“I know! I’m trying to get it undone…”
“Wait a minute.” Her voice is suddenly suspicious. “Which way are you pulling?”
“Er… the same way as you…”
“Hi, Laurel,” I suddenly hear Christina saying in surprise. “Are you all right? Did you have an appointment?”
“No. But I think Becky has something for me—”
“Here!” I say, hurrying to the door and looking out. And there’s Laurel, cheeks flushed with animation, wearing her new Michael Kors skirt with a navy blue blazer, which looks completely wrong.
How many times have I told her? Honestly, I should do more spot-checks on my clients. Who knows what they’re all wearing out there?
“Here she is,” I say, nodding toward the Barbie-doll-Christmas-cracker hybrid, who is still trying to unzip the dress.
“It’s OK,” says Laurel, coming into the fitting room. “You can leave her to me.”
“What? Who’s that?” Amy’s head jerks up disorientedly. “Oh Jesus. No. Is that—”
“Yes,” says Laurel, closing the door. “It’s me.”
I stand in front of the door, trying to ignore the raised voices coming from my room. After a few minutes, Christina comes out of her room and looks at me.
“Becky, what’s going on?”
“Um… Laurel bumped into an acquaintance. I thought I’d give them some privacy.” A thumping sound comes from the room and I cough loudly. “I think they’re… chatting.”
“Chatting.” Christina gives me a hard look.
“Yes! Chatting!”
The door suddenly opens, and Laurel emerges, a bunch of keys in her hand.
“Becky, I’m going to need to pay a little visit to Amy’s apartment, and she’d like to stay here until I come back. Isn’t that right, Amy?”
I glance past Laurel into the fitting room. Amy is sitting in the corner in her underwear, minus the emerald pendant, looking completely shell-shocked. She nods silently.
As Laurel strides off, Christina gives me an incredulous look. “Becky—”
“So!” I say quickly to Amy, in my best Barneys employee manner. “While we’re waiting, would you care to try some more dresses?”
Forty minutes later, Laurel arrives back, her face alive with animation.
“Did you get the rest of it?” I say eagerly.
“I got it all.”
Christina, on the other side of the department, looks up, then looks away again. She’s said that the only way she can’t fire me for what just happened is not to know about it.
So we’re basically agreed, she doesn’t know about it.
“Here you are.” Laurel tosses the keys to Amy. “You can go now. Give my regards to Bill. He deserves you.”
As Amy totters, almost running, toward the escalator, Laurel puts an arm round me.
“Becky, you’re an angel,” she says warmly. “I can’t even begin to repay you. But whatever you want, it’s yours.”
“Don’t be silly!” I say at once. “I just wanted to help.”
“I’m serious!”
“Laurel—”
“I insist. Name it, and it’ll be there in time for your wedding.”
My wedding.
It’s as though someone’s opened a window and the cold air is rushing in.
In all the excitement and urgency, I’d managed briefly to forget about it. But now it all comes piling back into my head.
My two weddings. My two fiascos.
Like two trains traveling toward me. Quicker and quicker, getting nearer even when I’m not looking at them. Gathering momentum with every minute. If I manage to dodge one, I’ll only get hit by the other.
I stare at Laurel’s warm, open face, and all I want to do is bury my head in her shoulder and wail, “Sort out my life for me!”
“Whatever you want,” says Laurel again, and squeezes my shoulders.
As I walk slowly back to my fitting room, the adrenaline has gone. I can feel a familiar, wearying anxiety creeping over me. Another day has gone by, and I’m no nearer to a brilliant solution. I have no idea what I’m going to do. And I’m running out of time.
Maybe the truth is, I can’t solve this on my own, I think, sinking heavily down in my chair. Maybe I need help. Fire rescue trucks and SWAT teams.
Or maybe just Luke.
Sixteen
AS I ARRIVE home, I’m surprisingly calm. In fact, I almost feel a sense of relief. I’ve tried everything — and now I’m at the end of the line. There’s nothing else I can do but confess everything to Luke. He’ll be shocked. Angry too. But at least he’ll know.
I stopped in a cafe on the way, had a coffee, and thought very carefully about how I was going to tell him. Because everyone knows, it’s all in the presentation. When the president’s going to raise taxes, he doesn’t say, “I’m going to raise taxes.” He says, “Every American citizen knows the value of education.” So I’ve written out a speech, a bit like the State of the Union address, and I’ve memorized it word for word, with gaps for interjections from Luke. (Or applause. Though that’s a bit unlikely.) As long as I stick to my text, and no one brings up the question of Ugandan policy, then we should be all right.
My legs are trembling slightly as I climb the stairs to our apartment, even though Luke won’t be back yet; I still have time to prepare. But as I open the door, to my shock, there he is, sitting at the table with a pile of papers and his back to me.
OK, Becky, come on. Ladies and gentlemen of Congress. Four score and thingummy. I let the door swing shut behind me, get out my notes, and take a deep breath.
“Luke,” I begin in a grave, grown-up voice. “I have something to tell you about the wedding. It’s quite a serious problem, with no easy solution. If there is a solution, it will be one that I can only achieve with your help. Which is why I’m telling you this now — and asking that you listen with an open mind.”
So far so good. I’m quite proud of that bit, actually. The “listen with an open mind” bit was especially inspired, because it means he can’t shout at me.
“In order to explain my current predicament,” I continue, “I must take you back in time. Back to the beginning. By which I mean not the creation of Earth. Nor even the big bang. But tea at Claridges.”
I pause — but Luke is still silent, listening. Maybe this is going to be OK.
“It was there, at Claridges, that my problem began. I was presented with an impossible task. I was, if you will, that Greek god having to choose between the three apples. Except there were only two — and they weren’t apples.” I pause significantly. “They were weddings.”
At last, Luke turns round in his chair. His eyes are bloodshot, and there’s a strange expression on his face. As he gazes at me, I feel a tremor of apprehension.
“Becky,” he says, as though with a huge effort.
“Yes?” I gulp.
“Do you think my mother loves me?”
