Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3)

Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3) Page 47

“This is a one-off example,” says Luke impatiently. “And in my opinion, the benefits to the company will far outweigh any costs.”

“Michael’s your partner! You should listen to him. You should trust him.”

“And he should trust me!” retorts Luke angrily. “There won’t be a problem with the investors. Believe me, when they see the publicity we’re going to generate, they’ll be more than happy. If Michael could just understand that, instead of quibbling over stupid details… Where is he, anyway?”

“Michael had to go,” I say — and see Luke’s face tighten in shock.

“He left? Oh, well. Great.”

“It wasn’t like that. He had to.” I sit down on the bed and take hold of Luke’s hand. “Luke, don’t fight with Michael. He’s been such a good friend. Come on, remember everything he’s done for you? Remember the speech he made on your birthday?”

I’m trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Luke doesn’t seem to notice. His face is taut and defensive and his shoulders are hunched up. He’s not going to listen to a word I say. I give an inward sigh and take a sip of champagne. I’ll just have to wait until a better time.

There’s silence for a few minutes — and after a while we both relax. It’s as though we’ve called a truce.

“I’d better go,” I say at last. “Suze doesn’t know anybody down there.”

“How long is she in New York for?” asks Luke, looking up.

“Just a few days.”

I look idly around the room. I’ve never been in Elinor’s bedroom before. It’s immaculate, like the rest of the place, with pale walls and lots of expensive-looking custom-made furniture.

“Hey, guess what,” I say, suddenly remembering. “Suze and I are going to choose a wedding dress tomorrow!”

Luke looks at me in surprise. “I thought you were going to wear your mother’s wedding dress.”

“Yes. Well.” I frown. “The thing is, there was this awful accident…”

And all I can say is thank God. Thank God for Suze and her well-aimed cup of coffee.

As we approach the window of Dream Dress on Madison Avenue the next morning, I suddenly realize what Mum was asking me to do. How could she want me to dress up in white frills, instead of one of these gorgeous, amazing, Oscar-winner creations? We open the door and silently look around the hushed showroom, with its champagne-colored carpet and painted trompe l’oeil clouds on the ceiling — and, hanging in gleaming, glittery, sheeny rows on two sides of the room, wedding dresses.

I can feel overexcitement rising through me like a fountain. Any minute I might giggle out loud.

“Rebecca!” Cynthia has spotted us and is coming forward with a beam. “I’m so glad you came. Welcome to Dream Dress, where our motto is—”

“Ooh, I bet I know!” interrupts Suze. “Is it ‘Live out your dream at Dream Dress’?”

“No. It’s not.” Cynthia smiles.

“Is it ‘Dreams come true at Dream Dress’?”

“No.” Cynthia’s smile tightens slightly. “It’s ‘We’ll find your Dream Dress.’”

“Oh, lovely!” Suze nods politely.

Cynthia ushers us into the hushed room and seats us on a cream sofa. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she says pleasantly. “Have a browse through some magazines meanwhile.” Suze and I grin excitedly at each other — then she reaches for Contemporary Bride, and I pick up Martha Stewart Weddings.

I adore Martha Stewart Weddings.

Secretly, I want to be Martha Stewart Weddings. I just want to crawl inside the pages with all those beautiful people getting married in Nantucket and South Carolina and riding to the chapel on horses and making their own place-card holders out of frosted russet apples.

I stare at a picture of a wholesome-looking couple standing in a poppy field against a staggeringly beautiful backdrop of mountains. You know, maybe we should get married in a poppy field too, and I could have barley twined round my hair and Luke could make us a loving seat with his own bare hands because his family has worked in wood crafting for six generations. Then we’d ride back to the house in an old country wagon—

“What’s ‘French white-glove service’?” says Suze, peering puzzledly at an ad.

“I dunno.” I look up dazedly. “Hey, Suze, look at this. Shall I make my own bouquet?”

“Do what?”

“Look!” I point to the page. “You can make your own flowers out of crepe paper for an imaginative and individual bouquet.”