Free Shopaholic Ties the Knot by Sophie Kinsella

maybe if you actually organized something once in a blue moon, maybe if we weren’t stuck in such a bloody rut . . .”
    Lucy’s voice is so hectoring. And now Tom’s voice is raised defensively in return.
    “We went out to . . . all you could do was complain . . . made a real bloody effort . . .”
    Crack!
    Shit.
Shit
. I’ve stepped on a twig.
    For an instant I consider running. But it’s too late, their heads have already appeared over the garden fence, Tom’s all pink and distressed, and Lucy’s tight with anger.
    “Oh, hi!” I say, trying to look relaxed. “How are
you
? I’m just . . . um . . . having a little stroll . . . and I dropped my . . . hanky.”
    “Your hanky?” Lucy looks suspiciously at the ground. “I can’t see any hanky.”
    “Well . . . erm . . . So . . . how’s married life?”
    “Fine,” says Lucy shortly. “Congratulations, by the way.”
    “Thanks.”
    There’s an awkward pause, and I find myself running my eyes over Lucy’s outfit, taking in her top (black polo-neck, probably M&S), trousers (Earl Jeans, quite cool, actually), and boots (high-heeled with laces, Russell & Bromley).
    This is something I’ve always done, checking out people’s clothes and listing them in my mind like on a fashion page. I thought I was the only one who did it. But then I moved to New York—and there, everyone does it. Seriously, everybody. The first time you meet anyone, whether it’s a rich society lady or a doorman, they give you a swift, three-second top-to-toe sweep. You can see them costing your entire outfit to the nearest dollar before they even say hello. I call it the Manhattan Onceover.
    “So how’s New York?”
    “It’s great! Really exciting . . . I love my job . . . it’s such a great place to live!”
    “I’ve never been,” says Tom wistfully. “I wanted to go there for our honeymoon.”
    “Tom, don’t start that again,” says Lucy sharply. “OK?”
    “Maybe I could come and visit,” says Tom. “I could come for the weekend.”
    “Er . . . yes! Maybe! You could both come . . .” I tail off lamely as Lucy rolls her eyes and stomps toward the house. “Anyway, lovely to see you and I’m glad married life is treating you . . . er . . . treating you, anyway.”
     
     
    I hurry back into the kitchen, dying to tell Mum what I just heard, but it’s empty.
    “Hey, Mum!” I call. “I just saw Tom and Lucy!”
    I hurry up the stairs, and Mum is halfway down the loft ladder, pulling down a big white squashy bundle all wrapped up in plastic.
    “What’s that?” I ask, helping her to get it down.
    “Don’t say anything,” she says, with suppressed excitement. “Just . . .” Her hands are trembling as she unzips the plastic cover. “Just . . . look!”
    “It’s your wedding dress!” I say in astonishment as she pulls out the white frothy lace. “I didn’t know you still had that!”
    “Of course I’ve still got it!” She brushes away some sheets of tissue paper. “Thirty years old, but still as good as new. Now, Becky, it’s only a thought . . .”
    “What’s a thought?” I say, helping her to shake out the train.
    “It might not even fit you . . .”
    Slowly I look up at her. She’s serious.
    “Actually, I don’t think it will,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’m sure you were much thinner than me! And . . . shorter.”
    “But we’re the same height!” says Mum in puzzlement. “Oh, go on, try it, Becky!”
    Five minutes later I stare at myself in the mirror in Mum’s bedroom. I look like a sausage roll in layered frills. The bodice is tight and lacy, with ruffled sleeves and a ruffled neckline. It’s tight down to my hips where there are more ruffles, and then it fans out into a tiered train.
    I have never worn anything less flattering in my life.
    “Oh, Becky!” I look up—and to my horror, Mum’s in tears. “I’m so silly!” she says, laughing and brushing at her eyes. “It’s just . . . my little girl, in the dress I