Reasons why our wedding should be at the Plaza:
1. Wouldn’t you love a trip to New York, all expenses paid?
2. The Plaza is a fantastic hotel.
3. You won’t have to make any effort.
4. A marquee would only mess up the garden.
5. You won’t have to invite Auntie Sylvia.
6. You get free Tiffany frames.
They seemed so convincing when I was writing them. Now they seem like jokes. Mum and Dad don’t know anything about the Plaza. Why would they want to fly off to some snooty hotel they’ve never clapped eyes on? Why would they want to give up hosting the wedding they’ve always dreamed of? I’m their only daughter. Their one and only child.
So… what am I going to do?
I sit staring at the page, breathing hard, letting my thoughts fight it out. I’m scrabbling desperately for a solution, a loophole to wriggle through, unwilling to give up until I’ve tried every last possibility. Round and round, over the same old ground.
“Becky?”
Mum comes in and I give a guilty start, crumpling the list in my hand.
“Hi!” I say brightly. “Ooh. Coffee. Lovely.”
“It’s decaffeinated,” says Mum, handing me a mug reading You Don’t Have to Be Mad to Organize a Wedding But Your Mother Does. “I thought maybe you were drinking decaffeinated these days.”
“No,” I say in surprise. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“And how are you feeling?” Mum sits down next to me and I surreptitiously transfer my screwed-up piece of paper from one hand to the other. “A little bit tired? Sick, too, probably.”
“Not too bad.” I give a slightly heavier sigh than I meant to. “The airline food was pretty grim, though.”
“You must keep your strength up!” Mum squeezes my arm. “Now, I’ve got something for you, darling!” She hands me a piece of paper. “What do you think?”
I unfold the paper and stare at it in bewilderment. It’s house details. A four-bedroom house in Oxshott, to be precise.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Mum’s face is glowing. “Look at all the features!”
“You’re not going to move, are you?”
“Not for us, silly! You’d be just round the corner from us! Look, it’s got a built-in barbecue, two en-suite bathrooms…”
“Mum, we live in New York.”
“You do at the moment. But you won’t want to stay in New York forever, will you? Not in the long term.”
There’s a sudden thread of concern in her voice; and although she’s smiling, I can see the tension in her eyes. I open my mouth to answer — then realize, to my own surprise, that Luke and I haven’t ever talked properly about the long term.
I suppose I’ve always assumed that we’ll come back to Britain one day. But when?
“You’re not planning to stay there for good, surely?” she adds, and gives a little laugh.
“I don’t know,” I say confusedly. “I don’t know what we want to do.”
“You couldn’t bring up a family in that poky flat! You’ll want to come home! You’ll want a nice house with a garden! Especially now.”
“Now what?”
“Now…” She makes a euphemistic circling gesture.
“What?”
“Oh, Becky.” Mum sighs. “I can understand if you’re a little… shy about telling people. But it’s all right, darling! These days, it’s perfectly acceptable. There’s no stigma!”
“Stigma? What are you—”
“The only thing we’ll need to know”—she pauses delicately—“is how much to let the dress out by? For the day?”
Let out the dress? What on…
Hang on.
“Mum! You haven’t got the idea that I’m… I’m…” I make the same euphemistic gesture that she made.
“You’re not?” Mum’s face falls in disappointment.
“No! Of course I’m not! Why on earth would you think that?”
“You said you had something important to discuss with us!” says Mum, defensively taking a sip of coffee. “It wasn’t Luke, it wasn’t your job, and it wasn’t your bank manager. And Suzie’s having a baby, and you two girls always do things together, so we assumed…”
“Well, I’m not, OK? And I’m not on drugs either, before you ask.”
“So, then, what did you want to tell us?” She puts her coffee down and looks at me anxiously. “What was so important that you had to come home?”
There’s silence in the bedroom. My fingers tighten around my mug.