“Jesus Christ.” He looks up. “Your mom’s planning a wedding in England, isn’t she?”
I stare at him in mute anguish. This is even worse than Suze finding out. I mean, Suze has known me for so long. She knows how stupid I am and she always forgives me. But Michael. I swallow. Michael’s always treated me with respect. He once told me I was sharp and intuitive. He even offered me a job with his company. I can’t bear for him to find out what a complete mess I’ve got into.
“Does your mom know anything about the Plaza?”
Very slowly, I shake my head.
“Does Luke’s mother know about this?” He hits the fax.
I shake my head again.
“Does anyone know? Does Luke know?”
“Nobody knows,” I say, finally finding a voice. “And you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Not tell anyone? Are you kidding?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Becky, how could you have let this happen?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I didn’t mean for it to happen—”
“You didn’t mean to deceive two entire families? Not to mention the expense, the effort… You realize you’re in big trouble here?”
“It’ll work itself out!” I say desperately.
“How is it going to work itself out? Becky, this isn’t a double-booked dinner date! This is hundreds of people!”
“Ding-dong, ding-dong!” suddenly chimes my wedding countdown alarm clock from the bookshelf. “Ding-dong, ding-dong! Only twenty-two days to go till the Big Day!”
“Shut up!” I say tensely.
“Ding-dong, ding—”
“Shut up!” I cry, and hurl it onto the floor, where the clock face shatters.
“Twenty-two days?” says Michael. “Becky, that’s only three weeks!”
“I’ll think of something! A lot can happen in three weeks!”
“You’ll think of something? That’s your only answer?”
“Perhaps a miracle will happen!”
I try a little smile, but Michael’s face doesn’t react. He still looks just as astounded. Just as angry.
I can’t stand Michael being angry with me. My head’s pounding and I can feel tears pressing hotly at my eyes. With trembling hands I grab my bag and reach for my jacket.
“What are you going to do?” His voice sharpens. “Becky, where are you going?”
I stare back, my mind feverishly racing. I need to escape. From this apartment, from my life, from this whole hideous mess. I need a place of peace, a place of sanctuary. A place where I’ll find solace.
“I’m going to Tiffany,” I say with a half-sob, and close the door behind me.
Five seconds after I’ve crossed the threshold of Tiffany, I’m already calmer. My heart rate begins to subside. My mind begins to turn less frantically. I feel soothed, just looking around at the cases full of glittering jewelry. Audrey Hepburn was right: nothing bad could ever happen in Tiffany.
I walk to the back of the ground floor, dodging the tourists and eyeing up diamond necklaces as I go. There’s a girl about my age trying on a knuckle-duster of an engagement ring, and as I see her exhilarated face, I feel a painful pang inside.
It seems like a million years ago that Luke and I got engaged. I feel like a different person. If only I could rewind. God, if I could just have the chance. I’d do it all so differently.
There’s no point torturing myself with how it might have been. This is what I’ve done — and this is how it is.
I get into the elevator and travel up to the third floor — and as I step out, I relax even more. This really is another world. It’s different even from the crowded, touristy floor below. It’s like heaven.
The whole floor is tranquil and spacious, with silver, china, and glassware displayed on mirror-topped cabinets. It’s a world of quiet luxury. A world of glossy, cultured people who don’t have to worry about anything. I can see an immaculate girl in navy blue examining a glass candlestick. Another girl, heavily pregnant, is looking at a sterling silver baby’s rattle. No one’s got any problems here. The only major dilemma facing anyone is whether to have gold or platinum edging their dinner service.
As long as I stay here I’ll be safe.
“Becky? Is that you?” My heart gives a little flicker and I turn round, to see Eileen Morgan beaming at me. Eileen is the lady who showed me around the floor when I registered my list here. She’s an elderly lady with her hair in a bun, and reminds me of the ballet teacher I used to have when I was little.
“Hi, Eileen,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m well. And I have good news for you!”
“Good news?” I say stupidly.
I can’t remember the last time I heard a piece of good news.
“Your list has been going very well.”
“Really?” In spite of myself I feel the same twinge of pride I used to when Miss Phipps said my pliés were going well.
“Very well, indeed. In fact, I was planning to call you. I think the time has come…” Eileen pauses momentously, “… to go for some larger items. A silver bowl. A platter. Some antique hollowware.”
I stare at her in slight disbelief. In wedding list terms, this is as though she’s said I should try for the Royal Ballet.
“You honestly think I’m in that… league?”
“Becky, the performance of your list has been very impressive. You’re right up there with our top brides.”