‘Oh, goodness.’ Bonnie sounds shocked. ‘How unfortunate.’
‘I wrote on the invitation, “Don’t call”!’ I’m gabbling almost hysterically. ‘How much clearer could I have been? What if other people start calling? What do I do?’
‘Becky, don’t panic,’ says Bonnie. ‘I’ll have a think about this. How about we have breakfast tomorrow to formulate a plan? I’ll tell Luke I’m coming in late.’
‘OK. Thanks so much, Bonnie. See you tomorrow.’
Slowly my pulse-rate starts subsiding. Honestly, organizing a surprise party is like doing sudden hundred-metre sprints with no warning the whole time. They should offer it instead of personal training.
Ooh, maybe I’ll end up super-fit with no effort. That would be cool.
I put my phone away and am heading back into the house when I become aware of the grinding sound of an engine. A big white van is pulling into the drive, which is weird.
‘Hi.’ I approach hesitantly. ‘Can I help you?’
A guy in a T-shirt leans out of the cab of the van. He’s in his late forties, with dark stubble and a massive tattooed forearm.
‘You the bartering girl? Becky?’
‘What?’ I peer at him in surprise. What’s going on? I haven’t even put any ads in recently. Unless he’s got those latest Prada shades and wants to swap them for a blue Missoni scarf.
Which somehow I doubt.
‘My daughter promised you a marquee? Nicole Taylor? Sixteen-year-old?’
This is Nicole’s dad? I suddenly notice a nasty frown between his eyes. Shit. He looks quite scary. Is he going to tell me off for bartering with someone under-age?
‘Well yes, but—’
‘Whole story came out last night. My wife wanted to know where she got them bags you gave her. Nicole should never have done it.’
‘I didn’t realize she was so young,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘You think a marquee costs the same as a couple of handbags?’ he says menacingly.
Oh God. Does he think I was trying to pull some kind of scam?
‘No! I mean … I don’t know!’ My voice jumps with nerves. ‘I was just hoping someone might just have a spare marquee they didn’t want, you know, lying around the place—’
I break off as I suddenly realize my voice might be carrying up to the bathroom window. Shit.
‘Can we whisper, please?’ I edge nearer the cab. ‘It’s all supposed to be a secret. And if my husband comes out … I’m buying fruit off you, OK?’
Nicole’s dad shoots me an incredulous look, then says, ‘How much are them bags worth, anyway?’
‘They cost about a thousand pounds new. I mean, it depends how much you like Marc Jacobs, I suppose …’
‘Thousand quid.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘She’s a bloody little lunatic.’
I don’t dare chime in, either to agree or disagree. In fact, now I think about it, he might be talking about me.
Abruptly Nicole’s dad focuses on me again. ‘All right,’ he says heavily. ‘If my daughter promised you a marquee, I’ll supply a marquee. I can’t lay on the full monty, you’ll have to put it up yourself. But we’re quiet at the moment. I’ll sort you something.’
For an instant I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.
‘You’ll get me a marquee?’ I clap a hand over my mouth. ‘Oh my God. Do you know that you have just saved my life?’
Nicole’s dad gives a short laugh and hands me a card. ‘One of the lads’ll be in touch. Tell him the date, say Cliff knows about it, we’ll sort you out.’ He grinds the van into gear and starts reversing out of the drive.
‘Thanks, Cliff!’ I call after him. ‘Tell Nicole I hope she’s enjoying the bags!’
I want to dance around. I want to whoop. I’ve got a marquee! And it didn’t cost thousands, and it’s all sorted. I knew I could do it.
CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1
Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
28 February 2006
Dear Rebecca
Thank you for your prompt reply. It is most kind of you to issue permission so readily.
Unfortunately The British Journal of Monetary Economics is not an illustrated periodical and does not have a ‘photo-editor’ or ‘stylist’ as you suggest. I will therefore be unable to use the photographs of the Missoni coat, belt and boots that you so kindly enclosed and return them with thanks.