And then we’re out.
The heavy double doors close behind us and we’re in the silent, plushy corridor, empty but for the two bouncers, who stare studiously ahead.
“We did it,” I say, half laughing in relief; in exhilaration. “Luke, we did it!”
“So I gather,” says Luke, nodding. “Well done, us. Now, do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”
Twenty-two
LAUREL ARRANGED IT all perfectly. After a quick detour to the West Village for Danny’s passport, we arrived at Teterboro to find the plane all ready for us. We arrived at Gatwick at about eight in the morning, where another car was waiting for us. And now we’re speeding through Surrey toward Oxshott. We’ll be there soon! I can’t quite believe how seamless it’s all been.
“Of course, you know your big mistake,” says Danny, stretching luxuriously back in the leather Mercedes seat.
“What’s that?” I say, looking up from the phone.
“Sticking to two weddings. I mean, as long as you’re going to do it more than once, why not three times? Why not six times? Six parties…”
“Six dresses…” puts in Luke.
“Six cakes…”
“Look, shut up!” I say indignantly. “I didn’t do all this intentionally, you know! It just… happened.”
“Just happened,” echoes Danny scoffingly. “Becky, you needn’t pretend to us. You wanted to wear two dresses. There’s no shame in it.”
“Danny, I’m on the phone—” I look out of the window. “OK, Suze, I think we’re about ten minutes away.”
“I just can’t believe you’ve made it,” says Suze down the line. “I can’t believe it all worked out! I feel like rushing around, telling everyone!”
“Well, don’t!”
“But it’s so incredible! To think last night you were at the Plaza, and now—” She stops in sudden alarm. “Hey, you’re not still wearing your wedding dress, are you?”
“Of course not!” I giggle. “I’m not a complete moron. We changed on the plane.”
“And what was that like?”
“It was so cool. Honestly, Suze, I’m only ever traveling by Lear-jet from now on.”
It’s a bright sunny day, and as I look out of the window at the passing fields, I feel a swell of happiness. I can’t quite believe it’s all fallen into place. After all these months of worry and trouble. We’re here in England. The sun is shining. And we’re going to get married.
“You know, I’m a tad concerned,” says Danny, peering out of the window. “Where are all the castles?”
“This is Surrey,” I explain. “We don’t have castles.”
“And where are the soldiers with bearskins on their heads?” He narrows his eyes. “Becky, you’re sure this is England? You’re sure that pilot knew where he was going?”
“Pretty sure,” I say, getting out my lipstick.
“I don’t know,” he says doubtfully. “This looks a lot more like France to me.”
We pull up at a traffic light and he winds down the window.
“Bonjour,” he says to a startled woman. “Comment allez-vous?”
“I… I wouldn’t know,” says the woman, and hurries across the road.
“I knew it,” says Danny. “Becky, I hate to break it to you… but this is France.”
“It’s Oxshott, you idiot,” I retort. “And… here’s our road.”
I feel a huge spasm of nerves as I see the familiar sign. We’re nearly there.
“OK,” says the driver. “Elton Road. Which number?”
“Number 43. The house over there,” I say. “The one with the balloons and the bunting… and the silver streamers in the trees…”
Blimey. The whole place looks like a fairground. There’s a man up in the horse chestnut tree at the front, threading lightbulbs through the branches, and a white van parked in the drive, and women in green and white stripy uniforms bustling in and out of the house.
“Looks like they’re expecting you, anyway,” says Danny. “You OK?”
“Fine,” I say — and it’s ridiculous, but my voice is shaking.
The car comes to a halt, and so does the other car behind, which is carrying all our luggage.
“What I don’t understand,” says Luke, staring out at all the activity, “is how you managed to shift an entire wedding forward by a day. At three weeks’ notice. I mean, you’re talking the caterers, you’re talking the band, you’re talking a million different very busy professionals…”
“Luke, this isn’t Manhattan,” I say, opening the car door. “You’ll see.”
As we get out, the front door swings open, and there’s Mum, wearing tartan trousers and a sweatshirt reading “Mother of the Bride.”
“Becky!” she cries, and runs over to give me a hug.
“Mum.” I hug her back. “Is everything OK?”
“Everything’s under control, I think!” she says a little flusteredly. “We had a problem with the table posies, but fingers crossed, they should be on their way… Luke! How are you? How was the financial conference?”
“It went er… very well,” he says. “Very well indeed, thank you. I’m just sorry it’s caused so much trouble with the wedding arrangements—”