“We haven’t got seven toasters!” I point to the box. “This is a brioche grill.”
“And we also have… a Gucci handbag.” He raises his eyebrows quizzically at me. “A Gucci handbag for a wedding present?”
“It’s his-and-hers luggage!” I say defensively. “I put down a briefcase for you…”
“Which no one’s bought for me.”
“That’s not my fault! I don’t tell them what to buy!”
Luke shakes his head incredulously. “Did you put down his-and-hers Jimmy Choos too?”
“Did someone get the Jimmy Choos?” I say joyfully — then stop as I see his face. “I’m… joking.” I clear my throat. “Here. Look at Suze’s baby.”
I’ve just had three rolls of film developed, mostly of Suze and Ernie.
“That’s Ernie in the bath…” I point out, handing him photographs. “And that’s Ernie asleep… and Suze asleep… and Suze… hang on a minute…” Hastily I pass over the ones of Suze breast-feeding with nothing on except a pair of knickers. She had actually bought a special breast-feeding top from a catalogue, which promised “discretion and ease at home and in public.” But she got so pissed off with the stupid concealed zip, she threw it away after one day. “And look! That’s the first day we brought him home!”
Luke sits down at the table, and as he leafs through the pictures, a strange expression comes over his face.
“She looks… blissful,” he says.
“She is,” I agree. “She adores him. Even when he screams.”
“They seem bonded already.” He stares at a photo of Suze laughing as Ernie grabs her hair.
“Oh, they are. Even by the time I left, he yelled if I tried to take him away from her.”
I look at Luke, feeling touched. He’s completely transfixed by these photographs. Which actually quite surprises me. I never thought he’d be particularly into babies. I mean, most men, if you handed them a load of baby pictures—
“I don’t have any pictures of myself as a tiny baby,” he says, turning to a picture of Ernie peacefully asleep on Suze.
“Don’t you? Oh well…”
“My mother took them all with her.”
His face is unreadable, and tiny alarm bells start to ring inside my head.
“Really?” I say casually. “Well, anyway—”
“Maybe she wanted to keep them nearby.”
“Yes,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe she did.”
Oh God. I should have realized these pictures would set Luke off brooding about his mother again.
I’m not quite sure what happened between them while I was away. All I know is that eventually Luke managed to get through to her at the clinic. And apparently she came up with some lame explanation for why that newspaper article didn’t mention Luke. Something about the journalist wasn’t interested.
I don’t know whether Luke believed her. I don’t know whether he’s forgiven her or not. To be honest, I don’t think he knows. Every so often he goes all blank and withdrawn, and I can tell he’s thinking about it.
Part of me wants to say, “Look, Luke, just forget it! She’s a complete cow and she doesn’t love you and you’re better off without her.”
Then I remember something his stepmother, Annabel, said — when we had that chat, all those months ago. As we were saying good-bye, she said, “As hard as it may be to believe, Luke needs Elinor.”
“No, he doesn’t!” I replied indignantly. “He’s got you, he’s got his dad, he’s got me…”
But Annabel shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s had this longing for Elinor ever since he was a child. It’s driven him to work so hard; it’s sent him to America; it’s part of who he is now. Like a vine twisted round an apple tree.” And she gave me this rather penetrating look and said, “Be careful, Becky. Don’t try to chop her out of his life. Because you’ll damage him too.”
How did she read my mind? How did she know that I was exactly picturing myself, and Elinor, and an ax…
I look at Luke, and he’s staring, mesmerized, at a picture of Suze kissing Ernie on the tummy.
“Anyway!” I say brightly, gathering up the photos and shoving them back into the envelopes. “You know, the bond is just as strong between Tarquin and Ernie. You should have seen them together. Tarquin’s making a wonderful dad. He changes nappies and everything! In fact, I often think a mother’s love is overrated…”
Oh, it’s no good. Luke isn’t even listening.
The phone rings, and he doesn’t move, so I go into the sitting room to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is that Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange man’s voice.
“Yes it is,” I say, noticing a new catalogue from Pottery Barn on the table. Perhaps I should register there too. “Who’s this?”
“This is Garson Low, from Low and Associates.”
My whole body freezes. Garson Low himself? Calling me at home?
“I apologize for calling so early,” he’s saying.
“No! Not at all!” I say, coming to life and quickly kicking the door shut so Luke can’t hear. “Thanks for calling!”
Thank God. He must think I have a case. He must want to help me take on Robyn. We’ll probably make groundbreaking legal history or something, and stand outside the courtroom while cameras flash and it’ll be like Erin Brockovich!
“I received your letter yesterday,” says Garson Low. “And I was intrigued by your dilemma. That’s quite a bind you’ve got yourself in.”
“I know it is,” I say. “That’s why I came to you.”
“Is your fiance aware of the situation?”
“Not yet.” I lower my voice. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find a solution first — and then tell him. You understand, Mr. Low.”
“I certainly do.”
This is great. We’ve got rapport and everything.
“In that case,” says Garson Low, “let’s get down to business.”
“Absolutely!” I feel a swell of relief. You see, this is what you get when you consult the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. You get quick results.
“First of all, the contract has been very cleverly drawn up,” says Garson Low.
“Right.” I nod.
“There are several extremely ingenious clauses, covering all eventualities.”
“I see.”
“I’ve examined it thoroughly. And as far as I can see, there is no way you can get married in Britain without incurring the penalty.”
“Right.” I nod expectantly.
There’s a short silence.
“So… what’s the loophole?” I ask eventually.
“There is no loophole. Those are the facts.”
“What?” I stare confusedly at the phone. “But… that’s why you rang, isn’t it? To tell me you’d found a loophole. To tell me we could win!”
“No, Miss Bloomwood. I called to tell you that if I were you, I would start making arrangements to cancel your British wedding.”
I feel a stab of shock. “But… but I can’t. That’s the whole point. My mum’s had the house done up, and everything. It would kill her.”
“Then I’m afraid you will have to pay Wedding Events Ltd. the full penalty.”
“But…” My throat is tight. “I can’t do that either. I haven’t got a hundred thousand dollars! There must be another way!”
“I’m afraid—”
“There must be some brilliant solution!” I push back my hair, trying not to panic. “Come on! You’re supposed
