Shopaholic Ties the Knot

“Look, just trust me, OK?”

“Trust you?”

“Yes! Like you just promised to do five seconds ago! Remember?”

“I promised to do that when I thought we were getting married!”

Suddenly the string orchestra launches into the “Bridal March,” and a team of minders usher away the guests with their cameras.

“Go,” says a crackling, disembodied voice. “Start walking.”

Where on earth is it coming from? Are my flowers talking to me?

Suddenly my eyes zoom in on a tiny speaker, attached to a rose-bud. Robyn’s planted a speaker in my bouquet?

“Bride and groom! Walk!”

“OK!” I say to the flowers. “We’re going!”

I grab Luke’s arm tight and begin to walk down the aisle, back through the enchanted forest.

“We’re not married,” Luke is saying disbelievingly. “A whole bloody forest, four hundred people, a big white dress, and we’re not married.”

“Sssh!” I say crossly. “Don’t tell everybody! Look, you promised if things were a bit strange you’d go with it. Well, go with it!”

As we walk along arm in arm, rays of sunlight are piercing the branches of the forest, dappling the floor. Suddenly there’s a whirring noise, and to my astonishment the branches creakily begin to retreat, to reveal rainbows playing on the ceiling. A heavenly chorus breaks into song, and a fluffy cloud descends from the sky, on which a pair of fat pink doves are reposing.

Oh God. I’ve got the giggles. This is too much. Are these the tiny additional details Robyn was talking about?

I look up at Luke, and his mouth is twitching suspiciously too.

“What do you think of the forest?” I say brightly. “It’s cool, isn’t it? They flew the birch trees over from Switzerland especially.”

“Really?” says Luke. “Where did they fly the doves over from?” He peers up at them. “Those are too big to be doves. They must be turkeys.”

“They’re not turkeys!”

“Love turkeys.”

“Luke, shut up,” I mutter, trying desperately not to giggle. “They’re doves.”

We’re passing row after row of smartly dressed guests, all smiling warmly at us except the girls, who are giving me the Manhattan Onceover.

“Who the hell are all these people?” says Luke, surveying the rows of smiling strangers.

“I have no idea.” I shrug. “I thought you might know some of them.”

We reach the back of the room for a final session of photographs, and Luke looks at me quizzically. “Becky, my parents aren’t here. And neither are yours.”

“Er… no. They’re not.”

“No family. No ring. And we’re not married.” He pauses. “Call me crazy — but this isn’t quite how I expected our wedding to be.”

“This isn’t our wedding,” I say, and kiss him for the cameras.

I can’t quite believe we’re getting away with it. No one’s said anything. No one’s questioned a thing. A couple of people have asked to see the ring, and I’ve just flashed them the band of my engagement ring, turned round.

We’ve eaten sushi and caviar. We’ve had an amazing four-course dinner. We’ve drunk toasts. It’s all gone according to plan. We cut the cake with a huge silver sword and everybody cheered, and then the band started to play “The Way You Look Tonight” and Luke led me onto the dance floor and we started dancing. That was one of those moments I’ll keep in my scrapbook forever. A whirl of white and gold and glitter and music, and Luke’s arms around me, and my head giddy from champagne, and the knowledge that this was it, this was the high, and soon it would be over.

And now the party’s in full swing. The band’s playing a jazzy number I don’t recognize, and the dance floor’s full. Amid the throng of well-dressed strangers, I can pick out a few familiar faces. Christina’s dancing with her date, and Erin is chatting to one of the groomsmen. And there’s Laurel, dancing very energetically with… Michael!

Well now. That’s a thought.

“So. Guess how many people have asked for my card?” says a voice in my ear. I turn round, to see Danny looking triumphant, a glass of champagne in each hand and a cigarette in his mouth. “Twenty! At least! One wanted me to take her measurements, right then and there. They all think the dress is to die for. And when I told them I’d worked with John Galliano…”

“Danny, you’ve never worked with John Galliano!”

“I passed him a cup of coffee once,” he says defensively. “And he thanked me. That was, in its way, an artistic communication…”