Shopaholic and Baby

FIFTEEN

I DON’T BOTHER with the sunglasses this time. Nor do I bother smiling at the receptionist. I sit bolt upright on the same brown foam chair, shredding a tissue to bits, thinking, I can’t believe it.

I couldn’t do anything over the weekend. I had to wait until Luke went off to work this morning. I made sure he’d really gone (by looking out the window and then calling him twice in the car to make sure he hadn’t turned round) and then plucked up the courage to ring Dave Sharpness’s office. Even then, I practically did it in a whisper. I spoke to the receptionist, who refused to give me any details of the findings over the phone. So here I am, at eleven o’clock in the morning, in West Ruislip again.

The whole thing feels surreal. It was supposed to be canceled. They weren’t supposed to find anything.

“Mrs. Brandon.” I look up, feeling like a patient at a doctor’s office. There’s Dave Sharpness, sounding more sepulchral than ever. “Would you like to come through?”

As he ushers me into the office, he looks so pitying, I can’t bear it. Instantly I decide to put on a brave face. I’ll pretend I’m not bothered if Luke’s having an affair. I was only wanting to know out of idle curiosity. In fact, I’m glad he’s having an affair, because I wanted a divorce all along. Yes.

“So you found something,” I say nonchalantly as I take a seat. “Interesting.” I attempt a careless little smile.

“This is a difficult time for you, Mrs. Brandon.” Dave Sharpness leans heavily forward on his elbows.

“No it’s not!” I say overbrightly. “I really don’t care. Actually, I’ve got a boyfriend and we’re going to run away together to Monaco, so I’m absolutely fine about all of this.”

Dave Sharpness doesn’t look taken in.

“I think you do care.” His voice descends yet lower. “I think you care very much.” His bloodshot eyes are so mournful, I can’t hold out anymore.

“OK, I do care!” I sniff. “Just tell me, OK? Has he been seeing her?”

Dave Sharpness opens a manila folder and surveys the contents, shaking his head.

“This part of the job is never easy.” He sighs, shuffles the papers, then looks up. “Mrs. Brandon, your husband has been leading quite the double life.”

“Double life?” I gape at him.

“I’m afraid to say, he’s not the man you thought he was.”

How can Luke not be the man I thought he was? What’s he talking about?

“What do you mean?” I say, almost aggressively.

“Last Wednesday, one of my operatives trailed your husband from his place of work. He checked into a hotel under a false name. He ordered cocktails for several…women. Of…a certain type. If you know what I mean, Mrs. Brandon.”

I’m so gobsmacked, I can’t speak. Luke? Women of a certain type?

“My highly skilled operative followed up his alias.” Dave Sharpness gives me an impressive look. “He discovered that there has been trouble at that particular hotel in the past. There have been…regrettable incidents with women.” Dave Sharpness looks at his notes with a distasteful expression. “All of which have been hushed up and paid off. He’s clearly a powerful man, your husband. My operative further discovered several sexual harassment charges which were never pursued…a joint allegation of bullying against himself and a colleague, again hushed up….”

“Stop it!” I cry, unable to listen anymore. “You must have got your information wrong! You or your operative. My husband doesn’t drink cocktails with women of a certain type! He would never bully anyone! I know him!”

Dave Sharpness sighs. He leans back in his chair and rests his hands on his huge stomach.

“I feel for you, Mrs. Brandon, I really do. No wife wants to hear that her husband is less than perfect.”

“I’m not saying he’s perfect, but…”

“If you knew the number of deceivers out there.” He eyes me lugubriously. “And the wife is always the last to know.”

“You don’t understand!” I feel like slapping him. “This can’t be Luke. It just can’t be!”

“It’s hard to come to terms with the truth.” Dave Sharpness is inexorable. “It takes great courage.”

“Stop patronizing me!” I say furiously. “I do have courage. But I also know my husband isn’t a bully. Give me those notes!” I grab the folder from him, and a pile of shiny black-and-white photographs falls out onto the desk.

I stare at them in confusion. They’re all pictures of Iain Wheeler. Iain outside Brandon Communications. Iain Wheeler walking up the steps of a hotel.

“This isn’t my husband.” I look up. “This is not my husband.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Dave Sharpness nods in satisfaction. “Your husband has two sides to his personality, as it were—”

“Shut up, you stupid man!” I shout, exasperated. “It’s Iain! You’ve followed the wrong person!”

“What?” Dave Sharpness sits up. “Literally the wrong person?”

“This is one of his clients. Iain Wheeler.”

Dave Sharpness grabs one of the prints and stares at it for a few seconds.

“This isn’t your husband?”

“No!” I suddenly spot a photo of Iain getting into his limo. I grab it and point at Luke, who is in the background on the other side of the car, barely in focus. “That’s Luke! That’s my husband.”

Dave Sharpness’s breathing is getting heavier as he looks from Luke’s blurry head to the photos of Iain, to his notes, and back to Luke.

“Lee! Get in here!” he shouts, suddenly sounding far less smooth-caring-professional and more pissed-off-South-London-geezer.

A few moments later, the door opens and a skinny guy of about seventeen pokes his head round the door, holding a Game Boy.

“Er…yeah?” he says.

This is the highly skilled operative?

“Lee, I’ve had it with you.” Dave Sharpness bangs his hand furiously on the table. “This is the second time you’ve buggered up. You’ve only followed the wrong bloody man. This isn’t Luke Brandon.” He jabs at the pictures. “This is Luke Brandon!”

“Oh.” Lee rubs his nose, looking unconcerned. “Shit.”

“Yes, shit! Yes, I’ve a good mind to fire your bloody arse.” Dave Sharpness’s neck has turned bright pink. “How d’you get the wrong man?”

“Dunno!” says Lee defensively. “I got his picture out of the paper.” He reaches in the folder and pulls out a clipping from the Times.

I know this picture. It’s a candid shot of Luke and Iain chatting at an Arcodas press conference. “There, see?” says Lee. “It says, ‘Luke Brandon, right, confers with Iain Wheeler, left.’”

“They got the caption the wrong way round!” I practically spit at him. “There was an apology the next day! Didn’t you check it!”

Lee’s eyes have already drifted back to his Game Boy.

“Answer the lady!” bellows Dave Sharpness. “Lee, you’re a waste of bloody space!”

“Look, Dad, it was a mistake, all right?” whines Lee.

Dad?

This is the last time I ever get a private detective off the Internet.

“Mrs. Brandon…” Dave Sharpness is obviously trying to calm himself. “I can only apologize. We will of course restart the investigation at no extra charge to yourself, this time focusing on the correct personage—”

“No!” I cut him off. “Just stop, OK? I’ve had enough.”

I’m suddenly feeling shaky. How could I ever have hired someone to spy on Luke? What am I doing in this crappy place? Abruptly I stand up. “I’m going. Please don’t contact me ever again.”

“Of course.” Dave Sharpness hastily pushes his own chair back. “Lee, get out of the way! If I can just give you the other findings, Mrs. Brandon…”

“Other findings?” I turn on him, incredulous. “You really think I want to hear anything else you’ve got to say?”

“There was the matter of the eyebrows?” Dave Sharpness coughs delicately.

“Oh. Oh, right.” I come to a halt. I’d forgotten about that.

“It’s all in here.” Dave Sharpness takes the opportunity to press the manila folder into my arms. “Details of the therapist and the treatment, photographs, surveillance notes…”

I want to throw the folder right back in his face and stalk out.

Only…Jasmine does have really good eyebrows.

“I might have a look just at that bit,” I say at last, as stonily as I can.

“You’ll also find a few other pieces of information in there,” Dave Sharpness says, hurrying after me to the door, “that had been collated in regard to your husband’s case. Your friend Susan Cleath-Stuart, for example. Now, she’s a very rich young lady.”

I feel sick. He’s been checking out Suze?

“Apparently, her fortune has been estimated at—”

“Shut up!” I wheel round savagely. “I never want to see or hear from you again! And if any of your firm follows Luke or any of my friends, I’m calling the police.”

“Absolutely,” says Dave Sharpness, nodding as though this is a brilliant idea which he came up with. “Understood.”

I totter to the end of the street and hail a taxi. It chugs off and I sit clinging to the handstrap, unable to relax until we’re well out of West Ruislip. I can hardly bear to look at the manila folder sitting on my lap like a horrible guilty secret. Although now that I think about it, it’s probably better that I brought it away. I’m taking all this information and I’m putting it straight in the shredder. And then I’ll shred the shreds. I never want Luke to know what I did.

I can’t believe I even went down this road. Luke and I are married. We shouldn’t spy on each other. It’s practically in the marriage vows, “To love, to cherish, and never hire a private detective in West Ruislip.”

We should trust each other. We should believe each other. On impulse I take out my mobile and dial Luke’s number. “Hi, darling!” I say as soon as I get through. “It’s me.”

“Hi! Is everything—”

“Everything’s fine. I was just wondering.” I take a deep breath. “That phone call you took the other day, at the pram shop. You seemed a bit upset. Is everything all right?”

“Becky, I’m sorry about that.” He sounds truly remorseful. “I really am. I…lost it for a moment. There’s been a small problem here. But it’ll work itself out, I’m sure. Don’t worry.”

“Right.” I exhale. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath.

It’s work. That’s all it is. Luke always has little problems and blips that need sorting out, and sometimes he gets stressed. That’s what happens when you run an enormous company.

“I’ll see you later, sweetheart. All set for the big night out?”

It’s the college reunion tonight. I’d almost forgotten. “Can’t wait! Bye, Luke.”

I put my phone away and take a few deep breaths. The main thing is, Luke has no idea I even went near a private detective. And he’ll never find out.

As we reach the familiar terrain of West London I open up the folder and start leafing through the photos and surveillance notes. I might as well find out about Jasmine’s eyebrows before I get to shredding. I come across a blurry shot of Suze walking down High Street Kensington, and I close my eyes, feeling another wave of shame. I’ve made some terrible mistakes in my life, but this is the worst by a million zillion miles. How could I have exposed my best friend to some seedy private detective?

The next ten or so pictures are all of Venetia, and I pass over those quickly. I don’t want to see her. Then there’s a couple of Mel, Luke’s assistant, coming out of the office…and then…Oh my God, is that Lulu?

I stare at the print, bewildered. Then I remember mentioning her when I was making the list of women that Luke knows. I said that Luke didn’t get on with her, and Dave Sharpness nodded knowingly and said, “That’s often the smokescreen.” Stupid man. He obviously got the idea that Luke and Lulu were secretly having a torrid affair or something—

Hang on. I blink, and peer more carefully at the photograph. That can’t be…

She can’t be…

I clap a hand over my mouth, half shocked, half trying not to laugh. OK, I know hiring a private detective was a stupid thing to do. But this is so going to cheer Suze up.

I’m just stuffing all the prints and papers back into the folder when my mobile rings. “Yes?” I say cautiously.

“Becky, it’s Jasmine!” comes an animated voice. “Are you coming in, or what?”

I sit up in surprise. First of all, I didn’t think anyone would even notice I was late. And second, since when did Jasmine ever raise her voice above a bored, monosyllabic drawl?

“I’m on my way,” I say. “What’s up?”

“It’s your mate Danny Kovitz.”

I feel a grip of alarm. Please don’t say he’s lost interest. Please don’t say he’s pulled out.

“Is there…a problem?” I can hardly bear to say it.

“No way! He’s finished his design! He’s here with it now. And it’s amazing!”

Finally, finally, something is going well! I arrive at The Look and head straight up to the boardroom on the sixth floor, which is where everybody has assembled to see the design.

Jasmine meets me at the lift, her eyes sparkling.

“It’s so cool!” she says. “Apparently he was working all night to get it right. He says coming to Britain gave him exactly the final inspiration he needed. Everyone’s really excited. It’s going to be a sell-out! I’ve been texting my friends and they all want one.”

“Great!” I say in astonishment.

I don’t know what I’m more surprised by, Danny finishing his design so quickly or Jasmine coming to life.

“In here…” She opens the heavy pale-wood door, and I can hear Danny’s voice as we enter the boardroom. He’s sitting on the long table, holding forth to Eric, Brianna, and all the marketing and PR personnel.

“It was just that final concept I needed to crack,” he’s saying. “But once I got it…”

“It’s so different!” Brianna is saying. “It’s so original.”

“Becky!” Danny suddenly notices me. “Come and see the design! Carla, come over here.”

He beckons her over — and I gasp.

“You what?” My voice shoots out in horror before I can stop it.

Carla’s wearing a T-shirt with gathered seams and Danny’s trademark ragged, pleated sleeves. The background is pale blue, and on the front there’s a little stylized sixties-type drawing of a red-headed doll. Underneath is the single printed phrase:

SHE’S a REDHAiRED BiTCH and I HATE HER

I look at Danny and back at the T-shirt and back at Danny.

“You can’t….” My mouth isn’t working properly. “Danny, you can’t….”

“Isn’t it great?” says Jasmine.

“The magazines will love it.” A girl from PR is nodding enthusiastically. “We’ve already given InStyle a teeny sneak preview and it’s going in their must-have column. And with the signature carrier bag too…Everyone is going to want one.”

“It’s such a brilliant slogan!” says someone else. “‘She’s a redhaired bitch and I hate her’!”

The whole room laughs. Except me. I’m still in shock. What’s Venetia going to say? What’s Luke going to say?

“We’re going to have it on bus stops, on posters, in magazines….” the PR girl is saying. “Danny had a fab idea, which is to run it as a maternity T-shirt too.”

My head jerks up in horror. He what?

“Great idea, Danny!” I say, shooting daggers at him.

“I thought so.” He beams back innocently. “Hey, you could wear one for the birth!”

“So, where did you get your inspiration, Mr. Kovitz?” asks an eager young marketing assistant.

“Who’s the redhaired bitch?” The PR girl chimes in with an easy laugh. “I hope she won’t mind having a thousand Tshirts printed about her!”

“What do you think, Becky?” Danny wickedly raises his eyebrows at me.

“Does Becky know her?” says Brianna in surprise. “Is this a real person?”

Everyone suddenly looks interested.

“No!” I gabble in alarm. “No! Not at all! She isn’t…I mean…I was just…thinking. Why don’t we broaden the design? We could have blond and brunette versions too.”

“Nice idea,” says Brianna. “What do you think, Danny?”

For a heart-stopping moment I think he’s going to say “No, it has to be redhaired because Venetia is redhaired.” But thank God, he nods.

“I like it. Pick your own bitch.” He suddenly gives a huge, catlike yawn. “Is there any more coffee?”

Thank God. Disaster averted. I’ll take a blond version home and Luke will never know about the original.

“We need this!” says Carla, pouring out the coffee. “We were up all night. Danny finalized the design at around two A.M. Then we found an all-night silk screener in Hoxton, and they made up the prototypes for us.”

“Well, we appreciate your efforts,” says Eric ponderously. “On behalf of The Look, I would like to thank you, Danny, and your team.”

“Gratitude accepted,” says Danny charmingly. “And I would like to thank Becky Bloomwood, whose brainchild this collaboration was.” He starts applauding, and reluctantly I smile back. You can never stay cross with Danny for long. “To Becky, my muse,” Danny adds, lifting the fresh cup of coffee that Carla has poured for him. “And the little musette.”

“Thanks.” I lift my cup back toward him. “To you, Danny.”

“You’re his muse?” Jasmine breathes beside me. “That’s so cool!”

“Well…” I shrug nonchalantly. But inside I’m pretty chuffed. I have always wanted to be a fashion designer’s muse!

It just shows. Whenever life seems total rubbish, it always turns around. Today has been approximately a million times better than I expected. Luke isn’t leading a double life after all. Danny’s design is going to be a sell-out. And I’m a muse!

By the end of the day I’ve changed my clothes a few times, because fashion muses do like to experiment with their looks. I finally decide on a pink chiffon empire-line dress which I can just squeeze over my bump, with one of Danny’s prototype Tshirts layered on top, together with a green velvet coat and a black feather hat.

I must start wearing more hats if I’m going to be a muse. And brooches.

At five thirty Danny appears at the entrance to personal shopping and I look up in surprise. “Are you still here? Where’ve you been?”

“Oh…just hanging out in menswear,” he says casually. “That guy Tristan who works there…he’s pretty cute, huh?”

“Tristan’s not gay.” I give Danny a look.

“Yet,” Danny says, and picks up a pink evening dress from our Cruisewear department. “This is gross. Becky, you should not be stocking this dress.”

He’s totally hyper at the moment, the way he always gets when he’s finished a design. I remember this from New York.

“Where are all your ‘people’?” I ask, rolling my eyes. But Danny doesn’t even get the irony.

“Drawing up contracts,” he says vaguely. “And Stan took the car to go sightseeing. He’s never been to London before. Hey, shall we have a drink?”

“I’ve got to go home.” I glance reluctantly at my watch. “I have this reunion thing tonight.”

“Just a quick drink?” Danny wheedles. “I’ve barely seen you. Hey, what’s with the hat?”

“Do you like it?” I touch it, a little self-conscious. “I just felt like feathers.”

“Feathers.” Danny’s surveying me with an interested frown. “Great idea.”

“Really?” I glow with pride. Maybe he’ll base his whole new collection on feathers, and it’ll be my idea! “Hey, if you want to draw a little sketch of me or anything…” I say casually, but Danny isn’t listening. He’s walking around me, an interested frown on his face.

“You should wear a feather boa,” he says suddenly. “Like, an oversize one. Like…huge.”

An oversize feather boa. That’s so brilliant. It could be the next big thing! It could be the new Fendi baguette!

“There are feather boas in accessories!” I say. “Come on!” I grab my bag and zip it up, first making sure the manila folder is safely in there. I’m going to shred it as soon as I get home. When Luke isn’t looking.

We head down the escalators to the ground floor, where the accessories department is located.

“We’re closing….” begins Jane, the accessories manager, but then she sees it’s us.

“Sorry,” I say breathlessly as Danny heads to a stand displaying feather boas and scarves. “We won’t be long. It’s just we’re having a key fashion moment here….”

“There,” says Danny, garlanding me with colorful feather boas. “Like, the biggest feather boa you ever saw.” He’s tying eight boas together into a massive sausage-shaped one. “This is a great look.”

I feel a frisson as he drapes the boa round me. We’re making fashion history, right here! We’re setting a whole new trend! Next year everyone will be wearing huge Danny Kovitz boas. Celebrities will wear them to the Oscars, high street shops will rip them off….

“The Giant Boa,” Danny says as he ties back a stray feathery strand. “The Giant. It’s fabulous. Take a look!” He swivels me round to face the mirror, and I gasp.

“Er…wow!”

“Great, isn’t it?” He beams at me.

To be absolutely truthful, I gasped because I look so stupid. You can hardly see my head for feathers. I look like an enormous, pregnant feather duster.

But I mustn’t be narrow-minded. This is fashion. People probably thought skinny jeans looked ridiculous when they first saw them.

“Amazing,” I breathe, trying to get the feathers out of my mouth. “You’re a genius, Danny.”

“Let’s go and have that drink.” Danny is flushed with animation. “I’m in the mood for martinis.”

“Can you put these boas on my account?” I say to Jane. “There’s eight of them. Thanks!”

We head out of the shop on a total high, and I lead Danny round the corner into Portman Square. The street lamps are on, and some people in black tie are coming out of the Templeton Hotel. They eye me weirdly as we pass and I hear a couple of giggles, but I just hold my head higher. If you’re going to be at the cutting edge of fashion, you’re going to get a few strange looks.

“Shall we go to the bar here?” I suggest, coming to a halt. “It’s a bit dull, but it’s right here.”

“As long as they can mix a drink…” Danny pushes open the heavy glass doors and ushers me in. The Templeton Bar is a very beige bar: beige carpet, plushy chairs and waiters in beige uniforms. It’s crowded with business types, but I can see some space by the piano.

“Let’s nab that table over there,” I say to Danny — and then I stop dead.

It’s Venetia. Sitting in the corner a few yards away, her hair glowing under the lights, with a suited guy and another smart woman. I don’t recognize either of them.

“What?” Danny peers at me. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s…” I swallow and jerk my head discreetly toward her. Danny follows my gaze and gasps theatrically in delight.

“Is that Cruella de Venetia?”

“Shut up!” I squeak.

But it’s too late: Venetia’s turned. She’s seen us. She’s getting up and coming across, an impossibly elegant figure in a black trouser suit and heels, her hair as immaculate as ever, a wineglass in her hand.

It’s fine, I tell myself. Calm down. I don’t know why my heart is pounding and my fingers are sweaty.

Oh. Well…maybe because in my bag is a folder containing ten long-lens pictures of Venetia. But she doesn’t know that, does she?

“Becky!” She smiles and kisses me on both cheeks. “My favorite client. How are you? Only four weeks to go now, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. So…um…how are you, Venetia?” My voice is jerky and my face has turned red — but other than that I think I’m acting quite naturally. “This is my friend, Danny Kovitz.”

“Danny Kovitz.” Her eyes light up in recognition. “It’s an honor. I bought one of your pieces in Milan recently. In Corso Como. A beaded jacket?”

“I know the one!” says Danny eagerly. “I’ll bet you look fabulous in it.”

Why’s he being nice to her? He’s supposed to be on my side.

“Did you buy the pants?” he’s saying now. “Because we did them in two styles, a capri and a boot cut. You’d look great in the capri pants.”

“No, I just bought the jacket.” She smiles at him, then glances at me. “Becky, you seem hot in all those…feathers. Are you OK?”

“I’m…fine!” I blow a couple of feathers off my lipstick. “This is Danny’s new fashion concept.”

“Right.” Venetia gives my giant feather boa a dubious look. “Only, you know, it’s not healthy for you to overheat during pregnancy.”

Typical. Bossing me about again. Telling me fashion’s unhealthy. But the truth is, I am starting to sweat in all these layers, so reluctantly I unpeel the boa and take off my coat.

There’s a weird silence. For a moment I’m not quite sure why Venetia is staring at my chest. Then my stomach plunges as I realize I’m wearing Danny’s T-shirt. I glance down, and there it is, clear as day.

SHE’S a REDHAiRED BiTCH and I HATE HER

Shit.

“Actually, I’m quite cold!” I clamp the boa round my neck again, trying desperately to cover up the words. “Brrrrr! It’s freezing in here. Isn’t it freezing, for the time of year?”

“What does that say?” Venetia says in a peculiar voice. “On your T-shirt.”

“It’s nothing,” I say, flustered. “Nothing! It’s just a…joke! I mean, obviously it’s not you. It’s another redhaired bitch. Er…woman. Person.”

This is not going well.

“Good work, Becky,” says Danny in my ear. “Tactful.”

Venetia is inhaling deeply, as though trying to control herself. She looks pretty annoyed, now I come to notice it.

“Becky,” she says at last. “Might we have a little talk?”

“Talk?” I echo nervously.

“Yes, talk. The two of us. Speaking to each other alone. If you wouldn’t mind?” She glances at Danny.

“Sure. I’ll get us some drinks.” He disappears off to the bar and I feel a quailing inside as I turn to face Venetia. There’s a frown line between her eyes and she’s tapping her fingers against the stem of her glass. She looks like a young, glamorous headmistress who’s about to tell me I’ve let down the whole school.

“So!” I muster a bright tone. “How are you?”

She can’t read your mind, I’m telling myself feverishly. She doesn’t know you had her trailed. She can’t prove the T-shirt is about her. Just act innocent.

“Look, Becky.” Venetia drains her glass in one gulp. “Let’s cut the crap.”

I stare at her in shock. Did she just say “crap”?

“We were trying to spare you any unpleasantness.” Venetia’s frown deepens. “We wanted to be as…I don’t know…as amicable as possible. But if this is the attitude you’re going to take…” She gestures at the T-shirt.

I’m missing something here. In fact, I’m missing everything.

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” I say.

Venetia gazes at me as though suspecting a trick. Then, very slowly, her expression changes. She exhales and rubs her brow. “Oh God,” she says, almost as though to herself.

I feel a thud of foreboding deep inside. A kind of hot nausea is slowly rising through me. She can’t mean what I—

She can’t.

The noise and chatter of the bar has dwindled to a rushing in my ears. I swallow several times, trying to keep a grip on myself. I know I thought something might be going on. I know I talked about it with Suze and Jess and Danny.

But all of a sudden, standing here now, I realize I didn’t ever really think it was true. Not really. Not really.

“What are you saying?” I can’t quite control my voice. “Exactly.”

A waiter is passing with a tray of drinks, and Venetia puts out a hand to stop him.

“Vodka tonic on the rocks, please,” she says. “Straightaway. Anything for you, Becky?”

“Just…tell me.” My eyes burn into hers. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

The waiter moves away and Venetia thrusts a hand through her hair. She looks a little ruffled by my reaction. “Becky…this was always going to be difficult. You should know, Luke feels terrible about what’s been going on. He really cares about you. He’ll be livid that I’ve spoken to you, even.”

For a few moments I can’t reply. I’m just staring at her, my whole body tensed up. I feel like I’ve swung into some parallel universe.

“What are you saying?” I repeat huskily.

“He really doesn’t want to hurt you.” Venetia leans closer, and I get a sickening waft of Allure. “As he keeps saying…he made a mistake. Pure and simple. He married the wrong person. But that’s not your fault.”

Something starts stabbing at my chest. For a moment I’m not sure I can speak, for shock.

“Luke didn’t marry the wrong person,” I manage at last. “He married the right person. He loves me, OK? He loves me.”

“You met right after he split up from Sacha, didn’t you?” Venetia nods, even though I haven’t replied. “He told me all about it. You were a refreshing change, Becky. You make him laugh. But you’re hardly on the same level. You don’t really understand what he’s about.”

“I do.” My throat isn’t working properly. “I totally understand Luke! We went round the world on our honeymoon—”

“Becky, I’ve known Luke since he was nineteen.” She cuts across me, invincible, inexorable. “I know him. What we had at Cambridge was powerful. It was intoxicating. He was my first real love. I was his. We were like Odysseus and Penelope. When we saw each other again in my consulting room…” She breaks off. “I’m sorry. But we both knew, instantly. It was just a matter of when and where.”

My legs seem to have turned to dust. My face is numb. I’m clutching my stupid feathers, trying to find a pithy, witty…something. But my head feels like a heavy lump of flannel. I have a horrible feeling there are tears on my cheeks.

“It’s been appalling timing.” Venetia takes her drink from the waiter. “Luke didn’t want to say anything until after the baby came. But I think you deserve to know the truth.”

“We went looking at prams together yesterday.” My voice comes out thick and rushed. “How come he went to look at prams, then?”

“Oh, he’s excited about the baby!” says Venetia in surprise. “He wants to see his child as much as possible after…” She pauses delicately. “He wants the whole thing to be amicable. But obviously that depends on you.”

I can’t listen to her sweet, poisonous voice anymore. I have to get away.

“You’re wrong, Venetia,” I say, struggling clumsily into my coat. “You’re deluded. Luke and I have a strong, loving marriage! We laugh, and we talk, and we have sex….”

Venetia just looks at me with infinite pity. “Becky, Luke’s just playing along to keep you happy. You don’t have a marriage. Not anymore.”

I don’t wait to say good-bye to Danny. I head straight out of the bar on stumbling legs and hail a taxi. All the way home, Venetia’s words are going round and round in my brain, until I want to throw up.

It can’t be true, I keep telling myself. It can’t be.

Of course it can, a small voice replies. It’s what you suspected all along.

I let myself into the flat and immediately hear Luke moving around in the kitchen.

“Hi!” he calls out.

My throat’s too tight to answer. I feel paralyzed. At last Luke pops his head round the door. He’s already in dress trousers and a crisp Armani dress shirt. His bow tie is loose around his neck, ready for me to tie it like I always do.

I stare at him wordlessly. Are you leaving me for Venetia? Is our whole marriage a sham?

“Hi, darling.” He takes a sip of wine.

I feel like I’m standing on a cliff edge. The moment I speak, it will all be over.

“Becky? Sweetheart?” Luke takes a few steps toward me, looking puzzled. “Are you OK?” He peers curiously at the feathers.

I can’t do it. I can’t ask him. I’m too frightened of what I’ll hear.

“I’ll go and get ready,” I whisper, unable to meet his eye. “We need to leave soon.”

I head to the bedroom and strip off, bundling Danny’s T-shirt into the bottom of the wardrobe where Luke will never look. Then I take a quick shower, hoping it’ll make me feel better. But it doesn’t. As I catch sight of myself in the mirror, wrapped in a towel, I look scared and pale.

Come on, Becky. Chin up. Think glam. Think Catherine Zeta-Jones. I get out my slinky new midnight-blue dress and slip it on, thinking this at least will cheer me up. But somehow the dress doesn’t look as good as it did before. It’s not clingy, it’s puckering. I haul at the zipper but it won’t go up.

It’s too small.

My perfect dress is too small. I must have grown some more. My bump, or my thighs, or somewhere. My whole body’s suddenly got huge.

I can feel my chin wobbling, but desperately clamp my lips shut. I am not going to cry. I wrench off the dress as best I can and head to the wardrobe to find something else. And then I glimpse myself in the mirror, and freeze. I’m waddling.

I’m a white, fat, waddling…monstrosity.

I sit down on the bed, feeling dizzy. My head is pounding and there are spots before my eyes. No wonder he chose Venetia.

“Becky, are you OK?” Luke is at the door, surveying me in alarm. I hadn’t even noticed him.

“I…” Tears are blocking my throat. “I’m…”

“You don’t look well. Why don’t you lie down? I’ll bring you some water.”

As I watch him go, Venetia’s voice is in my head like a coiled snake. He’s playing along to keep you happy.

“Here we are.” Luke’s voice makes me jump. He hands me a glass of water and two chocolate biscuits. “I think you should rest for a while.”

I take the glass without drinking. Suddenly everything feels like acting. He’s acting. I’m acting.

“What about the reunion?” I say at last. “We need to go soon.”

“We can be late. Or we can miss it. Darling, have some water, lie down….”

Reluctantly I take a sip of water, then put my head on the pillow. Luke tucks the duvet over me and quietly leaves the room.

I don’t know how long I lie there for. It feels like about thirty seconds. Or six hours. Afterward I work out it was about twenty minutes.

And then I hear the voices. His voice. And her voice. Approaching down the corridor.

“…hope you don’t mind…”

“No, absolutely. Luke, you did the right thing to call. So, how’s the patient?”

I open my eyes, and it’s a nightmare come true. There, looming in front of me, is Venetia.

She’s changed into a full-length strapless black taffeta ball gown with a swirly skirt. Her hair is pinned up in a chignon, and diamonds are flashing at her ears. She looks like a princess.

“Luke says you’re not feeling well, Becky?” Her smile is syrupy sweet. “Let’s have a look.”

“What are you doing here?” I spit out.

“Luke called me. He was worried!” Venetia puts a hand on my head and I flinch. “Let me see if you’ve got a temperature.” She sits on the bed with a rustle of taffeta and opens a little medical case.

“Luke, I don’t want her here!” With no warning, tears are spilling from my eyes. “I’m not ill!”

“Open.” Venetia is advancing a thermometer toward my mouth.

“No!” I turn my head away like a baby refusing its porridge.

“Come on, Becky,” Venetia says in cajoling tones. “I just want to take your temperature….”

“Becky.” Luke takes my hand. “Come on. We can’t take any risks.”

“I’m not ill—” My words are stifled as Venetia jams the thermometer in my mouth and stands up.

“I really don’t think she should come tonight,” she says in a low voice, drawing Luke aside. “Can you persuade her to stay here and rest?”

“Of course.” Luke nods. “Please send our apologies.”

“You’re staying behind too?” Venetia frowns. “Luke, I really think…” She beckons Luke out of the room and I can hear low murmurings coming from the corridor. A few moments later Luke appears around the door again, holding a jug of water.

Someone’s tied his bow tie up, I suddenly notice. I want to burst into tears.

“Becky. Sweetheart, Venetia thinks you should take it easy.”

I stare at him silently, the thermometer still in my mouth.

“I’ll stay with you, of course. If you want me to.” He hesitates awkwardly. “But…if you didn’t mind me popping out just for half an hour, there are a lot of people coming to this reunion I’d like to see.”

My throat is thickening. Fresh tears are springing to my eyes. I can see it all plainly now. He wants to go to the party with Venetia. They’ve probably engineered this whole thing.

What am I going to do, beg him not to? I’ve got more pride than that.

“Fine,” I mumble, turning my head away so he can’t see my tears. “Go.”

“What?”

“Fine.” I take the thermometer out of my mouth. “Go.”

There’s a rustle as Venetia comes into the room again. “Let’s have a look.” She studies the thermometer with a small frown. “Yes, you’re slightly feverish. Let’s give you some paracetamol….”

She hands me two tablets and I gulp them down with the water which Luke brought in.

“You’re sure you’ll be OK?” he says, watching me anxiously.

“Yes. Enjoy yourself.” I pull the duvet over my head and feel my tears drenching the pillow.

“Bye, sweetheart.” I can feel Luke patting the duvet. “Get some rest.”

There’s some muffled talking, and then in the distance I hear the door slam. That’s it. They’ve gone.

It’s about half an hour before I even move. I push back the duvet and wipe my wet eyes. I get out of bed, stagger into the bathroom, and look at myself. I’m a fright. My eyes are red and puffy. My cheeks are tear-stained. My hair is all over the place.

I splash my face with water and sit down on the edge of the bathtub. What am I going to do? I can’t just stay here all night, wondering and worrying and imagining the worst. I’d rather just catch them. I’d rather just see it for my own eyes.

I’ll go there. The thought hits me like a bullet.

I’ll go to the reunion right now, this minute. What’s to stop me? I’m not ill. I’m fine.

I head back into the bedroom with a fresh determination. I fling open my wardrobe doors and pull out a black chiffon maternity kaftan that I bought in the summer and never wore because it felt too tentlike. OK. Accessories. A few long, glittery necklaces…a pair of sparkly heels…diamond earrings…I wrench open my makeup case and apply as much as I can, as quickly as I can.

I take a step back and look at myself head to foot in the mirror. I look…fine. Not exactly my most polished outfit ever, but fine.

Adrenaline is beating through me as I grab an evening bag and stuff my keys, mobile, and purse into it. I wrap a shawl around myself and head out the front door, my chin jutting with resolve. I’ll show them. Or I’ll catch them. Or…something. I’m not some helpless victim who’s tamely going to lie in bed while her husband’s with another woman.

I manage to catch a cab straight outside our building, and as it zooms off I sit back and practice my confrontation lines. I need to hold my head high and be sarcastic yet noble. And not burst into tears or hit Venetia.

Well, maybe I could hit Venetia. A ringing slap on her cheek, after I’ve laid into Luke.

“You’re still married, by the way,” I rehearse under my breath. “Forget something, Luke? Like your wife?”

We’re getting near now, and I feel light-headed with nerves…but I don’t care. I’m still going to do it. I’m going to be strong. As the taxi draws up, I hand a wodge of crumpled money to the driver and get out. It’s started to rain, and a cold breeze is cutting right through my chiffon kaftan. I need to get inside.

I totter over the open square toward the grand stone entrance of the Guildhall and through the heavy oak doors. Inside, the reception area is full of pale blue helium balloons in bunches, and banners reading CAMBRIDGE REUNION, and a huge pin board covered in old photographs of students. In front of me a group of four men are slapping each other on the back and exclaiming things like “I can’t believe you’re still alive, you bastard!” As I hesitate, wondering where to go, a girl in a red ball gown sitting behind a cloth-draped table smiles up at me.

“Hello! Do you have your invitation?”

“My husband has it.” I try to sound calm, like any normal guest. “He arrived earlier than me. Luke Brandon?” The girl runs a finger down her list, then stops.

“Of course!” She smiles at me. “Do go in, Mrs. Brandon.”

I follow the group of bantering guys into the great hall and accept a glass of champagne on autopilot. I’ve never been here before and I didn’t realize how huge it was. There are massive stained-glass windows and ancient stone statues, and an orchestra is playing in the gallery, amplified over the roar of chatter. People in evening dress are milling and chatting and collecting food from a buffet, and some are even dancing old-fashioned waltzes, like something out of a film. I look around, trying to spot Luke or Venetia, but the room is so busy with women in beautiful dresses, and men in black tie, and even a few particularly dashing men in tails….

And then I see them. Dancing together.

Luke was right, he does waltz as well as Fred Astaire. He’s skimming Venetia around the floor like an expert. Her skirt is twirling, and her head is thrown back as she smiles up at Luke. They’re perfectly in time with each other. The most glamorous couple in the room.

I’m rooted to the spot as I watch them, my kaftan clinging damply to my shins. All the sarcastic, feisty phrases I prepared have shriveled on my lips. I’m not sure I can breathe, let alone speak.

“Are you all right?” A waiter is addressing me, but his voice seems to be coming from miles away and his face is out of focus.

I never once waltzed with Luke. And now it’s too late.

“She’s falling!” I can feel hands grabbing at me as my legs give way beneath me. My arm bashes against something and there’s a ringing in my ears and the sound of a woman shouting “Get some water! There’s a pregnant woman here!”

And then everything goes dark.