Two
WE ARRIVE AT Heathrow at seven the next morning and pick up our rental car. As we drive along to Suze’s parents’ house in Hampshire, I peer blearily out of the window at the snowy countryside, the hedgerows and fields and little villages, as though I’ve never seen them before. After Manhattan, everything looks so tiny and pretty. For the first time I realize why Americans go around calling everything in England “quaint.”
“Which way now?” says Luke, as we arrive at yet another little crossroads.
“Erm, you definitely turn left here. I mean… right. No, I mean left.”
As the car swings round, I fish in my bag for the invitation, just to check the exact address.
Sir Gilbert and Lady Cleath-Stuart
request the pleasure of your company…
I stare, slightly mesmerized, at the grand swirly writing. God, I still can’t quite believe Suze and Tarquin are getting married.
I mean, of course I believe it. After all, they’ve been going out for well over a year now, and Tarquin’s basically moved into the flat I used to share with Suze — although they seem to be spending more and more time in Scotland. They’re both really sweet and laid back, and everyone’s agreed that they make a brilliant couple.
But just occasionally, when I’m not concentrating, my mind will suddenly yell, “Whaat? Suze and Tarquin?”
I mean, Tarquin used to be Suze’s weird geeky cousin. For years he was just that awkward guy in the corner with the ancient jacket and a tendency to hum Wagner in public places. He was the guy who rarely ventured beyond the safe haven of his Scottish castle — and when he did, it was to take me on the worst date of my life (although we don’t talk about that anymore).
But now he’s… well, he’s Suze’s boyfriend. Still slightly awkward, and still prone to wearing woolly jumpers knitted by his old nanny. Still a bit tatty round the edges. But Suze loves him, and that’s what counts.
Oh God, I can’t start crying yet. I have to pace myself.
“Harborough Hall,” reads Luke, pausing at a pair of crumbling stone pillars. “Is this it?”
“Erm…” I sniff, and try to look businesslike. “Yes, this is it. Just drive in.”
I’ve been to Suze’s house plenty of times before, but I always forget quite how impressive it is. We sweep down a great big long avenue lined with trees and into a circular gravel drive. The house is large and gray and ancient-looking, with pillars at the front and ivy growing over it.
“Nice house,” says Luke as we head toward the huge front door. “How old is it?”
“Dunno,” I say vaguely. “It’s been in their family for years.” I tug at the bell pull to see if by any remote chance it’s been mended — but it obviously hadn’t. I knock a couple of times with the heavy door knocker — and when there’s no answer to that either, I push my way into the huge flagstoned hall, where an old Labrador is asleep by a crackling fire.
“Hello?” I call. “Suze?”
Suddenly I notice that Suze’s father is also asleep by the fireplace, in a large winged armchair. I’m a bit scared of Suze’s father, actually. I certainly don’t want to wake him up.
“Suze?” I say, more quietly.
“Bex! I thought I heard something!”
I look up — and there’s Suze standing on the staircase, in a tartan dressing gown with her blond hair streaming down her back and a huge excited smile.
“Suze!”
I bound up the stairs and give her a huge hug. As I pull away we’re both a bit pink about the eyes, and I give a shaky laugh. God, I’ve missed Suze, even more than I’d realized.
“Come up to my room!” says Suze, tugging my hand. “Come and see my dress!”
“Is it really lovely?” I say excitedly. “In the picture it looked amazing.”
“It’s just perfect! Plus you have to see, I’ve got the coolest corsety thing from Rigby and Peller… and these really gorgeous knickers…”
Luke clears his throat and we both look round.
“Oh!” says Suze. “Sorry, Luke. There’s coffee and newspapers and stuff in the kitchen, through there.” She points down a corridor. “You can have bacon and eggs if you like! Mrs. Gearing will make them for you.”
“Mrs. Gearing sounds like my kind of woman,” says Luke with a smile. “I’ll see you later.”
Suze’s room is light and airy and overlooks the garden. I say garden. It’s about twelve thousand acres, with lawns running down from the back of the house to a clump of cedar trees and a lake, which Suze nearly drowned in once when she was three. There’s also a walled rose garden to the left, all flower beds and gravel paths and hedges, which is where Tarquin proposed to Suze. (Apparently he got down on one knee and when he stood up, gravel was clinging to his trousers. That is so Tarquin.) On the right there’s an old tennis court and then rough grass, extending all the way to a hedge, beyond which is the village church graveyard. As I look out of the window now, I can see a huge marquee billowing to the rear of the house, and a tented walkway being put up, which will snake past the tennis court and over the grass, all the way to the churchyard gate.
“You’re not going to walk to the church?” I say, suddenly fearful for Suze’s Emma Hope shoes.
“No, silly! I’m going in the carriage. But all the guests can walk back to the house, and there’ll be people handing out hot whiskeys as they go.”
“God, it’s going to be spectacular!” I say, watching as a man in jeans begins to hammer a stake into the ground. And in spite of myself, I can’t help feeling a twinge of envy. I’ve always dreamed of having some huge, amazing wedding, with horses and carriages and lots of hoopla, ever since…
Well, since…
To be completely, perfectly honest, ever since Princess Diana’s wedding. I was six years old when we all watched it round at our neighbor Janice’s house, and I can still remember goggling at her as she got out of the carriage in that dress. It was like Cinderella come to life. It was better than Cinderella. I wanted to be her so much, it hurt. Mum had bought me a commemorative book of photographs called Diana’s Big Day — and the next day I spent ages making my own version called Becky’s Big Day, with lots of drawings of me in a big frilly dress, wearing a crown. (And, in some versions, carrying a magic wand.)
Maybe I’ve moved on a little since then. I don’t dream about wearing a crumpled cream-colored lampshade for a wedding dress. I’ve even given up on marrying a member of the royal family. But still, whenever I see a wedding, part of me turns back into that starry-eyed six-year-old.
“I know! Isn’t it going to be great?” Suze beams happily. “Now, I must just brush my teeth…”
She disappears into the bathroom and I wander over to her dressing table, where the announcement of the engagement is stuck in the mirror. The Hon. Susan Cleath-Stuart and The Hon. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Blimey. I always forget Suze is so grand.
“I want a title,” I say, as Suze comes back into the room with a hairbrush in her hair. “I feel all left out. How do I get one?”
“Ooh, no you don’t,” says Suze, wrinkling her nose. “They’re crap. People send you letters saying Dear Ms. Hon.”
“Still. It’d be so cool. What could I be?”
“Erm…” Suze tugs at a tangle in her hair. “Dame Becky Bloomwood?”
“That makes me sound about ninety-three,” I say doubtfully. “What about… Becky Bloomwood MBE. Those MBE things are quite easy to get, aren’t they?”
“Easy-peasy,” says Suze confidently. “You could get one for services to industry or something. I’ll nominate you, if you like. Now come on, I want to see your dress!”
“OK!” I heave my case onto the bed, click it open, and carefully draw out Danny’s creation. “What do you think?” I proudly hold it up against myself and swoosh the gold silk around. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”
“It’s fantastic!” says Suze, staring at it with wide eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” She fingers the sequins on the shoulder. “Where did you get it? Is this the one from Barneys?”
