Extract 9

Robyn’s offices are in a plushy building, right up on 96th Street. As I knock on the door I can hear her gurgling laugh, and as I cautiously open the door I see her sitting at her desk, champagne glass in one hand, telephone in the other, and an open box of chocolates on the desk. In the corner, tapping at a computer, is a girl with bobbles in her hair, who must be Kirsten.

‘Becky!’ says Robyn. ‘Come in! I won’t be a second! Jennifer, I think we should go with the devore satin. Yes? OK. See you soon.’ She puts down the phone and beams at me. ‘Becky, sweetheart. How are you? How was England?’

‘Fine thanks. Robyn–’

‘I have just been to a delightful thank-you lunch given to me by Mrs Herman Winkler at the Carlton. Now, that was a fabulous wedding. The groom gave the bride a schnauzer puppy at the altar! So adorable...’ Her brow wrinkles. ‘Where was I going with this? Oh yes! You know what? Her daughter and new son-in-law just left for England on their honeymoon! I said to her, perhaps they’ll bump into Becky Bloomwood!’

‘Robyn, I need to talk to you.’

‘Absolutely. And if it’s about the dessert flatware, I’ve spoken to the Plaza–’

‘It’s not about the flatware!’ I cry. ‘Robyn, listen! While I was in England, I cancelled the wedding. I left a message! But you didn’t get it.’

There’s silence in the plushy room. Then Robyn’s face creases up into laughter.

‘Hahaha! Becky, you’re priceless! Isn’t she priceless, Kirsten?’

‘Robyn, I’m serious. I want to call the whole thing off. I want to get married in England. My mum’s organizing a wedding, it’s all arranged–’

‘Can you imagine if you did that?’ says Robyn, with a gurgle. ‘Well, of course, you couldn’t, because of the prenup. If you cancelled now, you’d be in for a lot of money!’ She laughs gaily. ‘Would you like some champagne?’

I stare at her, momentarily halted.

‘What do you mean, the prenup?’

‘The contract you signed, sweetheart.’ She hands me a glass of champagne, and my fingers automatically close round it.

‘But... but Luke didn’t sign it. He said it wasn’t valid if he didn’t sign–’

‘Not between you and Luke! Between you and me! Or, rather, Wedding Events Inc.’

‘What?’ I swallow. ‘Robyn, what are you talking about? I never signed anything.’

‘Of course you did! All my brides do! I gave it to Elinor to pass along to you, and she returned it to me... I have a copy of it somewhere!’ She takes a sip of champagne, swivels on her chair and reaches into an elegant wooden filing cabinet.

‘Here we are!’ She hands me a photocopy of a docu­ment. ‘Of course, the original is with my lawyer...’

I stare at the page, my heart pounding. It’s a typed sheet, headed terms of agreement. I look straight down to the dotted line at the bottom – and there’s my signature.

My mind zooms back to that dark, rainy night. Sitting in Elinor’s apartment. Indignantly signing every single sheet in front of me. Not bothering to read the words above.

Oh God. What have I done?

What have I signed?

Feverishly I start to scan the contract, only half taking in the legal phrases.

The Organizer shall prepare full plans... time frame to be mutually agreed... the Client shall be consulted on all matters... liaise with service providers... budget shall be agreed... final decisions shall rest with the Client... any breach or cancellation for any reason whatsoever... reimbursement... 30 days... full and final payment... Furthermore...’

As I read the next words, slugs are crawling up and down my back.

‘Furthermore, in the case of cancellation, should the Client marry within one year of the date of cancellation, the Client will be liable to a penalty of a hundred thousand dollars, payable to Wedding Events Inc.’

A hundred-thousand-dollar penalty.

And I’ve signed it.

‘A hundred thousand dollars?’ I say at last. ‘That... that seems a lot.’

‘That’s only for the silly girls who pretend to cancel and then get married anyway,’ says Robyn cheerily.

‘But why–’

‘Becky, if I plan a wedding, then I want that wedding to happen. We’ve had girls pull out before.’ Her voice suddenly hardens. ‘Girls who decided to go their own way. Girls who decided to use my ideas, my contacts. Girls who thought they could exploit my expertise and get away with it.’ She leans forward with glittering eyes, and I shrink back fearfully. ‘Becky, you don’t want to be those girls.’

She’s mad. The wedding planner’s mad.

‘G-good idea,’ I say quickly. ‘You have to protect yourself!’

‘Of course, Elinor could have signed it herself – but we agreed, this way, she’s protecting her investment, too!’ Robyn beams at me. ‘It’s a neat arrangement.’

‘Very clever!’ I give a shrill laugh and take a gulp of champagne.

What am I going to do? There must be some way out of this. There must be. People can’t force other people to get married. It’s not ethical.

***

OK. The really vital thing is to keep a sense of proportion. I mean, let’s face it, every wedding has the odd glitch, doesn’t it? You can’t expect the whole process to go smoothly. I’ve just bought a new book, called The Realistic Bride, which I’m finding very comforting at the moment. It has a huge chapter all about wedding hitches, and it says: ‘No matter how insurmountable the problem seems, there will always be a solution! So don’t worry!’

So the example they give is of a bride who loses her satin shoe on the way to the reception. Not a bride who has arranged two different weddings on the same day in different continents, is hiding half the invitations in a cocktail cabinet and has discovered her wedding planner is a litigious nutcase.

But you know. I’m sure the principle’s broadly the same.

The other thing which is keeping me sane is an invaluable tip which I would recommend to all brides-to-be. In fact, I’m surprised they don’t mention it in any of the bridal magazines. It’s to keep a small bottle of vodka in your bag, and take a sip whenever anyone mentions the wedding.

I’ve been back in New York for a week now, and during that time I’ve been to see about seventeen different lawyers about Robyn’s contract. All of them have looked at it carefully, told me they’re afraid it’s watertight, and advised me in future to read all docu­mentation before signing it.

Actually, that’s not quite true. One lawyer just said, ‘Sorry Miss, there’s nothing we can do,’ as soon as I mentioned that the contract was with Robyn de Bendern. Another said, ‘Girl, you’re in trouble,’ and put the phone down.

I can’t believe there isn’t a way out, though. As a last resort, I’ve sent it off to Garson Low, the most expensive lawyer in Manhattan. I read about him in People magazine, and it said he has the sharpest mind in the legal world. It said he can find a loophole in a piece of concrete, and is revered by all. So I’m kind of pinning all my hopes on him – and, meanwhile, trying very hard to act normally and not crumple into a gibbering wreck.

‘I’m having lunch with Michael today,’ says Luke, coming into the kitchen with a couple of boxes in his arms. ‘He seems to have settled into his new place well.’

Michael’s taken the plunge and moved to New York, which is fantastic for us. He’s working part-time as a consultant at Brandon Communications, and the rest of the time, as he put it, he’s ‘reclaiming his life’. He’s taken up painting, and has joined a group which power-walks in Central Park, and last time we saw him he was talking about taking a course in Italian cookery.

‘That’s great!’ I say.

‘He said we must come over soon...’ He peers at me. ‘Becky, are you all right?’

Abruptly I realize I’m drumming a pencil so hard it’s making indentations in the kitchen table.

‘I’m absolutely fine,’ I say, with an over-bright smile. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’