THIRD: I bequeath all the rest, residue, and remainder of my property of whatsoever kind or character and wheresoever situated, apart from any clothes found in carrier bags at the bottom of the wardrobe, 4 to LUKE JAMES BRANDON.
1. Unless she would prefer the new DKNY bag with the long straps.
2. Also my Tiffany keyring, which I have lost, but must be in the apartment somewhere.
3. Plus any other magazines I subsequently buy.
4. Which are to be disposed of discreetly, in secret.
Eleven
THIS IS NOT a good time.
In fact, it’s horrendous. Ever since he saw that piece in the paper, Luke has been really withdrawn and silent. He won’t talk about it, and the atmosphere in the apartment is getting really tense, and I just don’t know how to make things better. A few days ago I tried buying some soothing scented candles, but they didn’t really smell of anything except candle wax. So then yesterday I tried rearranging the furniture to make it more feng shui and harmonious. But Luke came into the living room just as I’d jammed a sofa leg into the DVD player, and I don’t think he was very impressed.
I wish he’d open up to me, like they do on Dawson’s Creek. But whenever I say, “Do you want to talk?” and pat the sofa invitingly, instead of saying, “Yes, Becky, I have some issues I’d like to share,” he either ignores me or tells me we’ve run out of coffee.
I know he’s tried calling his mother, but the patients at her stupid Swiss clinic aren’t allowed mobile phones, so he hasn’t been able to speak to her. I also know that he’s been on the phone to Michael several times. And that the assistant who had been assigned to work for the Elinor Sherman Foundation is now back working for Brandon Communications. When I asked him about it, though, he just shut off and wouldn’t say anything. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to admit any of it has happened.
The only thing that is going at all well at the moment is the wedding preparations. Robyn and I have had several meetings with the event designer, whose ideas for the room are absolutely spectacular. Then we had the dessert tasting at the Plaza the other day, and I nearly swooned at all the amazing, out-of-this-world sweets there were to choose from. It was champagne all the way through, and deferential waiters, and I was treated exactly like a princess…
But if I’m really honest, even that didn’t feel quite as relaxed and wonderful as it should. Even while I was sitting there, being served poached white peaches with pistachio mousse and anise biscotti on a gilded plate, I couldn’t help feeling little pricks of guilt through the pleasure, like tiny pinpoints of light through a blanket.
I think I’ll feel a lot better when I’ve broken the news to Mum.
I mean, not that there’s any reason to feel bad. Because I couldn’t do anything about it while they were in the Lake District, could I? I wasn’t exactly going to interrupt their nice relaxing holiday. But they get back tomorrow. So then what I’ll do is very calmly phone up Mum, and tell her that I really appreciate everything she’s done, and it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, but that I’ve decided…
No. That Luke and I have decided…
No. That Elinor has very kindly offered… That we have decided to accept…
Oh God. My insides are churning, just thinking about it.
OK, I won’t think about it yet. Anyway, I don’t want to come out with some stilted, awkward speech. Much better just to wait until the moment and be spontaneous.
As I arrive at Barneys, Christina is sorting through a rack of evening jackets.
“Hi!” she says as I walk in. “Did you sign those letters for me?”
“What?” I say distractedly. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. I’ll do it today.”
“Becky?” Christina looks at me more closely. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine! I’m just… I don’t know, the wedding…”
“I saw India from the bridal atelier last night. She said you’d reserved a Richard Tyler dress?”
“Oh yes, I have.”
“But I could have sworn I heard you telling Erin the other day about a dress at Vera Wang.”
I look away and fiddle with the zip of my bag. “Well. The thing is, I’ve kind of reserved more than one dress.”
“How many?”
“Four,” I say after a pause. I needn’t tell her about the one at Kleinfeld.
Christina throws back her head in a laugh. “Becky, you can’t wear more than one dress! You’re going to have to fix on one in the end, you know.”
“I know,” I say weakly, and disappear into my fitting room before she can say anything else.
