“So, are these all fruitcakes inside?”

“Fruitcake? Non, non, non!” Antoine laughs. “This is very English notion, the fruitcake at the wedding. This particular cake…” He points to the butterfly cake. “It was a light angel sponge, each tier layered with three different fillings: burnt orange caramel, passion-fruit-mango, and hazelnut soufflé.”

Gosh.

“If you like chocolate, we can construct a cake purely from different varieties of chocolate.” He turns to another page. “This was a dark chocolate sponge layered with chocolate fondant, white chocolate cream, and a Grand Marnier truffle filling.”

I had no idea wedding cakes could be anything like this. I flip through dazedly, looking at cake after spectacular cake.

“If you do not want the traditional tiers, I can make for you a cake to represent something you love. A favorite painting… or a sculpture…” He looks at me again. “A Louis Vuitton trunk, perhaps…”

A Louis Vuitton trunk wedding cake! How cool would that be?

“Antoine? If you could just come here a moment?” Robyn pokes her head out of a small meeting room to the right — and although she’s smiling, she sounds pretty harassed.

“Excuse me, Miss Bloomwood,” says Antoine apologetically. “Davina. Some cake for Miss Bloomwood to taste.”

A smiling assistant disappears through a pair of double doors — then returns with a glass of champagne and a china plate holding two slices of cake and a sugar lily. She hands me a fork and says, “This one is passion-fruit-mango, strawberry, and tangerine mousseline, and this is caramel creme with pistachio and mocha truffle. Enjoy!”

Wow. Each slice is a light sponge, with three different pastel-colored fillings. I don’t know where to start!

OK… let’s go for mocha truffle.

I put a piece in my mouth and nearly swoon. Now this is what wedding cakes should all be like. Why don’t we have these in England?

I take a few sips of champagne and nibble the sugar lily, which is all yummy and lemony — then take a second piece and munch blissfully, watching a girl nearby as she painstakingly makes a spray of lilies of the valley.

You know, maybe I should get Suze a nice cake for her baby’s christening. I mean, I’ll get a present as well — but I could always buy a cake as a little extra.

“Do you know how much these cakes are?” I ask the girl as I polish off the second slice.

“Well… it really varies,” she says, looking up. “But I guess they start at about a thousand dollars.”

I nearly choke on my champagne. A thousand dollars? They start at $1,000?

For a cake?

I mean, how much have I eaten, just now? That must have been at least $50 worth of cake on my plate!

“Would you like another slice?” says the girl, and glances at the meeting room. “It looks like Antoine is still held up.”

“Ooh, well… Why not! And could I try one of those sugar tulips? You know. Just for research purposes.”

“Sure,” says the girl pleasantly. “Whatever you like.”

She gives me a tulip and a spray of tiny white flowers, and I crunch through them happily, washing them down with champagne.

Then I look idly around and spy a huge, elaborate flower, yellow and white with tiny drops of dew. Wow. That looks yummy. I reach over a display of sugar hearts, pick it up, and it’s almost in my mouth when I hear a yell.

“Stooooop!” A guy in whites is pounding across the studio toward me. “Don’t eat the jonquil!”

“Oops!” I say, stopping just in time. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. Is it very special?”

“It took me three hours to make,” he says, taking it gently from my hand. “No harm done, though.” He smiles at me, but I notice there’s sweat on his forehead.

Hmm. Maybe I should just stick to the champagne from now on. I take another sip, and am looking around for the bottle, when raised voices start coming from the side room where Robyn and Antoine are closeted.

“I deed not do this deliberately! Mademoiselle, I do not have a vendetta.”

“You do! You bloody hate me, don’t you?” comes a muffled voice.

I can hear Robyn’s voice, saying something soothing, which I can’t make out.

“It’s just one thing after another!” The girl’s voice is raised now — and as I hear it clearly, I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth.

I don’t believe it.

It can’t be.

“This bloody wedding is jinxed!” she’s exclaiming. “Right from the word go, everything’s gone wrong.”

The door swings open and now I can hear her properly.

It is. It’s Alicia.

I feel my whole body stiffen.

“First the Plaza couldn’t fit us in! Now this fiasco with the cake! And do you know what I just heard?”

“What?” says Robyn fearfully.

“My maid of honor dyed her hair red! She won’t match the others! Of all the bloody inconsiderate, selfish…”

The door is flung open and out stalks Alicia, her stilettos echoing like gunfire on the wooden floor. When she sees me, she stops dead and I look at her, my heart thumping hard.

“Hi, Alicia,” I say, forcing myself to sound relaxed. “Sorry to hear about your cake. That was delicious, by the way, Antoine.”

“What?” says Alicia blankly. Her eyes flash to my engagement ring, to my face, back to my ring, to my shoes, to my bag — taking in my skirt on the way — and finally back to my ring. It’s like the Manhattan Onceover in a hall of mirrors.

“You’re getting married?” she says at last. “To Luke?”

“Yes.” I glance nonchalantly at the diamond on my left hand, then smile innocently up at her.

I’m starting to relax now. I’m starting to enjoy this.

(Also, I just gave Alicia the Manhattan Onceover myself. And my ring is a teeny bit bigger than hers. Not that I’m comparing or anything.)

“How come you didn’t say?”

You didn’t ask, I want to reply, but instead I just give a little shrug.

“So where are you getting married?” Alicia’s old supercilious expression is returning and I can see her getting ready to pounce.

“Well… as it happens…” I clear my throat.

OK, this is the moment. This is the time to make the big announcement. To tell Robyn I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to get married in Oxshott.

“Actually…”

I take a deep breath. Come on. It’s like a Band-Aid. The quicker I do it, the quicker it’ll be over. Just say it.

And I really am on the brink of it — when I make the fatal mistake of looking up. Alicia’s looking as patronizing and smug as she ever did. I feel years of feeling stupid and small welling up in me like a volcano — and I just can’t help it, I hear my voice saying, “Actually, we’re getting married at the Plaza.”

Alicia’s face snaps in shock, like an elastic band. “The Plaza? Really?”

“It should be rather lovely,” I add casually. “Such a beautiful venue, the Plaza. Is that where you’re getting married?”

“No,” says Alicia, her chin rather tight. “They couldn’t fit us in at such short notice. When did you book?”

“Oh… a week or two ago,” I say, and give a vague shrug.

Yes! Yes! Her expression!

“It’s going to be wonderful,” puts in Robyn enthusiastically. “I spoke to the designer this morning, by the way. He’s ordered two hundred birch trees, and they’re going to send over some samples of pine needles…”

I can see Alicia’s brain working hard.

“You’re the one having the enchanted forest in the Plaza,” she says at last. “I’ve heard about that. Sheldon Lloyd’s designing it. Is that true?”

“That’s the one,” I say, and smile at Robyn, who beams back as though I’m an old ally.

“Mees Bloomwood.” Antoine appears from nowhere and presses my hand to his lips. “I am now completely at your service. I apologize for the delay. One of these irritating little matters…”

Alicia’s face goes rigid.

“Well,” she says. “I’ll be off then.”

“Au revoir,” says Antoine, without even looking up.

“Bye, Alicia,” I say innocently. “Have a lovely wedding.”

As she stalks out, I subside back in my seat, heart still pumping wth exhilaration. That was one of the best moments of my life. Finally getting the better of Alicia Bitch Longlegs. Finally! I mean, how often has she been horrible to me? Answer: approximately one thousand times. And how often have I had the perfect put-down at my lips? Answer: never.

Until today!

I can see Robyn and Antoine exchanging looks, and I’m dying to ask them what they think of Alicia. But… it wouldn’t be becoming in a bride-to-be.

Plus if they bitch about her, they might bitch about me too.

“Now!” says Robyn. “On to something more pleasant. You’ve seen the details of Becky’s wedding, Antoine.”

“Indeed,” says Antoine, beaming at me. “Eet will be a most beautiful event.”

“I know,” I hear myself saying happily. “I’m so looking forward to it!”

“So… we discuss the cake… I must fetch some pictures for you… meanwhile, can I offer you some more champagne, perhaps?”

“Yes, please,” I say, and hold out my glass. “That would be lovely!”

The champagne fizzes, pale and delicious, into my glass. Then Antoine disappears off again and I take a sip, smiling to hide the fact that inside, I’m feeling a slight unease.

Now that Alicia’s gone, there’s no need to pretend anymore. What I should do is put my glass down, take Robyn aside, apologize for having wasted her time — and inform her that the wedding is off and I’m getting married in Oxshott. Quite simple and straightforward.

That’s what I should do.

But… something very strange has happened since this morning. I can’t quite explain it — but somehow, sitting here, drinking champagne and eating thousand-dollar cake, I just don’t feel like someone who’s going to get married in a garden in Oxshott.

If I’m really honest, hand on heart — I feel exactly like someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza.

More than that, I want to be someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza. I want to be that girl who swans around expensive cake shops and has people running after her and gets treated like a princess. If I call off the wedding, then it’ll all stop. Everyone will stop making a fuss. I’ll stop being that special, glossy person.

Oh God, what’s happened to me? I was so resolved this morning.

Determinedly I close my eyes and force myself to think back to Mum and her flowering cherry tree. But even that doesn’t work. Perhaps it’s the champagne — but instead of being overcome with emotion, and thinking: I must get married at home, I find myself thinking: Maybe we can incorporate the cherry tree into the enchanted forest.

“All right, Becky?” says Robyn, beaming at me. “Penny for them!”

“Oh!” I say, my head jerking up guiltily. “I was just thinking that… the um… wedding will be fantastic.”

What am I going to do? Am I going to say something?

Am I not going to say anything?

Come on, Becky. Decide.

“So — you want to see what I have in my bag?” says Robyn brightly.

“Er… yes, please.”

“Ta-daah!” She pulls out a thick, embossed card, covered in swirly writing, and hands it to me.



Mrs. Elinor Sherman

requests the honour of your presence

at the marriage of

Rebecca Bloomwood

to her son

Luke Brandon


I stare at it, my heart thumping hard.

This is real. This is really real. Here it is, in black and white.

Or at least, bronze and taupe.

I take the stiff card from her and turn it over and over in my fingers.

“What do you think?” Robyn beams. “It’s exquisite, isn’t it? The card is 80 percent linen.”

“It’s… lovely.” I swallow. “It seems very soon to be sending out invitations, though.”

“We aren’t sending them out yet! But I always like to get the invitations done early. What I always say is, you can’t proofread too many times. We don’t want to be asking our guests to wear ‘evening press,’ like one bride I could mention…” She trills with laughter.

“Right.” I stare down at the words again.


Saturday June 21st at seven o’clock

at the Plaza Hotel

New York City


This is serious. If I’m going to say anything, I have to say it now. If I’m going to call this wedding off, I have to do it now. Right this minute.