“That was pretty good, I suppose,” I say, a little grudgingly. “Now give me the honest answer.”

“See you at the altar.”

“Ha-di-ha. Well, all I can say is, you’ll be sorry when I put you in a pink tuxedo.”

“You’re right,” says Luke. “I will. Now I have to go. Really. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

I put down the phone, reach for my coat, and pick up my bag. As I’m zipping it up, I glance at my piece of paper again and bite my lip. Maybe I should stay here and think a bit more, and try to come to a decision.

But then… whether we get married in England or America, we’ll need a wedding present list, won’t we? So in a way it’s more sensible to go and register first — and decide about which country to get married in later.

Exactly.


OK, so perhaps I should have realized that lots of brides might want to register at Tiffany. And this is a very busy time of day, and they only have so many members of staff available at one time. I told them it was an emergency, and I have to say, they were very sympathetic, but even so, they couldn’t fit me in right at that moment. They asked if I could possibly come back at two o’clock, or tomorrow.

But I’m working at two o’clock. And tomorrow I’ll be so busy, I already know I won’t get a proper lunch hour. God, how are you supposed to plan a wedding and have a job at the same time? As I walk back to Barneys, I’m fizzing with frustration. Now that I’ve decided to register, I can’t wait a minute longer. I want to do it now, while I’m all excited, and before anyone goes and buys us a green decanter. I’m just wondering whether I should quickly call all our relations to let them know there will be a list… when my eye is caught by an ad for Crate and Barrel. “Walk right in and register,” it says, above a picture of a big shiny tea kettle.

I stop still in the middle of the street. There’s a huge Crate and Barrel about two minutes away. I mean, it’s not Tiffany — but it’s presents, isn’t it? It’s all cool pans and stuff… Oh, I’m going. I start to walk again, quicker and quicker, until I’m almost running down the sidewalk.

It’s only as I’m pushing my way into the store, out of breath, that I realize I don’t know anything about registering. In fact, I don’t know much about wedding lists at all. For Tom and Lucy’s wedding I chipped in with Mum and Dad, and Mum organized it all — and the only other person I know who’s got married is Suze, and she and Tarquin didn’t have a list.

I look randomly around the shop, wondering where to start. It’s bright and light, with colorful tables here and there laid out as though for dinner, and lots of displays full of gleaming glasses, racks of knives, and stainless-steel cookware.

As I wander toward a pyramid of shiny saucepans, I notice a girl in a high swingy ponytail who is going around marking things on a form. I edge nearer, trying to see what she’s doing, and spot the words “Crate and Barrel Registry” on the paper. She’s registering! OK, I can watch what she does.

“Hey,” she says, looking up. “You know anything about cookware? You know what this thing is?”

She holds up a pan, and I can’t help hiding a smile. Honestly. These Manhattanites don’t know anything. She’s probably never cooked a meal in her life!

“It’s a frying pan,” I say kindly. “You use it to fry things with.”

“OK. What about this?”

She holds up another pan with a ridged surface and two looped handles. Blimey. What on earth’s that for?

“I… um… I think it’s an… omelette… griddle… skillet… pan.”

“Oh, right.” She looks at it puzzledly and I back quickly away. I pass a display of pottery cereal bowls and find myself at a computer terminal marked “Registry.” Maybe this is where you get the forms.

“Welcome to Crate and Barrel,” says a cheerful message on the screen. “Please enter the choice you require.”

Distractedly I punch a few times at the screen. I’m half listening to a couple behind me arguing about plates.

“I just don’t want to be taupe stoneware,” the girl is saying almost tearfully.

“Well, what do you want to be?” retorts the man.

“I don’t know!”

“Are you saying I’m taupe stoneware, Marie?”

Oh God, I must stop eavesdropping. I look down at the screen again, and stop in surprise. I’ve arrived at the place where you look up people’s lists so you can buy them a gift. I’m about to press “Clear” and walk away, when I pause.

It would be quite cool to see what other people put down, wouldn’t it?

Cautiously I enter the name “R. Smith” and press “Enter.”

To my astonishment the screen starts filling up with a whole series of couples’ names.

Rachel Smith and David Forsyth, Oak Springs, Miss.

Annie M. Winters and Rod Smith, Raleigh, N.C.

Richard Smith and Fay Bullock, Wheaton, Ill.

Leroy Elms and Rachelle F. Smith…

This is so cool! OK, let’s see what Rachel and David chose. I press “Enter” and a moment later the machine starts spewing out pieces of paper.

Glass Caviar/Shrimp Server — 4

Footed Cake Platter with Dome — 1

Water Lily Bowl — 2

Classic Decanter 28 oz

Wow, that all sounds really nice. I definitely want a water lily bowl. And a shrimp server.

OK, now let’s see what Annie and Rod chose. I press “Enter” again, and another list starts appearing in front of me.

Gosh, Annie and Rod are keen on barware! I wonder why they want three ice buckets.

This is completely addictive! Let’s see what Richard and Fay are getting. And then Leroy and Rachelle… I print them both out, and am just wondering whether to try another name, like Brown, when a voice says, “Can I help you, miss?” My head jerks up and I see a salesman wearing a name badge reading “Bud” smiling at me. “Are you having some trouble locating the list you want?”

I feel myself prickle with embarrassment.

I can’t admit I’m just snooping.

“I… actually… I’ve just found it.” I grab randomly for Richard and Fay’s list. “They’re friends of mine. Richard and Fay.” I clear my throat. “I want to buy them a wedding present. That’s why I’m here. Also, I want to register myself.”

“Well, let’s deal with the purchase first. What would you like to buy?”

“Umm… well…” I look down at the list. “Um…”

Come on. I’m not really going to buy a present for a pair of complete strangers. Just admit the truth. I was nosy.

“Actually… I think I’ll leave it for another day,” I say. “But I would like to register a list myself.”

“No problem!” says Bud cheerily. “Here’s the form for you to fill in as you go around… you’ll see that most of our merchandise breaks down into sections…”

“Oh, right. What sort of—”

“Kitchenware, flatware, hollowware, barware, stemware, glassware…” He pauses for breath. “And miscellaneous.”

“Right…”

“It can be a little overwhelming, deciding what you’re going to want in your new home.” He smiles at me. “So what I suggest is, you start with the basics. Think about your everyday needs — and work up from there. If you need me, just give me a shout!”

“Great! Thanks very much!”

Bud moves away and I look around the store with a fizz of anticipation. I haven’t been so excited since I used to write out lists for Father Christmas. And even then, Mum would stand over my shoulder, saying things like “I’m not sure Father Christmas can give you the real ruby slippers, darling. Why not ask for a nice coloring book instead?”

Now, no one’s telling me what I can or can’t have. I can write down anything I like! I can ask for those plates over there… and that jug… and that chair… I mean, if I wanted to, I could ask for everything! The whole shop!

You know. In theory.

But I’m not going to get carried away. I’ll start with everyday needs, just as Bud suggested. Feeling pleasantly grown-up, I wander toward a display of kitchen equipment and start perusing the shelves.

Ooh. Lobster crackers! Let’s get some of those. And those cute little corn holders. And those sweet little plastic daisies. I don’t know what they’re for, but they look so gorgeous!

I note the numbers carefully down on my list. OK. What else? As I look around again, my attention is caught by a gleaming array of chrome.

Wow. We just have to have a frozen yogurt maker. And a waffle maker. And a bread cooker, and a juicer, and a Pro Chef Premium Toaster Oven. I write down all the numbers and look around with a sigh of satisfaction. Why on earth have I never registered before? Shopping without spending any money!

You know, I should have got married a long time ago.

“Excuse me?” The girl with the ponytail is over in the knife section. “Do you know what poultry shears are?” She holds up a piece of equipment I’ve never seen before in my life.

“They’re… shears for poultry… I guess…”

For a moment we stare at each other blankly, then the girl shrugs, says “OK,” and writes it down on her list.

Maybe I’ll get some poultry shears too. And one of those cool herb-chopper things. And a professional blowtorch for making crème brûlée.

Not that I’ve ever made crème brûlée — but you know. When I’m married, I’m bound to. I have a sudden vision of myself in an apron, nonchalantly brûléeing with one hand and drizzling a homemade fruit coulis with the other, while Luke and an assortment of witty guests look on admiringly.

“So where else are you registering?” says the girl, picking up an egg whisk and peering at it.

I look at her in surprise. “What do you mean? Are you allowed more than one list?”

“Of course! I’m having three. Here, Williams-Sonoma, and Bloomies. It’s really cool there, you scan everything on this gun—”