Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

I hurry to the portaloos without meeting anyone’s eye, lock myself in a cubicle, and sit, swigging the last warm dregs of my champagne. OK, let’s not panic about this. Let’s just… think clearly, and go over my options.

Option One: Tell everybody that Luke isn’t really here, I made a mistake.

Not unless I want to be stoned to death with champagne glasses and never show my face in Oxshott again.

Option Two: Tell Mum and Dad in private that Luke isn’t really here.

But they’ll be so disappointed. They’ll be mortified, and they won’t enjoy the day and it’ll be all my fault.

Option Three: Bluff it out — and tell Mum and Dad the truth at the end of the day.

Yes. That could work. It has to work. I can easily convince everyone Luke’s here for about an hour or so — and then I’ll say he’s got a migraine, and has gone off to lie down quietly.

Right, this is what I’m going to do. OK — let’s go.

And you know, it’s easier than I thought. Before long, everyone seems to be taking it for granted that Luke is around somewhere. Tom’s granny even tells me she’s already spotted him, and isn’t he handsome and will it be my turn next? I’ve told countless people that he was here just a minute ago, have collected two plates of food from the buffet — one for me, one for Luke (tipped one into the flower bed), and have even borrowed some stranger’s morning coat and put it on the chair next to me, as though it’s his. The great thing is, no one can prove he’s not here! There are so many people milling about, it’s impossible to keep track of who’s here and who isn’t. I should have done this ages ago.

“Group photograph in a minute,” says Lucy, bustling up to me. “We all have to line up. Where’s Luke?”

“Talking to some guy about property prices,” I reply without hesitation. “They were over by the drinks table.”

“Well, make sure you introduce me,” says Lucy. “I still haven’t met him!”

“OK!” I say, and give her a bright smile. “As soon as I track him down!” I take a swig of champagne, look up — and there’s Mum in her lime-green wedding outfit, heading toward me.

So far, I’ve managed to avoid her and Dad completely, basically by running away whenever they’ve come close. I know it’s really bad of me — but I just won’t be able to lie to Mum. Quickly I slip out of the marquee into the garden, and head for the shrubbery, dodging the photographer’s assistant, who’s rounding up all the children. I sit down behind a tree and finish my glass of champagne, staring up blankly at the blue afternoon sky.

I stay there for what seems like hours, until my legs are starting to ache and the breeze is making me shiver. Then at last, I slowly wander back, and slip inconspicuously into the tent. I won’t hang around much longer. Just long enough to have a piece of wedding cake, maybe, and some more champagne…

“There she is!” comes a voice behind me.

I freeze for an instant — then slowly turn round. To my utter horror, all the guests are standing in neat rows in the center of the marquee, while a photographer adjusts a tripod.

“Becky, where’s Luke?” says Lucy sharply. “We’re trying to get everybody in.”

Shit. Shit.

“Erm…” I swallow, trying to stay nonchalant. “Maybe he’s in the house?”

“No, he’s not,” says Kate the bridesmaid. “I’ve just been looking in there.”

“Well, he must be… in the garden, then.”

“But you were in the garden!” says Lucy, narrowing her eyes. “Didn’t you see him?”

“Erm… I’m not sure.” I look round the marquee hurriedly, wondering if I could pretend to spot him in the distance. But it’s different when there are no milling crowds. Why did they have to stop milling?

“He must be somewhere!” says a cheerful woman. “Who saw him last?”

There’s a deathly silence. Two hundred people are staring at me. I catch Mum’s anxious eye, and quickly look away again.

“Actually…” I clear my throat. “Now I remember, he was saying he had a bit of a headache! So maybe he went to—”

“Who’s seen him at all?” cuts in Lucy, ignoring me. She looks around the assembled guests. “Who here can say they’ve actually seen Luke Brandon in the flesh? Anyone?”

“I’ve seen him!” comes a wavering voice from the back. “Such a good-looking young man…”

“Apart from Tom’s gran,” says Lucy, rolling her eyes. “Anyone?”