Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Three

AT FIVE TO TWELVE the next day I’m sitting under the bright lights of the Morning Coffee set, wondering how much longer we’ll be. Normally my financial advice slot is over by eleven forty, but they got so engrossed with the psychic who reckons she’s the reincarnated spirit of Mary Queen of Scots that everything’s overrun since then. And Luke will be here any minute, and I’ve still got to change out of this stuffy suit…

“Becky?” says Emma, who’s one of the presenters of Morning Coffee and is sitting opposite me on a blue sofa. “This sounds like quite a problem.”

“Absolutely,” I say, dragging my mind back to the present. I glance down at the sheet in front of me, then smile sympathetically at the camera. “So, to recap, Judy, you and your husband Bill have inherited some money. You’d like to invest some of it in the stock market — but he’s refusing.”

“It’s like talking to a brick wall!” comes Judy’s indignant voice. “He says I’ll lose it all, and it’s his money too, and if all I want to do is gamble it away, then I can go to…”

“Yes,” interrupts Emma smoothly. “Well. This does sound quite a problem, Becky. Two partners disagreeing about what to do with their money.”

“I just don’t understand him!” exclaims Judy. “This is our one chance to make a serious investment! It’s a fantastic opportunity! Why can’t he see that?”

She breaks off — and there’s an expectant silence around the studio. Everyone’s waiting for my answer.

“Judy…” I pause thoughtfully. “May I ask a question? What outfit is Bill wearing today?”

“A suit,” says Judy, sounding taken aback. “A gray suit for work.”

“What kind of tie? Plain or patterned?”

“Plain,” says Judy at once. “All his ties are plain.”

“Would he ever wear, say… a polka-dot tie?”

“Never!”

“I see.” I raise my eyebrows. “Judy, would it be fair to say Bill is generally quite an unadventurous person? That he doesn’t like taking risks?”

“Well… yes,” says Judy. “Now that you say it, I suppose he is.”

“Ah!” says Rory suddenly, on the other side of the sofa. Rory is the other presenter of Morning Coffee. He’s very chiseled-looking and is great at flirting with film stars, but he’s not exactly the Brain of Britain. “I think I see where you’re going here, Becky.”

“Yes, thanks Rory,” says Emma, rolling her eyes at me. “I think we all do. So Becky, if Bill doesn’t like risk — are you saying he’s right to avoid the stock market?”

“No,” I reply. “Actually, I’m not saying that at all. Because maybe what Bill isn’t quite seeing is that there’s more than one kind of risk. If you invest in the stock market, yes, you risk losing some money in the short term. But if you simply tuck it away in the bank for years and years, an even greater risk is that this inheritance will be eroded over time by inflation.”

“Aha,” puts in Rory wisely. “Inflation.”

“In twenty years’ time, it could well be worth very little — compared to what it would probably have achieved on the market. So if Bill is only in his thirties and wants to make a long-term investment — although it seems risky, it’s in many ways safer to choose a balanced stock market portfolio.”

“I see!” says Emma, and gives me an admiring look. “I would never have looked at it like that.”

“Successful investment is often simply a question of thinking laterally,” I say, smiling modestly.

I love it when I get the answer right and everyone looks impressed.

“Does that help you, Judy?” says Emma.

“Yes,” says Judy. “Yes, it does! I’ve videotaped this call, so I’ll show it to Bill tonight.”

“Oh right!” I say. “Well, check what kind of tie he’s wearing first.”

Everyone laughs, and I join in after a pause — though I wasn’t actually joking.

“Time for one more quick call,” says Emma. “And we have Enid from Northampton, who wants to know if she’s got enough money to retire on. Enid, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” comes Enid’s voice down the line. “My husband Tony’s recently retired, and I was on holiday last week — just at home with him, cooking and so forth. And he… we got to thinking… how about I retire early, too? But I wasn’t sure I had enough saved up, so I thought I’d call in.”

“What kind of financial provision have you made for retirement, Enid?” I ask.

“I’ve a pension which I’ve contributed to all my life,” says Enid hesitantly, “and I’ve a couple of savings plans… and I’ve a recent inheritance which should see off the mortgage…”

“Well!” says Emma brightly. “Even I can see that you’re pretty well set up, Enid. I’d say, happy retirement!”

“Right,” says Enid. “I see. So — there’s no reason for me not to retire. It’s just as Tony said.” There’s silence apart from her breathing unsteadily down the line, and Emma gives me a quick glance. I know the producer, Barry, must be yelling into her earpiece to fill the space.

“So good luck, Enid!” she says brightly. “Becky, on the subject of retirement planning—”

“Just… hold on a moment,” I say, frowning slightly. “Enid, there’s no obvious financial reason for you not to retire. But… what about the most important reason of all? Do you actually want to retire?”

“Well.” Enid’s voice falters slightly. “I’m in my fifties now. I mean, you have to move on, don’t you? And as Tony said, it’ll give us a chance to spend more time together.”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

There’s another silence.

“I do. Yes. It’s a good crowd, at work. I’m older than most of them, but somehow that doesn’t seem to matter when we’re having a laugh…”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for,” cuts in Emma, who has been listening intently to her earpiece. She smiles at the camera. “Good luck in your retirement, Enid…”

“Wait!” I say quickly. “Enid, please stay on the line if you’d like to talk about this a bit more. OK?”

“Yes,” says Enid after a pause. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“We’re going to go to weather now,” says Rory, who always perks up as the finance slot comes to an end. “But a final word, Becky?”

“Same as always,” I say, smiling at the camera. “Look after your money…”

“… and your money will look after you!” chime in Rory and Emma. After a frozen pause, everyone relaxes and Zelda, the assistant producer, strides onto the set.

“Well done!” she says. “Great stuff. Now, Becky, we’ve still got Enid on line four. But we can get rid of her if you like…”

“No!” I say. “I really want to talk to her. You know, I reckon she doesn’t want to retire at all!”

“Whatever,” says Zelda, ticking something on her clipboard. “Oh, and Luke’s waiting for you at reception.”

“Already?” I look at my watch. “Oh God… OK — can you tell him I won’t be long?”

I honestly don’t intend to spend that long on the phone. But once I get talking to Enid, it all comes out — about how she’s dreading retirement, and how her husband just wants her at home to cook for him. How she really loves her job and she was thinking about taking a computer course but her husband says it’s a waste of money… By the end I’m completely outraged. I’ve said exactly what I think, several times over, and am in the middle of asking Enid if she considers herself a feminist, when Zelda taps me on the shoulder and suddenly I remember where I am.

It takes me about another five minutes to apologize to Enid and say I’ve got to go, then for her to apologize to me — and for us both to say good-bye and thank you and don’t mention it, about twenty times. Then, as quickly as possible, I head to my dressing room and change out of my Morning Coffee outfit into my driving outfit.

I’m quite pleased with my appearance as I look at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing: a Pucci-esque multicolored top, frayed denim cutoffs, my new sandals, Gucci shades (Harvey Nichols sale — half price!), and my treasured pale blue Denny and George scarf.

Luke’s got a real thing about my Denny and George scarf. When people ask us how we met, he always says, “Our eyes met across a Denny and George scarf,” which is actually kind of true. He lent me some of the money I needed to buy it, and he still maintains I never paid him back so it’s partly his. (Which is so not true. I paid him back straight away.)

Anyway, I tend to wear it quite a lot when we go out together. Also when we stay in together. In fact, I’ll tell you a small secret — sometimes we even…

Actually, no. You don’t need to know that. Forget I mentioned it.

As I eventually hurry into reception I glance at my watch — and oh God, I’m forty minutes late. And there’s Luke sitting on a squashy chair, wearing the gorgeous polo shirt I bought him in the Ralph Lauren sale. He’s talking intently on his mobile phone and sipping a cup of coffee and frowning at something in the paper. But then he looks up and his dark eyes meet mine, and his whole face breaks into a smile. A true, affectionate smile, which makes him seem like a different person.

When I first knew Luke, I only ever saw him businesslike and polite, or scarily angry, or — very occasionally — amused. Even after we started seeing each other, it was a long time before he really let his guard down. In fact, the first time he really, really laughed, I was so surprised, I snorted lemonade through my nose.

Even now, whenever I see his face creasing into a real smile, I feel a bit of a lift inside. Because I know he’s not like that with everyone. He’s smiling like that because it’s me. For me.

“I’m really sorry I took so long,” I say. “I was just…”

“I know,” says Luke, closing his paper and standing up. “You were talking to Enid.” He gives me a kiss and squeezes my arm. “I saw the last couple of calls. Good for you.”

“You just won’t believe what her husband’s like!” I say as we go through the swing doors and out into the car park. “No wonder she wants to keep working!”

“I can imagine.”

“He just thinks she’s there to give him an easy life.” I shake my head fiercely. “You know, I’m never going to just… stay at home and cook your supper. Never in a million years.”

There’s a short silence, and I look up to see Luke’s amused expression.

“Or… you know,” I add hastily. “Anyone’s supper.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Luke mildly. “I’m especially glad if you’re never going to cook me Moroccan couscous surprise.”

“You know what I mean,” I say, flushing slightly. “And you promised you weren’t going to talk about that anymore.”

My famous Moroccan evening was quite soon after we started going out. I really wanted to show Luke that I could cook — and I’d seen this program about Moroccan cooking which made it look really easy and impressive. Plus there was some gorgeous Moroccan tableware on sale in Debenhams, so it should have all been perfect.

But that soggy couscous. It was the most revolting stuff I’ve ever seen in my life. Even after I tried Suze’s suggestion of stir-frying it with mango chutney. And there was so much of it, all swelling up in bowls everywhere…

Anyway. Never mind. We had quite a nice pizza in the end.

We’re approaching Luke’s convertible in the corner of the car park, and he bleeps it open.

“You got my message, did you?” he says. “About luggage?”

“Yes, I did. Here it is.”

I hand him the dinkiest little suitcase in the world, which I got from a children’s gift shop in Guildford. It’s white canvas with red hearts stenciled round it, and I use it as a vanity case.

“Is that it?” says Luke, looking astonished, and I stifle a giggle. Ha! This’ll show him who can pack light.

All I’ve got in this case is my makeup and shampoo — but Luke doesn’t need to know that, does he?

“Yes, that’s it,” I say, raising my eyebrows slightly. “You did say, ‘pack light.’ ”

“So I did,” says Luke. “But this—” He gestures at the case. “I’m impressed.”

As he opens the boot, I get into the driving seat and adjust the seat forward so I can reach the pedals. I’ve always wanted to drive a convertible!

The boot slams behind me, and Luke comes round, a quizzical look on his face.

“You’re driving, are you?”

“Part of the way, I thought,” I say carelessly. “Just to take the pressure off you. You know, it’s very dangerous to drive for too long.”

“You can drive, can you, in those shoes?” He’s looking down at my clementine sandals — and I have to admit, the heel is a bit high for pedaling. But I’m not going to let him know that. “They’re new, aren’t they?” he adds, looking more closely at them.

And I’m about to say yes, when I remember that the last time I saw him, I had new shoes on — and the time before that, too. Which is really weird and must be one of those random cluster things.

“No!” I reply instead. “Actually, I’ve had them for ages. Actually…” I clear my throat. “They’re my driving shoes.”

“Your driving shoes,” echoes Luke skeptically.

“Yes!” I say, and start the engine before he can say any more. God, this car is amazing! It makes a fantastic roaring sound, and a kind of screech as I move it into gear.

“Becky—”

“I’m fine!” I say, and slowly move off across the car park into the street. Oh, this is such a fantastic moment. I wonder if anybody’s watching me. I wonder if Emma and Rory are looking out the window. And that sound guy who thinks he’s so cool with his motorbike. He hasn’t got a convertible, has he? Accidentally on purpose, I lean on the horn, and as the sound echoes round the car park I see at least three people turning to look. Ha! Look at me! Ha-ha-ha…

“My petal,” says Luke beside me. “You’re causing a traffic jam.”

I glance into my rear mirror — and there are three cars creeping along behind me. Which is ridiculous, because I’m not going that slowly.

“Try moving it up a notch,” suggests Luke. “Ten miles an hour, say?”

“I am,” I say crossly. “You can’t expect me just to whiz off at a million miles an hour! There is a speed limit, you know.”

I reach the exit, smile nonchalantly at the porter at the gate, who gives me a surprised look, and pull out into the road. I signal left and take a last glance back to check if anyone I know has just come out and is watching me admiringly. Then, as a car behind me starts to beep, I carefully pull in at the pavement.

“There we are,” I say. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” Luke stares at me. “Already?”

“I have to do my nails now,” I explain. “And anyway, I know you think I can’t drive. I don’t want to have you pulling faces at me all the way down to Somerset.”

“I do not think you can’t drive,” protests Luke, half-laughing. “When have I ever said that?”

“You don’t need to say it. I can see it coming out of your head in a thought bubble: ‘Becky Bloomwood cannot drive.’ ”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” retorts Luke. “The bubble actually reads: ‘Becky Bloomwood cannot drive in her new orange shoes because the heels are too high and pointy.’ ”

He raises his eyebrows, and I feel myself flush slightly.

“They’re my driving shoes,” I mutter, shifting over to the passenger seat. “And I’ve had them for years.”

As I reach into my bag for my nail file, Luke gets into the driver’s seat, leans over, and gives me a kiss.

“Thank you for doing that stint, anyway,” he says. “I’m sure it’ll lessen my risk of fatigue on the motorway.”

“Well, good!” I say, starting on my nails. “You need to conserve your energy for all those long country walks we’re going to go on tomorrow.”

There’s silence, and after a while I look up.

“Yes,” says Luke — and he isn’t smiling anymore. “Becky… I was going to talk to you about tomorrow.” He pauses and I stare at him, feeling my own smile fade slightly.

“What is it?” I say, trying not to sound anxious.

Luke exhales sharply. “Here’s the thing. A business opportunity has arisen which I really would like to… to take advantage of. And there are some people over from the States who I need to talk to. Urgently.”

“Oh,” I say, a little uncertainly. “Well — that’s OK. If you’ve got your phone with you…”

“Not by phone.” He looks straight at me. “I’ve scheduled a meeting for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I echo, and give a little laugh. “But you can’t have a meeting. We’ll be at the hotel.”

“So will the people I need to talk to,” says Luke. “I’ve invited them down.”

I stare at him in shock.

“You’ve invited businesspeople down on our holiday?”

“Purely for the meeting,” says Luke. “The rest of the time it’ll just be the two of us.”

“And how long will the meeting go on?” I exclaim. “Don’t tell me! All day!”

I just can’t believe it. After waiting all this time, after getting all excited, after all my packing…

“Becky, it won’t be as bad as that…”

“You promised me you’d take time off! You said we’d have a lovely romantic time.”

“We will have a lovely romantic time.”

“With all your business friends. With all your horrible contacts, networking away like… like maggots!”

“They won’t be networking with us,” says Luke with a grin. “Becky—” He reaches for my hand, but I pull it away.

“To be honest, I don’t see any point in my coming if it’s just you doing business!” I say miserably. “I might as well just stay at home. In fact—” I open the car door. “In fact, I think I’ll go home right now. I’ll call a taxi from the studio.”

I slam the car door and begin to stride off along the street, my clementine sandals making a click-clack sound against the hot pavement. And I’ve almost got to the studio gate before I hear his voice, raised so loud that several people turn to look.

“Becky! Wait there!”

I stop and slowly turn on the spot — to see him standing up in the car, dialing a number on his mobile phone.

“What are you doing?” I call suspiciously.

“I’m phoning my horrible business contact,” says Luke. “To put him off. To cancel.”

I fold my arms and stare at him with narrowed eyes.

“Hello?” he says. “Room 301, please. Michael Ellis. Thanks. I guess I’ll just have to fly out and see him in Washington,” he adds to me in deadpan tones. “Or wait until the next time he and his associates are all together in Britain. Which could be a while, bearing in mind their completely crazy schedules. Still, it’s only business, after all. Only a deal. It’s only the deal I’ve been wanting to make for…”

“Oh… stop it!” I say furiously. “Stop it. Have your stupid meeting.”

“Are you sure?” says Luke, putting a hand over the receiver. “Absolutely sure?”

“Quite sure,” I say, giving a morose shrug. “If it’s that important…”

“It’s pretty important,” says Luke, and meets my eyes, suddenly serious. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.”

I walk slowly back to the car as Luke puts away his mobile phone.

“Thanks, Becky,” he says as I get in. “I mean it.” He touches my cheek gently, then reaches for the keys and starts up the engine.

As we drive off toward a set of traffic lights, I glance at him, and then at his mobile phone, still sticking out of his pocket.

“Were you really phoning your business contact?” I say.

“Were you really going home?” he replies, without moving his head.

This is what’s so annoying about going out with Luke. You can’t get away with anything.

We drive for about an hour into the countryside, stop for lunch in a little village pub, then drive for another hour and a half down to Somerset. By the time we reach Blakeley Hall, I feel like a different person. It’s so good to get out of London — and I’m already incredibly energized and refreshed by all this wonderful country air. As I step out of the car I do a few stretches — and honestly, I already feel fitter and more toned. I reckon if I came to the country every week, I’d lose half a stone, if not more.

“Do you want any more of these?” says Luke, reaching down and picking up the nearly empty packet of Maltesers which I’ve been snacking on. (I have to eat in the car, otherwise I get carsick.) “And what about these magazines?” He picks up the stack of glossies which have been at my feet, then makes a grab as they all start slithering out of his hands.

“I’m not going to read magazines here!” I say in surprise. “This is the country!”

Honestly. Doesn’t Luke know anything about rural life?

As he’s getting the bags out of the boot I wander over to a fence and gaze peacefully at a field full of browny-yellow stuff. You know, I reckon I have a real natural affinity for the countryside. It’s like I’ve got this whole nurturing, earth-mother side, which has been gradually creeping up on me. For example, the other day I found myself buying a Fair Isle jersey from French Connection. And I’ve recently started gardening! Or at least, I’ve bought some sweet little ceramic flowerpots from The Pier, marked “Basil” and “Coriander”—and I’m definitely going to get some of those little plants from the supermarket and have a whole row of them on the windowsill. (I mean, they’re only about 50 pence, so if they die you can just buy another one.)

“Ready?” says Luke.

“Absolutely!” I say, and teeter back toward him, cursing the mud.

We crunch over the gravel to the hotel — and I have to say, I’m impressed. It’s a great big old-fashioned country house, with beautiful gardens, and modern sculptures in the gardens and its own cinema, according to the brochure! Luke’s been here quite a few times before, and he says it’s his favorite hotel. And lots of celebrities come here, too! Like Madonna. (Or was it Sporty Spice? Someone, anyway.) But apparently they’re always very discreet and usually stay in some separate coach-housey bit, and the staff never lets on.

Still, as we go into the reception hall I have a good look around, just in case. There are lots of cool-looking people in trendy spectacles and denim, and there’s a blonde girl who sort of looks famous-ish, and standing over there…

I freeze in excitement. It’s him, isn’t it? It’s Elton John! Elton John himself is standing right there, only a few—

Then he turns round — and it’s just a dumpy guy in an anorak and spectacles. Damn. Still, it was nearly Elton John.

We’ve reached the reception desk by now, and a concierge in a trendy Nehru jacket smiles at us. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brandon,” he says. “And Miss Bloomwood. Welcome to Blakeley Hall.”

He knew our names! We didn’t even have to tell him! No wonder celebrities come here.

“I’ve put you in room 9,” he says, as Luke starts to fill in a form. “Overlooking the rose garden.”

“Great,” says Luke. “Becky, which paper would you like in the morning?”

“The Financial Times,” I say smoothly.

“Of course,” says Luke, writing. “So that’s one FT — and a Daily World for me.”

I give him a suspicious look, but his face is completely blank.

“Would you like tea in the morning?” says the concierge, tapping at his computer. “Or coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” says Luke. “For both of us, I think.” He looks at me questioningly, and I nod.

“You’ll find a complimentary bottle of champagne in your room,” says the concierge, “and room service is available twenty-four hours.”

I have to say I’m very impressed. This really is a top-class place. They know your face immediately, they give you champagne — and they haven’t even mentioned my Special Express parcel yet. Obviously they realize it’s a matter of discretion. They realize that a girl doesn’t necessarily want her boyfriend knowing about every single package that is delivered to her — and are going to wait until Luke is out of earshot until they tell me about it. This is why it’s worth coming to a good hotel.

“If there’s anything else you require, Miss Bloomwood,” says the concierge, looking at me meaningfully, “please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

You see? Coded messages and everything.

“I will, don’t worry,” I say, and give him a knowing smile. “In just a moment.” I flick my eyes meaningfully toward Luke, and the concierge gives me a blank stare, exactly as though he’s got no idea what I’m talking about. God, these people are good!

Eventually, Luke finishes the forms and hands them back. The concierge hands him a big, old-fashioned room key, and summons a porter.

“I don’t think we need any help,” says Luke, with a smile, and lifts up my dinky suitcase. “I’m not exactly overburdened.”

“You go on up,” I say. “I just want to… check something. For tomorrow.” I smile at Luke and after a moment, to my relief, he heads off toward the staircase.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I swivel back to the desk.

“I’ll take it now,” I murmur to the concierge, who has turned away and is looking in a drawer. He raises his head and looks at me in surprise.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bloomwood?”

“It’s OK,” I say more meaningfully. “You can give it to me now. While Luke’s gone.”

A flicker of apprehension passes over the concierge’s face.

“What exactly—”

“You can give me my package.” I lower my voice. “And thanks for not letting on.”

“Your… package?”

“My Special Express.”

“What Special Express?”

I stare at him, feeling a few misgivings.

“The parcel with all my clothes in it! The one you weren’t mentioning! The one…”

I tail away at the sight of his face. He doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about, does he? OK. Don’t panic. Someone else will know where it is.

“I should have a parcel waiting for me,” I explain. “About this big… It should have arrived this morning…”

The concierge is shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bloomwood. There aren’t any packages for you.”

Suddenly I feel a little hollow.

“But… there has to be a package. I sent it by Special Express, yesterday. To Blakeley Hall.”

The concierge frowns.

“Charlotte?” he says, calling into a back room. “Has a parcel arrived for Rebecca Bloomwood?”

“No,” says Charlotte, coming out. “When was it supposed to arrive?”

“This morning!” I say, trying to hide my agitation. “ ‘Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning’! I mean, this is anywhere, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” says Charlotte, “but nothing’s come. Was it very important?”

“Rebecca?” comes a voice from the stairs, and I turn to see Luke peering down at me. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” I say brightly. “Of course not! What on earth could be wrong?” Quickly I swivel away from the desk and, before Charlotte or the concierge can say anything, hurry toward the stairs.

“Everything all right?” he says as I reach him, and smiles at me.

“Absolutely!” I say, my voice two notches higher than usual. “Everything’s absolutely fine!”

I have no clothes. This cannot be happening.

I’m on holiday with Luke, in a smart hotel — and I have no clothes. What am I going to do?

I can’t tell him the truth. I just can’t admit that my dinky suitcase was only the tip of the clothes-berg. Not after having been so smug about it. I’ll just have to… improvise, I think wildly, as we turn a corner and start walking down another plushy corridor. Wear his clothes, like Annie Hall or… or rip down the curtains and find some sewing stuff… and quickly learn how to sew…

Calm down, I tell myself firmly. Just… calm down. The parcel is bound to arrive tomorrow morning, so I’ve only got to last one night. And at least I’ve got my makeup with me…

“Here we are,” says Luke, stopping at a door and opening it. “What do you think?”

Oh wow. For a moment all my worries are swept away as I gaze around the enormous airy room. Now I can see why Luke likes this hotel so much. It’s gorgeous — exactly like his flat, all huge white bed with an enormous waffle duvet, and a state-of-the-art music system and two suede sofas.

“Take a look at the bathroom,” says Luke, and I follow him through — and it’s stunning. A great sunken mosaic Jacuzzi, with the hugest shower I’ve ever seen above, and a whole rack of gorgeous-looking aromatherapy oils.

Maybe I could just spend the whole weekend in the bath.

“So,” he says, turning back into the room. “I don’t know what you’d like to do…” He walks over to his suitcase and clicks it open — and I can see serried rows of shirts, all ironed by his housekeeper. “I suppose we should unpack first…”

“Unpack! Absolutely!” I say brightly. I walk over to my own little suitcase and finger the clasp, without opening it. “Or else…” I say, as though the idea’s just occurring to me, “why don’t we go and have a drink — and unpack later!”

Genius. We’ll go downstairs and get really pissed, and then tomorrow morning I’ll just pretend to be really sleepy and stay in bed until my package comes. Thank God. For a moment there I was starting to—

“Excellent idea,” says Luke. “I’ll just get changed.” And he reaches into his case and pulls out a pair of trousers and a crisp blue shirt.

“Changed?” I say after a pause. “Is there… a strict dress code?”

“Oh no, not strict,” says Luke. “You just wouldn’t go down in… say, in what you’re wearing at the moment.” He gestures to my denim cutoffs with a grin.

“Of course not!” I say, laughing as though the idea’s ridiculous. “Right. Well. I’ll just… choose an outfit, then.”

I turn to my case again, snap it open, lift the lid, and look at my makeup bag.

What am I going to do? Luke’s unbuttoning his shirt. He’s calmly reaching for the blue one. In a minute he’s going to look up and say, “Are you ready?”

I need a radical plan of action here.

“Luke — I’ve changed my mind,” I say, and close the lid of my case. “Let’s not go down to the bar.” Luke looks up in surprise, and I give him the most seductive smile I can muster. “Let’s stay up here, and order room service, and…” I take a few steps toward him, loosening my wrap top, “… and see where the night leads us.”

Luke stares at me, his hands still halfway up the buttons of his blue shirt.

“Take that off,” I say huskily. “What’s the point of dressing up when all we want to do is undress each other?”

A slow smile spreads across Luke’s face, and his eyes begin to gleam.

“You’re so right,” he says, and walks toward me, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “I don’t know what I was thinking of.”

Thank God! I think in relief, as he reaches for my wrap top and gently starts to untie it. This is perfect. This is exactly what I—

Ooh. Mmm.

Actually, this is pretty bloody perfect.