Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3)

Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3) Page 108

I feel a fresh spasm of nerves and take a sip of coffee to hide it. “Really? What… what are you concerned about?”

“We haven’t had a single reply from your British guests. Isn’t that strange?”

For a moment I’m unable to speak.

“Er… yes,” I manage at last. “Very.”

“Except Luke’s parents, who accepted a while ago. Of course they were on Elinor’s guest list, so they got their invitation a little earlier, but even so…” She reaches for my coffee cup and takes a sip. “Mmm. This is good, if I do say so myself! Now, I don’t want to accuse anyone of lacking manners. But we need to start getting some numbers in. So is it OK if I make a few tactful calls to England? I have all the phone numbers in my database…”

“No!” I say, suddenly waking up. “Don’t call anybody! I mean… you’ll get the replies, I promise.”

“It’s just so odd!” Robyn muses. “To have heard nothing… They did all receive their invitations, didn’t they?”

“Of course they did! I’m sure it’s just an oversight.” I start pleating the sheet between finger and thumb. “You’ll have some replies within a week. I can… guarantee it.”

“Well, I certainly hope so! Because time is ticking on! We’ve only got four weeks to go!”

“I know!” I say shrilly, and take another gulp of coffee, wishing desperately it were vodka.

Four weeks.

Oh God.

“Shall I refresh your cup, sweetheart?” Robyn stands up — then bends down again. “What’s this?” she says with interest, and picks up a piece of paper lying on the floor. “Is this a menu?”

I look up — and my heart stops. She’s got one of Mum’s faxes.

The menu for the other wedding.

Everything’s right there, under the bed. If she starts looking…

“It’s nothing!” I say, grabbing it from her. “Just a… um… a menu for a… a party…”

“You’re holding a party?”

“We’re… thinking about it.”

“Well, if you want any help planning it, just say the word!” Robyn lowers her voice confidentially. “And a tiny tip?” She gestures to Mum’s menu. “I think you’ll find filo parcels are a little passé.”

“Right. Er… thanks.”

I have to get this woman out of here. At once. Before she finds anything else.

Abruptly I throw back the sheets and leap out of bed.

“Actually, Robyn, I’m still not feeling quite right. Maybe we could… could reschedule the rest of this meeting?”

“I understand.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

“By the way,” I say casually as we reach the front door. “I was just wondering… You know that financial penalty clause in your contract?”

“Yes!” Robyn beams at me.

“Out of interest.” I give a little laugh. “Have you ever actually collected it?”

“Oh, only a few times!” says Robyn. She pauses reminiscently. “One silly girl tried to run off to Poland… but we found her in the end… See you, Becky!”

“See you!” I say, matching her bright tone, and close the door, my heart thumping hard.

She’ll get me. It’s only a matter of time.

As soon as I get to work, I call Luke at work and get his assistant, Julia.

“Hi,” I say, “can I speak to Luke?”

“Luke called in sick,” says Julia, sounding surprised. “Didn’t you know?”

I stare at the phone, taken aback. Luke’s taken a sickie? Blimey. Maybe his hangover was even worse than mine.

Shit, and I’ve nearly given the game away.

“Oh, right!” I say quickly. “Yes! Now you mention it… of course I knew! He’s dreadfully sick, actually. He’s got a terrible fever. And his… er… stomach. I just forgot for a moment, that’s all.”

“Well, give him all the best from us.”

“I will!”

As I put the phone down, I realize I might have overreacted a teeny bit. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to give Luke the sack, is it? After all, it’s his company.

In fact, I’m pleased he’s having a day off.

But still. Luke getting sick. He never gets sick.

And he never jogs. What’s going on?

I’m supposed to be going out for a drink after work with Erin, but I make an excuse and hurry home instead. When I let myself in, the apartment’s dim, and for a moment I think Luke isn’t back. But then I see him, sitting at the table in the gloom, wearing track pants and an old sweatshirt.