English gardens, with lawns and trees and flower beds.
I’ve reached the rose arbor and am looking back at the house, imagining what a marquee will look like on the lawn, when suddenly there’s a rumble of conversation from the garden next door. I wonder if it’s Martin, and I’m about to pop my head over the fence and say “Hello!” when a girl’s voice comes clearly over the snow, saying: “Define frigid! Because if you ask me—”
It’s Lucy. And she sounds furious! There’s a mumbled reply, which can only be Tom.
“And you’re such a bloody expert, are you?”
Mumble mumble.
“Oh, give me a break.”
I edge surreptitiously toward the fence, wishing desperately I could hear both sides.
“Yeah, well, maybe if we had more of a life, maybe if you actually organized something once in a blue moon, maybe if we weren’t stuck in such a bloody rut…”
Lucy’s voice is so hectoring. And now Tom’s voice is raised defensively in return.
“We went out to… all you could do was complain… made a real bloody effort…”
Crack!
Shit. Shit. I’ve stepped on a twig.
For an instant I consider running. But it’s too late, their heads have already appeared over the garden fence, Tom’s all pink and distressed, and Lucy’s tight with anger.
“Oh, hi!” I say, trying to look relaxed. “How are you? I’m just… um… having a little stroll… and I dropped my… hanky.”
“Your hanky?” Lucy looks suspiciously at the ground. “I can’t see any hanky.”
“Well… erm… So… how’s married life?”
“Fine,” says Lucy shortly. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
There’s an awkward pause, and I find myself running my eyes over Lucy’s outfit, taking in her top (black polo-neck, probably M&S), trousers (Earl Jeans, quite cool, actually), and boots (high-heeled with laces, Russell & Bromley).
This is something I’ve always done, checking out people’s clothes and listing them in my mind like on a fashion page. I thought I was the only one who did it. But then I moved to New York — and there, everyone does it. Seriously, everybody. The first time you meet anyone, whether it’s a rich society lady or a doorman, they give you a swift, three-second top-to-toe sweep. You can see them costing your entire outfit to the nearest dollar before they even say hello. I call it the Manhattan Onceover.
“So how’s New York?”
“It’s great! Really exciting… I love my job… it’s such a great place to live!”
“I’ve never been,” says Tom wistfully. “I wanted to go there for our honeymoon.”
“Tom, don’t start that again,” says Lucy sharply. “OK?”
“Maybe I could come and visit,” says Tom. “I could come for the weekend.”
“Er… yes! Maybe! You could both come…” I tail off lamely as Lucy rolls her eyes and stomps toward the house. “Anyway, lovely to see you and I’m glad married life is treating you… er… treating you, anyway.”
I hurry back into the kitchen, dying to tell Mum what I just heard, but it’s empty.
“Hey, Mum!” I call. “I just saw Tom and Lucy!”
I hurry up the stairs, and Mum is halfway down the loft ladder, pulling down a big white squashy bundle all wrapped up in plastic.
“What’s that?” I ask, helping her to get it down.
“Don’t say anything,” she says, with suppressed excitement. “Just…” Her hands are trembling as she unzips the plastic cover. “Just… look!”
“It’s your wedding dress!” I say in astonishment as she pulls out the white frothy lace. “I didn’t know you still had that!”
“Of course I’ve still got it!” She brushes away some sheets of tissue paper. “Thirty years old, but still as good as new. Now, Becky, it’s only a thought…”
“What’s a thought?” I say, helping her to shake out the train.
“It might not even fit you…”
Slowly I look up at her. She’s serious.
“Actually, I don’t think it will,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’m sure you were much thinner than me! And… shorter.”
“But we’re the same height!” says Mum in puzzlement. “Oh, go on, try it, Becky!”
Five minutes later I stare at myself in the mirror in Mum’s bedroom. I look like a sausage roll in layered frills. The bodice is tight and lacy, with ruffled sleeves and a ruffled neckline. It’s tight down to my hips where there are more ruffles, and then it fans out into a tiered train.
I have never worn anything less flattering in my life.
“Oh, Becky!” I look up — and to my horror, Mum’s in tears. “I’m so silly!” she says, laughing and brushing at her eyes. “It’s just… my little girl, in the dress I wore…”
“Oh, Mum…” Impulsively I give her a hug. “It’s a… a really lovely dress…”
How exactly do I add, But I’m not wearing it?
“And it fits you perfectly,” gulps Mum, and rummages for a tissue. “But it’s your decision.” She blows her nose. “If you don’t think it suits you… just say so. I won’t mind.”
“I… well…”
Oh God.
“I’ll… think about it,” I manage at last, and give Mum a lame smile.
We put the wedding dress back in its bag, and have some sandwiches for lunch, and watch an old episode of Changing Rooms on the new cable telly Mum and Dad have had installed. And then, although it’s a bit early, I go upstairs and start getting ready to see Elinor. Luke’s mother is one of those Manhattan women who always look completely and utterly immaculate, and today of all days I want to match her in the smartness stakes.
I put on the DKNY suit I bought myself for Christmas, brand-new tights, and my new Prada sample sale shoes. Then I survey my appearance carefully, looking all over for specks or creases. I’m not going to be caught out this time. I’m not going to have a single stray thread or crumpled bit which her beady X-ray eyes can zoom in on.
I’ve just about decided that I look OK, when Mum comes busting into my bedroom. She’s dressed smartly in a purple Windsmoor suit and her face is glowing with anticipation.
“How do I look?” she says with a little laugh. “Smart enough for Claridges?”
“You look lovely, Mum! That color really suits you. Let me just…”
I reach for a tissue, dampen it under the tap, and wipe at her cheeks where she’s copied Janice’s badger- look approach to blusher.
“There. Perfect.”
“Thank you, darling!” Mum peers at herself in the wardrobe mirror. “Well, this will be nice. Meeting Luke’s mother at last.”
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.
“I expect we’ll get to be quite good friends! What with getting together over the wedding preparations… You know, Margot across the road is such good friends with her son-in-law’s mother, they take holidays together. She says she hasn’t lost a daughter, she’s gained a friend!”
Mum sounds really excited. How can I prepare her for the truth?
“And Elinor certainly sounds lovely! The way Luke describes her. He seems so fond of her!”
“Yes, he is,” I admit grudgingly. “Incredibly fond.”
“He was telling us this morning about all the wonderful charity work she does. She must have a heart of gold!”
As Mum prattles on, I tune out and remember a conversation I had with Luke’s stepmum, Annabel, when she and his dad came out to visit us.
