Tell her to wait. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Is it urgent?”
“Yes. It’s pretty urgent.”
Robyn’s offices are in a plushy building, right up on Ninety-sixth Street. As I knock on the door, I can hear her gurgling laugh, and as I cautiously open the door, I see her sitting at her desk, champagne glass in one hand, telephone in the other, and an open box of chocolates on the desk.
“Becky!” she says. “Come in! I won’t be a second! Jennifer, I think we should go with the devore satin. Yes? OK. See you soon.” She puts down the phone and beams at me. “Becky, sweetheart. How are you? How was England?”
“Fine, thanks. Robyn—”
“I have just been to a delightful thank-you lunch given to me by Mrs. Herman Winkler at the Carlton. Now, that was a fabulous wedding. The groom gave the bride a schnauzer puppy at the altar! So adorable…” Her brow wrinkles. “Where was I going with this? Oh yes! You know what? Her daughter and new son-in-law just left for England on their honeymoon! I said to her, perhaps they’ll bump into Becky Bloomwood!”