Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3)

Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3) Page 96

“Where… where did you get those names?” I ask, trying to make it sound like a lighthearted inquiry.

“Luke gave us a list! I was pressuring him about it, so he had a look around your apartment. He said he found it hidden under the bed, or someplace odd. I said, that’s probably the safest place to put it!”

She produces a piece of paper, and my eyes focus on it in disbelief.

Mum’s handwriting.

The guest list she faxed over to us, weeks ago. The names and addresses of all the family friends and relations who are being invited to the wedding. The wedding at home.

Robyn’s inviting all the same people as Mum.

“Have the invitations… gone out yet?” I say in a voice I don’t quite recognize.

“Well, no.” Robyn wags her finger at me. “Elinor’s all went out last week. But we got your guest list so late, I’m afraid yours are still with the calligrapher! She’s going to mail them off just as soon as she’s finished…”

“Stop her,” I say desperately. “You have to stop her!”

“What?” Robyn looks at me in surprise, and I’m aware of Kirsten lifting her head in interest. “Why, sweetheart?”

“I… I have to post the invitations myself,” I say. “It’s a… a family tradition. The bride always, er… posts her own invitations.”

I rub my hot face, trying to keep cool. Across the room, I can see Kirsten staring curiously at me. They probably think I’m a complete control freak now. But I don’t care. I have to stop those invitations from going out.

“How unusual!” says Robyn. “I never heard that custom before!”

“Are you saying I’m making it up?”

“No! Of course not! I’ll let Judith know,” says Robyn, picking up the phone and flicking her Rolodex, and I subside, breathing hard.

My head is spinning. Too much is happening. While I’ve been closeted with Suze and Ernie, everything has been steaming ahead without me realizing it, and now I’ve completely lost control of the situation. It’s like this wedding is some big white horse that was trotting along quite nicely but has suddenly reared up and galloped off into the distance without me.

Robyn wouldn’t really sue me. Would she?

“Hi, Judith? Yes, it’s Robyn. Have you… you have? Well, that was quick work!” Robyn looks up. “You won’t believe this, but she’s already finished them!”

“What?” I look up in horror.

“She’s at the mailbox already! Isn’t that a—”

“Well, stop her!” I shriek. “Stop her!”

“Judith,” says Robyn urgently. “Judith, stop. The bride is very particular. She wants to mail the invitations herself. Some family tradition,” she says in a lower tone. “British. Yes. No, I don’t know either.”

She looks up with a careful smile, as though I’m a tricky three-year-old.

“Becky, I’m afraid a few already went into the mailbox. But you’ll get to mail all the rest!”

“A few?” I say agitatedly. “How many?”

“How many, Judith?” says Robyn, then turns to me. “She thinks three.”

“Three? Well… can she reach in and get them back?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Couldn’t she find a… a stick or something…”

Robyn stares at me silently for a second, then turns to the phone.

“Judith, let me get the location of that mailbox.” She scribbles on a piece of paper, then looks up. “You know what, Becky, I think the best thing is if you go down there, and just… do whatever you have to do…”

“OK. I will. Thanks.”

As I put my coat on, I can see Robyn and Kirsten exchanging glances.

“You know, Becky, you might want to chill out a little,” says Robyn. “Everything’s under control. There’s nothing for you to worry about!” She leans forward cozily. “As I often say to my brides, when they get a little agitated… it’s just a wedding!”

I can’t even bring myself to reply.

The mailbox is off the corner of Ninety-third and Lexington. As I turn into the street I can see a woman who must be Judith, dressed in a dark raincoat, leaning against the side of a building. As I hurry toward her, I see her look at her watch, give an impatient shrug, and head toward the mailbox, a stack of envelopes in her hand.

“Stop!” I yell, increasing my pace to a sprint. “Don’t post those!”

I arrive by her side, panting so hard I can barely speak.