I haven’t said a word about anything to Luke. In The Realistic Bride it says the way to stop your fiance getting bored with wedding details is to feed them to him on a need-to-know basis.

And, on balance, I don’t feel Luke needs to know anything just yet.

***

‘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 rang 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 Inc. 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 to be the cleverest person in America or something! You must be able to think of some way out!’

‘Miss Bloomwood, let me assure you. I have looked at this from all angles and there is no brilliant solution. There is no way out.’ Garson Low sighs. ‘May I give you three small pieces of advice?’

‘What are they?’ I say, with a flicker of hope.

‘The first is, never sign any document before reading it first.’

‘I know that!’ I cry, before I can stop myself. ‘What’s the good of everyone telling me that now?’

‘The second is – and I strongly recommend this – tell your fiance.’

‘And what’s the third?’

‘Hope for the best.’

Extract 10

OK. Don’t panic. This is going to work. If I just keep my head and remain calm, it’ll work.

‘It’ll never work,’ says Suze’s voice in my ear.

‘Shut up!’ I say crossly.

‘It’ll never work in a million years. I’m just warning you.’

‘You’re not supposed to be warning me! You’re supposed to be encouraging me!’ I lower my voice. ‘And as long as everyone does what they’re supposed to, it will work. It has to.’

I’m standing at the window of a twelfth-floor suite at the Plaza, staring out of the window at Plaza Square below. Outside, it's a hot sunny day. People are milling around in T-shirts and shorts, doing normal things like hiring horse carriages to go round the park, and tossing coins into the fountain.

And here am I, dressed in a towel, with my hair teased beyond recognition into a ‘Sleeping Beauty’ style, and make-up an inch thick, walking around in the highest white satin shoes I’ve ever come across in my life. (Christian Louboutin, from Barneys. I get a discount.)

‘What are you doing now?’ comes Suze’s voice again.

‘I’m looking out of the window.’

‘What are you doing that for?’

‘I don’t know.’ I gaze at a woman in denim shorts sitting down on a bench and snapping open a can of Coke, completely unaware she's being watched. ‘To try to get a grip on normality, I suppose.’

‘Normality?’ I hear Suze splutter down the phone. ‘Bex, it’s a bit late for normality!’

‘That’s not fair!’

‘If normality is planet Earth, do you know where you are right now?’

‘Er… the moon?’ I hazard.

‘You’re fifty million light years away. You’re... in another galaxy. A long long time ago.’

‘I do feel a bit like I’m in a different world,’ I admit, and turn to survey the palatial suite behind me.

The atmosphere is hushed and heavy with scent and hairspray and expectation. Everywhere I look there are lavish flower arrangements, baskets of fruit and chocolates, and bottles of champagne on ice. Over by the dressing table the hairdresser and make-up girl are chatting to one another while they work on Erin. Meanwhile the reportage photographer is changing his film, his assistant is watching Madonna on MTV and a room-service waiter is clearing away yet another round of cups and glasses.

It’s all so glamorous, so expensive. But, at the same time, what I’m reminded of most of all is getting ready for the summer school play. The windows would be covered in black material, and we’d all crowd round a mirror getting overexcited, and out the front we’d hear the parents filing in, but we wouldn’t be allowed to peek out and see them...

‘What are you doing now?’ comes Suze’s voice again.

‘Still looking out of the window.’

‘Well, stop looking out of the window! You’ve got less than an hour and a half to go!’

‘Suze, relax.’

‘How can I relax?’ It’s all fine. It’s all under control.’ And you haven’t told anyone,’ she says, for the millionth time. ‘You haven’t told Danny.’

‘Of course not! I’m not that stupid!’ I edge casually into a corner where no-one can hear me. ‘Only Michael knows. And Laurel. That’s it.’

‘And no-one suspects anything?’

‘Not a thing,’ I say, just as Robyn comes into the room. ‘Hi, Robyn! Suze, I’ll talk to you later, OK–’