“First of all, the contract has been very cleverly drawn up,” says Garson Low.
“Right.” I nod.
“There are several extremely ingenious clauses, covering all eventualities.”
“I see.”
“I’ve examined it thoroughly. And as far as I can see, there is no way you can get married in Britain without incurring the penalty.”
“Right.” I nod expectantly.
There’s a short silence.
“So… what’s the loophole?” I ask eventually.
“There is no loophole. Those are the facts.”
“What?” I stare confusedly at the phone. “But… that’s why you rang, isn’t it? To tell me you’d found a loophole. To tell me we could win!”
“No, Miss Bloomwood. I called to tell you that if I were you, I would start making arrangements to cancel your British wedding.”
I feel a stab of shock. “But… but I can’t. That’s the whole point. My mum’s had the house done up, and everything. It would kill her.”
“Then I’m afraid you will have to pay Wedding Events Ltd. the full penalty.”
“But…” My throat is tight. “I can’t do that either. I haven’t got a hundred thousand dollars! There must be another way!”
“I’m afraid—”
“There must be some brilliant solution!” I push back my hair, trying not to panic. “Come on! You’re supposed to be the cleverest person in America or something! You must be able to think of some way out!”
“Miss Bloomwood, let me assure you. I have looked at this from all angles and there is no brilliant solution. There is no way out.” Garson Low sighs. “May I give you three small pieces of advice?”
“What are they?” I say with a flicker of hope.
“The first is, never sign any document before reading it first.”
“I know that!” I cry before I can stop myself. “What’s the good of everyone telling me that now?”
“The second is — and I strongly recommend this — tell your fiancé.”
“And what’s the third?”
“Hope for the best.”
Is that all a million-pound lawyer can come up with? Tell your fiancé and hope for the best? Bloody stupid… expensive… complete rip-off…
OK, keep calm. I’m cleverer than him. I can think of something. I know I can. I just know I—
Hang on.
I saunter casually into the kitchen, where Luke has stopped gazing at the pictures of Suze and is staring broodingly into space instead.
“Hi,” I say, running a hand along the back of his chair. “Hey, Luke. You’ve got loads of money, haven’t you?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” I say, slightly affronted. “Of course you have!”
“I’ve got assets,” says Luke. “I’ve got a company. That’s not necessarily the same as money.”
“Whatever.” I wave my hand impatiently. “And we’re getting married. You know, ‘All thy worldly goods’ and everything. So in a way…” I pause carefully, “it’s mine, too.”
“Yeee-s. Is this going anywhere?”
“So… if I asked you for some money, would you give it to me?”
“I expect so. How much?”
“Er… a hundred thousand dollars,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Luke raises his head. “A hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yes! I mean, it’s not that much really—”
Luke sighs. “OK, Becky. What have you seen? Because if it’s another customized leather coat—”
“It’s not a coat! It’s a… a surprise.”
“A hundred-thousand-dollar surprise.”
“Yes,” I say after a pause. But even I don’t sound that convinced.
Maybe this isn’t a brilliant solution after all.
“Becky, a hundred thousand dollars is that much. It’s a lot of money!”
“I know,” I say. “I know. Look… OK… it doesn’t matter.” And I hurry out before he can question me further.
OK, forget the lawyers. Forget the money. There has to be another solution to this. I just need to think laterally.
I mean, we could always elope. Get married on a beach and change our names and never see our families again.
No, this is it. I go to the Oxshott wedding. And Luke goes to the New York wedding. And we each say we’ve been jilted… and then we secretly meet up…
No! I have it! We hire standins! Genius!