In the dining room, over the remains of our Christmas dinner, I exchanged perplexed looks with Rachel, Helen, and Dad. A moment ago Mum had been on the phone to Auntie Imelda, and now she was screeching and flinging things about in the kitchen.

She flung open the dining-room door and paused at the threshold, breathing heavily, like a rhinoceros. In her hand she held the twig-and-papyrus wedding invitation. Her eyes sought Rachel’s.

“You’re not getting married in a church,” she said thickly.

“No,” Rachel said calmly. “Like it says on the invitation, Luke and I are having a blessing in a Quaker hall.”

“You made me think it was a church and I have to find out from my own sister—who incidentally got a Lexus for her Christmas box; I get a trousers press, she gets a Lexus—that you’re not getting married in a church.”

“I never said it was a church. You simply chose to assume it.”

“And who’ll be carrying out this so-called”—she almost spat the word—“blessing? Any chance it might be a Catholic priest?”

“It’s a friend of mine, a minister.”

“What kind of minister?”

“A freelance one.”

“And this would be one of your ‘recovery’ friends?” Mum sneered. “Well, I’ve heard it all now. Between that and the sugar-snap peas, no one at all belonging to me will come. Not that I want them to be there.”

Mum’s fury set the tone for what remained of the Christmas period. What made her even more angry was that she didn’t have the option of bending Rachel’s will to hers by threatening to withdraw funding, because Luke and Rachel were paying most of the costs themselves.

“It’s a joke,” she raged impotently. “It’s not a wedding, it’s a travesty. A ‘blessing’ no less! Well, she can count me out. And there was me worried about the color of her dress. If she’s not getting married in a church, she can wear any color she shagging well likes.”

But not everyone was upset by Rachel’s not-getting-married-in-a-church news. Dad was secretly thrilled because he thought that if it wasn’t a “proper” wedding he wouldn’t have to make a speech. Rachel, too, was serene and unflappable.

“Aren’t you upset?” I asked. “Do you mind getting married without Mum and Dad being there?”

“She’ll be there. Do you honestly think she’d miss it? It would kill her.”

I hunkered down and hid in soppy films and chocolate Kimberley biscuits and counted the days until I got back to New York. I’d never been that keen on Christmas, it always seemed to involve more fights than usual, but I was finding this one particularly tough.

Janie had sent me a Christmas card, which was a photo of “little Jack” in a Santa hat—she kept writing and sending photos and saying we could meet whenever I wanted. The Maddoxes were also badgering me to meet “little Jack” and I was still stonewalling them. I would never meet him.

93

Chopper’s taken off,” the man with the walkie-talkie said. “Blythe Crisp on board. ETA twenty-seven after twelve.”

To create the necessary air of drama around Formula Twelve, I was having Blythe Crisp helicoptered from the roof of the Harper’s building to a hundred-and-twenty-foot yacht, moored in New York Harbor. (Hired for only four hours, unfortunately, and four very expensive hours at that.)

Even though the weather was freezing—it was January 4—and the water was choppy, I thought the yacht was a nice touch; it smacked a little of drug smuggling.

I got up and paced the cabin—just because I could. I had never before been on a yacht that was big enough to pace in. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever been on a yacht at all.

After some good, enjoyable pacing, I thought I could hear a helicopter. “Is that it?” I strained to listen.

Walkie-talkie man checked his big, black, waterproof, nuclear-bomb-proof watch. “Right on time.”

“Stations, everyone,” I said. “Don’t let her get wet,” I called after him. “Don’t do anything to annoy her.”

Inside a minute, a bone-dry Blythe was click-clicking down the parquet hallway in high leather boots, to where I was waiting in the main salon, champagne already poured. “Anna, my God, what’s all this about? The chopper, this…boat?”

“Confidentiality. I couldn’t risk our conversation being overheard.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Sit down, Blythe. Champagne? Gummi Bears?” I’d done my research; she loved Gummi Bears. “Okay, I’ve got something for you but I want it in the March issue.” The March issue was due to come out at the end of January.

She shook her head. “Oh, Anna, you know I can’t. It’s too late, we’ve put March to bed. It’s about to go to the printers.”

“Let me show you what this is about.” I clapped my hands (I really enjoyed that bit, I felt like a baddie in a James Bond movie) and a white-gloved waiter brought in a small heavy box on a tray and presented it to her. (We’d rehearsed it several times earlier.)

Wide-eyed, Blythe took it, opened it up, stared into it for a long moment, and whispered, “Oh my God, this is it. The supercream of supercreams. It’s real.”

All right, so it wasn’t a cure for cancer, so it was only face cream, but it was still a proud moment.

“I’ll just go wake March up,” she said.

After the chopper had whisked her back uptown, I rang Leonard Daly at Devereaux. “It’s a go.”

“Take the rest of the day off.” A joke, of course. I had tons to do and now that Formula Twelve was about to officially exist, I had to set up our office. I wanted to locate the Formula Twelve camp of desks as far away from Lauryn as possible; she was not happy, not at all happy that I’d landed another job. She was even less happy that I was taking Teenie with me. My other assistant was a bright young spark called Hannah—I’d stolen her from Warpo and saved her from a life of terrible clothes. Her gratitude would guarantee loyalty.

On January 29, the March issue of Harper’s hit the stands and immediately work went mental. I emerged, a beautiful Formula Twelve butterfly from my Candy Grrrl chrysalis, and paraded around in my charcoal suits for all to see.

94

Check them out. They’re Jolly Girls for sure,” Jacqui muttered.