“Robyn, I need to talk to you.”
“Absolutely. If it’s about the dessert flatware, I’ve spoken to the Plaza—”
“It’s not about the flatware!” I cry. “Robyn, listen! While I was England, I canceled the wedding. I left a message! But you didn’t get it.”
There’s silence in the plushy room. Then Robyn’s face creases up into laughter.
“Ha-ha-ha! Becky, you’re priceless! Isn’t she priceless, Kirsten?”
“Robyn, I’m serious. I want to call the whole thing off. I want to get married in England. My mum’s organizing a wedding, it’s all arranged—”
“Can you imagine if you did that?” says Robyn with a gurgle. “Well, of course you couldn’t, because of the prenup. If you canceled now, you’d be in for a lot of money!” She laughs gaily. “Would you like some champagne?”
I stare at her, momentarily halted. “What do you mean, the prenup?”
“The contract you signed, sweetheart.” She hands me a glass of champagne, and my fingers automatically close round it.
“But… but Luke didn’t sign it. He said it wasn’t valid if he didn’t sign—”
“Not between you and Luke! Between you and me! Or, rather, Wedding Events Ltd.”
“What?” I swallow. “Robyn, what are you talking about? I never signed anything.”
“Of course you did! All my brides do! I gave it to Elinor to pass along to you, and she returned it to me… I have a copy of it somewhere!” She takes a sip of champagne, swivels on her chair, and reaches into an elegant wooden filing cabinet.
“Here we are!” She hands me a photocopy of a document. “Of course, the original is with my lawyer…”
I stare at the page, my heart pounding. It’s a typed sheet, headed “Terms of Agreement.” I look straight down to the dotted line at the bottom — and there’s my signature.
My mind zooms back to that dark, rainy night. Sitting in Elinor’s apartment. Indignantly signing every single sheet in front of me. Not bothering to read the words above.
Oh God. What have I done?
Feverishly I start to scan the contract, only half taking in the legal phrases.
“The Organizer shall prepare full plans… time frame to be mutually agreed… the Client shall be consulted on all matters… liaise with service providers… budget shall be agreed… final decisions shall rest with the Client… any breach or cancellation for any reason whatsoever… reimbursement… 30 days… full and final payment… Furthermore…”
As I read the next words, slugs are crawling up and down my back.
“Furthermore, in the case of cancellation, should the Client marry within one year of the date of cancellation, the Client will be liable to a penalty of $100,000, payable to Wedding Events Ltd.”
A hundred-thousand-dollar penalty.
And I’ve signed it.
“A hundred thousand dollars?” I say at last. “That… that seems a lot.”
“That’s only for the silly girls who pretend to cancel and then get married anyway,” says Robyn cheerily.
“But why—”
“Becky, if I plan a wedding, then I want that wedding to happen. We’ve had girls pull out before.” Her voice suddenly hardens. “Girls who decided to go their own way. Girls who decided to use my ideas, my contacts. Girls who thought they could exploit my expertise and get away with it.” She leans forward with glittering eyes, and I shrink back fearfully.
“Becky, you don’t want to be those girls.”
She’s crazy. The wedding planner’s crazy.
“G-good idea,” I say quickly. “You have to protect yourself!”
“Of course, Elinor could have signed it herself — but we agreed, this way, she’s protecting her investment too!” Robyn beams at me. “It’s a neat arrangement.”
“Very clever!” I give a shrill laugh and take a slug of champagne.
What am I going to do? There must be some way out of this. There must be. People can’t force other people to get married. It’s not ethical.
“Cheer up, Becky!” Robyn snaps back into cheery-chirrupy mood. “Everything’s under control. We’ve been taking care of everything while you were in Britain. The invitations are being written as we speak.”
“Invitations?” I feel a fresh shock. “But they can’t be. We haven’t done a guest list yet.”
“Yes you have, silly girl! What’s this?”
She presses a couple of buttons on her computer and a list pops up, and I stare at it, my mouth open. Familiar names and addresses are scrolling past on the screen, one after another. Names of my cousins. Names of my old school friends. With a sudden lurch I spot “Janice and Martin Webster, The Oaks, 41 Elton Road, Oxshott.”
How does Robyn know about Janice and Martin? I feel as though I’ve stumbled into some arch-villainess’s lair. Any minute a panel will slide back and I’ll see Mum and Dad tied to a chair with gags in their mouths.
“Where… where did you get those names?” I ask, trying to make it sound like a lighthearted inquiry.
“Luke gave us a list! I was pressuring him about it, so he had a look around your apartment. He said he found it hidden under the bed, or someplace odd. I said, that’s probably the safest place to put it!”
She produces a piece of paper, and my eyes focus on it in disbelief.
Mum’s handwriting.