Shopaholic and Baby

ELEVEN

I’M GOING TO TALK TO LUKE, I’ve decided. I’m going to be mature and grown-up and just tackle this head-on. So with total resolve I sit up in bed until he arrives home that night. It’s way after midnight as the door opens, and he smells of smoke and drink and…oh my God. Allure.

OK. Don’t panic. Just because he smells of Allure, it doesn’t prove anything.

“Hi! How was the dinner?” I make sure I sound all friendly and encouraging, and not like some whingy wife out of EastEnders.

“It was great.” Luke takes off his jacket. “Venetia’s very bright. Very switched on.”

“I’ll…bet she is.” I twist my hands together under the duvet, where he can’t see them. “And what did you talk about? Apart from work.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Luke is loosening his tie. “The arts…books…”

“You never read books!” I say before I can stop myself. It’s true. He doesn’t, apart from how-to-run-your-magnificent-business-empire kind of books.

“Maybe not,” he says, shooting me a wry look. “But I used to.”

What does that mean? Before he met me? So now it’s my fault he doesn’t read books, is that it?

“And what else did you talk about?” I persist.

“Becky, honestly. I can’t remember.”

His phone beeps with a text and he checks it. He smiles, texts something back, then resumes getting undressed. I’m watching in growing disbelief and anger. How can he do that? In front of me?

“Was that in Latin?” I say before I can stop myself.

“What?” Luke wheels around, his hands still tugging at his shirtsleeves.

“I just happened to see…” I falter. Then I stop. Sod it. I’m not going to pretend anymore. I take a deep breath and look at Luke straight-on. “She sends you texts in Latin, doesn’t she? Is that your secret code?”

“What are you talking about?” Luke takes a step forward, his brow darkened. “Have you been reading my texts?”

“I’m your wife! What does she text you about, Luke?” My voice is rising in hurt. “Latin books? Or…other things?”

“I’m sorry?” He looks bemused.

“You know she’s moving in on you, don’t you?”

“What?” Luke gives a short laugh. “Becky, I know you have a vivid imagination, but really….” He pulls his shirt off and dumpsit in the laundry hamper.

How can he be so dense? I thought he was supposed to be clever.

“She’s after you!” I’m leaning forward in agitation. “Can’t you see it? She’s a home-wrecker! That’s what she does—”

“She is not after me!” Luke says, cutting me off. “To be honest, Becky, I’m shocked. I never thought of you as being possessive. Surely I’m allowed to have a few friends, for Christ’s sake. Just because she happens to be female—”

“It’s not that,” I cut him off scornfully.

It’s that she used to be his ex-girlfriend and has long swishy red hair. But I’m not going to say that.

“It’s that…” I flounder. “It’s that…we’re married, Luke. We should share everything. We shouldn’t have anything separate. I’m an open book! Look at my phone!” I gesture widely. “Look in my drawers! I don’t have a single secret! Go on, look!”

“Becky, it’s getting late.” Luke rubs his face. “Could we do this tomorrow?”

I stare at him indignantly. What does he mean, “do this tomorrow”? We’re not playing Monopoly — we’re having a crucial discussion about the state of our marriage.

“Go on! Look!”

“All right.” Luke lifts his hands in surrender, and heads toward my bureau.

“I don’t have a single secret I’m keeping from you! You can look anywhere, poke about all you like—” I draw up sharply.

Shit. The gender predictor test. It’s in the top left drawer.

“Er…except that drawer,” I exclaim hastily. “Don’t touch the top left drawer.”

Luke stops. “I can’t touch that drawer?”

“No. It’s…a surprise. Or the Harrods bag on the chair,” I add hastily. I don’t want him seeing the receipt for my new hi-tech moisturizer. I nearly died myself when I saw the price.

“Anything else?” Luke inquires.

“Um…a couple of things in the wardrobe. Early birthday presents for you,” I add defiantly.

There’s silence in the bedroom. I can’t quite tell what Luke is thinking. At last he turns, his face working oddly.

“So, our marriage is a completely honest, open book except for that drawer, this Harrods bag, and the back of the wardrobe?”

I sense my position on the moral high ground is not quite as strong as I thought it was.

“The point is…” I cast around. “The point is, I wasn’t out all night with someone else, doing goodness knows what!”

Oh God. I sound exactly like a whingy EastEnders wife.

“Becky.” Luke sighs and sits down on the bed. “Venetia’s not ‘someone else.’ She’s a client. She’s a friend. She’d like to be your friend.”

I turn away, pleating the duvet cover into a little fan.

“I just can’t understand what your problem is. You were the one who wanted to go to Venetia in the first place!”

“Yes, but—”

I can’t exactly say, I didn’t know then that she was a husband stealer.

“She’s going to be delivering our baby in a few weeks’ time! You should be getting to know her. Feeling relaxed with her!”

I don’t want her to deliver the baby flashes through my mind.

“And on that subject…” Luke stands up. “Venetia asked if we could make an appointment tomorrow. She hasn’t seen you for a while and she feels bad about it. I said we’d both be there. OK?” He heads into the bathroom.

“Fine,” I say morosely, and sink back into the pillows with a great sigh. My head is swirling with confused thoughts. Maybe I am being unreasonable and paranoid. Maybe she’s not after Luke.

And she is the best obstetrician in the world, practically. OK. I’m going to make a real, real effort and see if we can be friends.

When we arrive at the Holistic Birth Center on Friday, the paparazzi are out in force and I can see why. The Bond girl and the new face of Lancôme are posing together on the steps, both in cool low-slung trousers and clingy tops which accentuate their teeny bumps.

“Becky, slow down!” Luke calls after me as I hurry to join them. But by the time I arrive, they’ve already pushed their way in through the doors. I pause hopefully on the steps, but not a single lens points toward me. In fact, the photographers are all moving away, which is pretty insulting. You’d think they’d take a picture just to be polite.

Inside, the Bond girl is ahead of me at the desk, and I can hear the receptionist saying, “And you got your invitation to tea at the Savoy? Do you need us to send a car?”

“No, thanks,” says the Bond girl, nodding at the Lancôme model. “Zara and I are going together.”

My heart skips a beat. Tea at the Savoy? I didn’t get an invitation to tea at the Savoy. Maybe they’re going to give it to me now! I approach the receptionist with an expectant smile, already reaching for my diary so I can check the date. But she doesn’t hand over any invitation.

“Take a seat, Mrs. Brandon.” She smiles back. “Venetia will be with you shortly.”

“Er…was there anything else?” I linger at the desk. “Anything I should…have?”

“Did you bring a urine sample?” The receptionist smiles. “That’s all you need.”

That is not what I was talking about. I wait another few seconds just in case, then stalk over to the seating area, trying to hide my disappointment. She hasn’t invited me. All the celebrities will be having tea together, exchanging pregnancy stories and asking each other where they buy their premiere dresses, and I’ll be sitting at home on my own.

“Becky?” Luke is regarding me, puzzled. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” I can feel my bottom lip quivering. “Only she didn’t invite me to the tea party. They’re all going to the Savoy. All of them! Without me.”

“Becky, you don’t know there’s a tea party. I’m sure…I mean…” Luke breaks off, clearly at a loss. “Look, even if she didn’t, does it matter? You don’t go to a doctor because of the tea parties.”

I open my mouth, then close it again.

“Becky?” A melodious voice rings out. “Luke?”

Oh my God. It’s her.

I haven’t seen Venetia in weeks. To be honest, she’d kind of altered in my mind. I’d pictured her taller, with longer, witchier hair and flashing green eyes and kind of…fangs. But here she is, slim and pretty, dressed in a chic black turtleneck and smiling as though I’m her best friend.

“Great to see you!” She kisses me. “I do apologize, I’ve been neglecting you shamefully.” As she says it, she glances at Luke as though they’re in on some private conversation.

Or is that me being paranoid?

“Come on through!” She ushers us into her room and we all sit down. “So, Becky.” Venetia opens her file. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Baby moving well?”

“Yes, all the time.” I put a hand on my tummy, and, of course, the baby’s gone to sleep.

“Well, let’s have a feel.” She gestures toward the examination table and I go and heave myself onto it while Venetia washes her hands.

“Did I hear something about a tea party out there, Ven?” says Luke lightly. “Great publicity idea.” I stare at him in astonishment and he winks.

Sometimes I really love Luke.

“Oh.” Venetia sounds taken aback. “That’s right. It’s for patients at a slightly more advanced stage than you, Becky. But of course you’re on the list for the next one!”

She’s so lying. I wasn’t on that list.

As her hands move over my abdomen, I can’t relax. I’m staring at her hands: slim and white, with a massive diamond eternity band on the third finger of her right hand. I wonder who gave her that.

“It’s a good-size baby. Breech at the moment, which means the head is up near your ribs….” Venetia’s frowning in concentration as she feels the baby. “If it remains in that position we’ll have to discuss your options for the birth, but it’s early days yet.” She glances at her notes. “You’re only thirty-two weeks. Plenty of time for the baby to turn. Now, let’s listen to the heartbeat….” She squirts gel on my stomach, and does the ultrasound. A moment later the heartbeat is going wow-wow-wow through the room.

“Nice, strong heartbeat.” Venetia nods at me, and I nod back as best I can while lying down. For a few moments the three of us just listen to the regular, fuzzy beat. It’s so weird. Here we are, all transfixed by the sound — and the baby has no idea we’re listening to it.

“That’s your child.” Venetia meets Luke’s eyes. “Pretty amazing, huh?” She leans over and straightens his tie — and I feel a spike of resentment. How dare she do that? This is our moment. And everyone knows that the wife straightens the tie.

“So, Venetia,” I say politely as at last she turns off the ultrasound machine. “I was sorry to hear about you splitting up with your boyfriend. What a shame.”

“Ah well.” Venetia spreads her hands. “Some things aren’t meant to be.” She smiles sweetly. “How’s your general health, Becky? Any aches and pains? Heartburn? Hemorrhoids?”

I don’t believe it. She’s deliberately choosing all the least sexy ailments.

“No,” I say firmly. “I feel really great.”

“Then you’re lucky.” Venetia gestures to us to sit down again. “Toward the end of pregnancy, you’ll find your body will really start feeling the strain. You may suffer from acne…varicose veins…. Sex will obviously be difficult, if not impossible….”

Ooh. She is an absolute cow.

“We don’t have any problems in that area.” I take Luke’s hand and clasp it. “Do we, darling?”

“It’s early days yet.” Venetia’s pleasant smile is unmoved. “Many of my patients lose their libido for good after childbirth. And of course, unfortunately, some men find their partner’s new shape somewhat…unattractive.”

Unattractive? Did she just say I was unattractive?

She’s wrapped a blood pressure cuff round my arm and now frowns as it deflates. “Your blood pressure’s creeping higher, Becky.”

I’m not bloody surprised! I glance at Luke, but he seems totally unsuspicious.

“Darling, you should mention that pain in your leg,” he says. “Remember, the other evening?”

“Pain in the leg?” Venetia looks up, alert.

“It was nothing,” I say quickly. “Just a twinge.”

I wore my new five-inch Manolos all day at work last week. Which was maybe a mistake, as by the time I got home I could barely walk and had to get Luke to massage my calf muscle.

“You should get it checked out, even so.” Luke squeezes my hand. “There’s no harm being careful.”

“Absolutely!” Venetia pushes back her chair. “Let’s examine it, shall we, Becky? Up on the table again.”

I do not like that glint in her eye. Reluctantly, I take off my new Wolford Stay-Ups and get on the table.

“Hmm.” She takes my leg, peers at it, then rubs a hand over it. “I think I can feel the beginnings of a varicose vein!”

I stare at my smooth skin in horror. She’s lying. There’s not a hint of a varicose vein.

“I can’t see anything there,” I say, trying to stay calm.

“To you it might seem invisible, but I can detect these things very early on.” Venetia pats my shoulder. “What I recommend, Becky, is you wear these surgical support stockings from now on.” She takes a packet from her desk and pulls out a pair of what look like long white-mesh socks. “Put them on.”

“I’m not putting those on!” I recoil in horror. I can barely bring myself to touch them, let alone wear them. They are the most revolting things I’ve ever seen.

“Becky, darling.” Luke leans forward. “If Venetia says you should wear them—”

“I’m sure I haven’t got varicose veins!” My voice is growing shriller. “Luke, it was my shoes, remember?”

“Ah,” Venetia chips in. “You may have a point. Let me see what you’re wearing.”

She surveys my new platform wedges and shakes her head sadly.

“Those really aren’t suitable for late pregnancy. Here, try these.” She roots in her bottom desk drawer and produces a pair of ugly brown rubber flip-flops. “They’re an orthopedic sample. I’d be glad to know what you think of them.”

I stare at them in dismay. “Instead of the support stockings?”

“Oh no!” She smiles. “I think you should wear the support stockings as well. Just to be on the safe side.”

Bitch. Bitch.

“Put them on, darling,” says Luke with an encouraging nod. “Venetia’s just thinking of your health.”

No, she’s not! I want to yell. Can’t you see what she’s doing?

But I can’t. There’s no way out. They’re both watching me. I’m going to have to do this.

Feeling sick, I slowly pull on first one surgical stocking, then the other.

“Tug them right up!” says Venetia. “That’s it, over your thighs.” I slip on the horrible flip-flops. Then I pick up my new oversize Marc Jacobs (pale yellow, totally gorgeous) bag to stuff my wedges in.

“Is that your bag?” Venetia’s beady eyes alight on it and I feel a clutch of dread. Not the bag. Please, not the bag.

“This is far too heavy for a pregnant woman!” she says, taking it from me and hefting it with a frown. “Do you know the damage you might do to your spine?” To Luke she adds, “You know, I did a year working very closely with a physical therapist. The injuries she saw, from people lugging around ridiculous-size bags!”

“Big bags are in fashion,” I say tightly.

“Fashion!” Venetia gives her silvery laugh. “Fashion is bad for your health. Try this, Becky. My physical therapist supplies them.” She opens a cupboard and produces a fanny pack made of khaki webbing. “Far more ergonomic for the back. You can even hide it under your T-shirt for security….”

“That’s great!” says Luke, taking my Marc Jacobs from Venetia and putting it on the floor where I can’t reach it. “Venetia, this is so kind of you.”

Kind? He has no idea what’s going on here. None.

“Go on, Becky!” Venetia is like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse, relishing its suffering. “See if it fits.”

With trembling hands I pull up my T-shirt, fit the khaki belt around my belly, fasten the clasp, and allow my T-shirt to fall back down. As I turn I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror fitted to the back of the door.

I want to cry. I look like a grotesque monster. My legs are two white, bulbous tree trunks. My feet resemble a granny’s. I have bumps in front and behind.

“You look great, Becky!” Venetia has hopped onto the desk and is doing an agile, yoga-type stretch which shows off her long, lithe arms. “So, Luke, that was a marvelous meeting we had. I was really interested in what you had to say about Web links….”

Miserably, I shuffle to my seat and wait for them to finish talking about Venetia’s business profile. But now they’ve moved on to her brochure and whether it could be improved.

“Oh, sorry, Becky!” Venetia suddenly appears to notice me. “This must be really boring. You know, the checkup’s done, so if you don’t want to hang around….”

“Aren’t you meeting Suze and Jess for lunch?” Luke looks at me. “Why don’t you shoot off? I just want to recap a few things with Venetia.”

I’m rooted to the ground. I don’t want to leave him here alone with her. Every instinct is telling me not to. But if I say that, he’ll think I’m just being all possessive and suspicious and we’ll have another huge row.

“Well, OK,” I say at last. “I’ll go.”

“Make sure you take what you need,” says Venetia, gesturing at my Marc Jacobs. “And I don’t want to hear that you’ve been using that bag!” She wags her finger at me.

I want to shoot her. But there’s no point arguing; Luke will only take her side. In silence I take out my purse, phone, keys, and a few essential items of makeup. I put them in the khaki bag and zip it shut.

“Bye, darling.” Luke kisses me. “I’ll call you later.”

“Bye. Bye, Venetia.” I can barely look her in the eye. I leave the room and head out to the foyer.

At the reception desk I can see an excited blond girl with the tiniest of bumps, saying, “I’m so thrilled to have a place with Venetia!”

Yes, you are now, I think savagely. Until she makes you look like a freak in front of your husband.

I’m nearly at the door, when a sudden recollection stops me. Luke’s mobile rang this morning while he was in the shower, and I answered it. Which was not because I am possessive and suspicious, but because…

Well, OK. I thought it might be Venetia. But it wasn’t; it was John from Brandon Communications and I never told Luke to ring him. I’d better let him know.

I retrace my steps through the waiting room, trying to ignore the curious stares of the blond girl and her husband. These bloody stockings are coming off as soon as I get outside.

A woman in a blue nurse-type uniform is ahead of me in the corridor, and as I’m shuffling along she pauses at Venetia’s door. She knocks twice, then opens the door.

“Oh, sorry!” I hear her say. “I didn’t mean to disturb…”

Disturb what? Disturb what?

My heart suddenly hammering, I hurry forward along the corridor, and just catch a glimpse through the doorway as the nurse retreats.

And I see them. Sitting together on the desk, talking in low, laughing voices. Venetia’s arm is resting casually across Luke’s shoulders. The other hand is entwined in his. They look happy and relaxed and intimate.

They look like a couple.

I don’t know how I get to the restaurant where I’m meeting Suze and Jess. I’m walking on autopilot, like a zombie. I want to throw up every time I think about it.

They were together. They were together.

“Bex?”

Somehow I’ve pushed my way in through the glass doors and am standing in a total daze as waiters bustle around and people chatter. “Bex, are you OK?” Suze is hurrying over to greet me. Her eyes drop in dismay to my white legs. “What are you wearing? What’s happened? Bex…can you speak?”

“I…no. I need to sit down.” I totter after her to a corner table where Jess is sitting.

“What’s happened?” Jess looks aghast at my appearance. She quickly pushes out a chair for me and helps me sit down. “Are you OK? Is it the baby?”

“I saw them,” I manage.

“Who?”

“Luke and Venetia. Together.”

“Together?” Suze claps a hand to her mouth. “Together, doing…what?”

“They were sitting on a desk, talking.” I can barely get the words out. “She had her arm on his shoulders. And he was holding her hand.” I look up for a reaction. Both Suze and Jess look like they’re waiting for more.

“Were they…kissing?” Suze ventures.

“No, they were laughing. They looked all happy. I just…I had to get out of there.” I take a deep gulp of water. Suze and Jess exchange glances.

“And…that’s why you put on white tights?” hazards Suze cautiously.

“No! Of course not!” I thrust down my glass, feeling the humiliation rise up again. “It was Venetia! She took away my shoes and my bag and she made me put these things on, just so I’d look all gross in front of Luke.”

Suze gasps. “What a cow!”

“And I can’t get them off.” I’m near tears by now. “I’m stuck with them!”

“Come on! I’ll help you!” Suze puts down her glass and reaches for one of the stockings. Jess is watching, her brow wrinkled.

“Becky…are you sure there isn’t some good health reason for wearing them?”

“No! She was just doing it to be mean! She said fashion’s bad for the health!”

Jess looks unmoved. “Fashion is bad for the health.”

“Fashion is not bad for the health!” I erupt. “It’s good for the health! It makes you…it makes you stay slim and stand up straight so your jacket hangs better. And take an interest in yourself so you don’t get all depressed.” I’m ticking the points off on my fingers. “And high heels are brilliant exercise for calf muscles….”

“Bex, have some wine,” says Suze soothingly, pushing her glass over. “Just a sip won’t hurt the baby. And it might…calm you down a bit.”

“OK. Thanks.” I take a grateful gulp.

“My obstetrician told me I could have a glass every other night,” adds Suze. “He’s French.”

I take another sip, feeling my heart rate subside. I should have gone to France to have the baby. Or anywhere but Venetia Carter. Maybe I should just forget this whole hospital thing and have the baby in a shop, like I always planned. At least I’d feel relaxed and happy. At least I’d get free clothes.

“I don’t know what to do.” I put the wineglass down and look miserably from Suze to Jess. “I’ve already tried talking to Luke. He said nothing was going on and they were just friends. But they didn’t look like just friends to me.”

“How exactly was he holding her hand?” Suze frowns intently. “Could it just have been friendly? Is Venetia a touchy-feely person?”

“She’s…” I think back. I remember her squeezing my arm, brushing a hand down my arm. “Quite,” I allow at last.

“Well, maybe that’s all it is! Maybe she’s just one of those people that gets too close.”

“Do you have any other evidence?” asks Jess.

“Not yet.” I fiddle with a bread stick wrapper, wondering whether to tell them. “I followed him the other day.”

“You did what?” Suze looks aghast. “What if he’d seen you?”

“He did see me. I pretended I was shopping.”

“Bex…” Suze clutches her hair. “What if nothing’s going on? Just seeing them holding hands isn’t proof. You don’t want to ruin all the trust between you and Luke.”

“So, what should I do?” I look from face to face. “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” says Suze firmly. “Bex, I know Luke loves you. And he hasn’t done anything really incriminating, has he? It would be different if he’d lied to you, or if you’d seen them kissing….”

“I agree.” Jess nods vigorously. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Becky.”

“But…” I trail off, winding the wrapper tightly around my fingers. I don’t know how to explain it; I just have a bad feeling. It’s not just the texting, or the dinners. It’s not even seeing them just now. It’s something about her. It’s something in her eyes. She’s a predator.

But if I say that to the others, they’ll say I’m imagining it.

“All right,” I say at last. “I won’t do anything.”

“Let’s order,” says Suze firmly, shoving a menu at me.

“There’s a set menu,” says Jess, putting a typed sheet on top of the à la carte. “It’s more economical, if we only have two courses and don’t choose any of these ridiculous items with truffles.”

I immediately want to retort that truffles are my favorite food and who cares how much they cost? But the trouble is, I kind of agree. I’ve never got the whole thousand-pounds-for-a-truffle thing.

Oh God. Please don’t say I’m starting to agree with Jess.

“And you can help me think of how to get my own back on Lulu,” adds Suze, passing the bread basket.

“Ooh,” I say, cheering up. “How come?”

“She’s been asked to do a TV program,” Suze says with disdain. “One of those makeover shows where she goes to the house of some crap mother and tells them how to cook healthily for their children. And she’s asked me to be the first crap mother!”

“No!”

“She’s already put my name forward to the production company!” Suze’s voice rises in indignation. “They phoned me up and said was it true that I only fed my children canned food and that none of them could speak?”

“What a nerve!” I take a roll and spread some butter on it. There’s nothing like having someone else to hate, to make you forget your problems.

We have a great lunch, the three of us, and by the end of it I feel so much better. We all decide Lulu is the absolute pits. (Jess has never met Lulu, but I give her a pretty good description.) And then Jess relays her own problems. She told Tom about Chile and it didn’t go too well.

“First he thought I was joking,” she says, crumbling a roll into little bits. “Then he thought I was testing his love. So he proposed.”

“He proposed?” I say in an excited squeak.

“Obviously, I told him to stop being so ridiculous,” says Jess. “And now…we’re not really talking.” She says it in a matter-of-fact way, but I can see the sadness in her eyes. “Just one of those things.” She takes a deep gulp of wine, which is really unlike Jess. I glance at Suze, who gives me an anxious frown.

“Jess, are you sure about Chile?” I say tentatively.

“Yes.” She nods. “I have to go. I have to do this. I’ll never get this opportunity again.”

“And Tom can always come and visit you out there,” Suze points out.

“Exactly. If he would just stop listening to his mother!” Jess shakes her head in exasperation. “Janice is in total hysterics. She keeps sending me pages which she’s printed out from the Internet, saying Chile’s a dangerous, unstable country riddled with disease and land mines.”

“Is it?” I say fearfully.

“Of course not!” says Jess. “She’s talking absolute rubbish.” She takes a sip of wine. “There’s just a few land mines, that’s all. And a small cholera problem.”

A few land mines? Cholera?

“Jess, be really careful out there,” I say on impulse, and grab her hand. “We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Yes, be careful,” chimes in Suze.

“I will.” Jess’s neck flushes pink. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, anyway.” As the waiter arrives with our coffees she withdraws her hand, looking awkward. “I. like your hair clip, Becky.”

She obviously wants to change the subject.

“Oh, thanks,” I touch it fondly. “Isn’t it fab? It’s Miu Miu. Actually, it’s part of the baby’s trust fund portfolio.”

There’s silence and I look up to see both Suze and Jess staring at me.

“Bex, how can a Miu Miu hair clip be part of a trust fund portfolio?” says Suze uncertainly.

“Because it’s an Antique of the Future!” I say with a flourish.

“What’s an Antique of the Future?” Suze looks puzzled.

Ha. You see. I am so ahead of the game!

“It’s this fab new way to invest,” I explain. “It’s easy-peasy! You just buy anything and keep the packaging, and then in fifty years you auction it and make a fortune!”

“Right,” says Suze, looking dubious. “So, what else have you bought?”

“Um…” I think. “Quite a few things from Miu Miu, actually. And some Harry Potter figures and Barbie princess dolls…and this fab bracelet from Topshop…”

“Becky, a Topshop bracelet isn’t an investment,” says Jess, looking incredulous.

She really hasn’t got the point.

“Maybe not now,” I explain patiently. “But it will be. It’ll be on the Antiques Road Show — you’ll see!”

“Bex, what’s wrong with a bank?” says Suze anxiously.

“I’m not putting the baby’s money into some crappy bank like everyone else!” I say. “I’m a financial professional, remember, Suze. This is what I do.”

“What you used to do.”

“It’s like riding a bike,” I assure her loftily. I’m not actually that great at riding a bike, but I needn’t mention that.

“So, is that it?” asks Jess. “Have you invested all the money?”

“Oh, no. I’ve still got loads!” I take a sip of coffee, then notice an abstract painting on the wall next to me. It’s just a big blue square of oil paint on canvas, and there’s a little price tag of £195. “Hey, look at that!” I say, focusing on it with interest. “D’you think I should—”

“No!” chime Jess and Suze in unison.

Honestly. They didn’t even know what I was going to say.

I arrive home that evening to find a dark, empty flat and no Luke. He’s with her immediately shoots through my mind.

No. He’s not. Stop it. I make myself a sandwich, kick off my shoes, and curl up on the sofa with the remote. As I’m flicking down the channels looking for Birth Stories, which I’m addicted to (only I have to watch the crucial bit through my fingers), the phone rings.

“Hi.” It’s Luke, sounding hurried. “Becky, I forgot to remind you — I’m out at the Finance Awards. I’ll be back late.”

“Oh, right.” Now I remember — I did know about the Finance Awards. In fact, Luke invited me, but I couldn’t face an evening of boring old fund managers. “OK. I’ll see you then. Luke…”

I break off, my heart thumping. I don’t know what I want to say, let alone how to say it.

“I have to go.” Luke hasn’t even noticed my troubled silence. “See you later.”

“Luke…” I try again, but the line’s already dead.

I stare into space for a while, imagining the perfect conversation in which Luke asked me what was wrong and I said, Oh nothing, and he said, Yes there is, and it ended with him saying he totally loved me and Venetia was really ugly and how about we fly to Paris tomorrow?

A blaring theme song from the TV drags me from my daze and I look up at the screen. Somehow I’ve gone too far down the cable list, and I’m on some obscure business and finance channel. I’m just trying to remember the number for the Living Channel, when my attention is drawn to the screen by a portly guy in a dinner jacket. I recognize him. It’s Alan Proctor from Foreland Investments. And there’s that girl Jill from Portfolio Management, sitting next to him. What on earth…

I don’t believe it. The Finance Awards are actually being televised! On some cable channel which nobody ever watches — but still! I sit up and focus on the screen. Maybe I’ll see Luke!

“And we’re live from Grosvenor House at this year’s Finance Awards….” an announcer is saying. “The venue has been changed this year due to increased numbers….”

Just for fun, I reach for the phone and speed-dial Luke. The camera pans around the ballroom and I scan the screen intently, looking at all the black-tied people sitting at tables. There’s Philip, my old editor at Successful Saving, swigging back the wine. And that girl from Lloyds who always used to wear the same green suit to press conferences…

“Hi, Becky,” Luke answers abruptly. “Is everything OK?”

“Hi!” I say. “I just wondered how it’s going at the Finance Awards?”

I’m waiting for the camera to pan to Luke. Then I can say, “Guess what, I’m watching you!”

“Oh…the same old, same old,” Luke says after a pause. “Packed room at the Dorchester…gruesome crowds…”

The Dorchester?

I stare at the phone for a moment. Then, feeling hot and cold, I press my ear hard to the receiver. I can’t hear any background babble. He’s not in a crowded ballroom, is he?

He’s lying.

“Becky? Are you there?”

“I…um…yes.” I feel dizzy with shock. “So, who are you sitting next to?”

“I’m next to…Mel. I’d better go, sweetheart.”

“OK,” I say numbly. “Bye.”

The camera’s just panned to Mel. She’s sandwiched between two large men in suits. There isn’t an empty chair at the whole table.

Luke lied to me. He’s somewhere else. With someone else.

The glitzy light and noise of the awards ceremony is jarring my nerves, and I jab the TV off. For a moment I just stare blankly, in silence — then, in a daze, I reach for the phone and find myself dialing Mum’s number. I need to talk to someone.

“Hello?” As soon as I hear her safe, familiar voice, I want to burst into tears.

“Mum, it’s Becky.”

“Becky! How are you, love? How’s the baby? Kicking away?”

“The baby’s fine.” I touch my bump automatically. “But I’ve got…a…a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Mum sounds perturbed. “Becky, it’s not those people from MasterCard again?”

“No! It’s…personal.”

“Personal?”

“I…it’s…” I bite my lip, suddenly wishing I’d thought before phoning. I can’t tell Mum what’s wrong. I can’t get her all worried. Not after she warned me about exactly this happening.

Maybe I can ask her advice without giving away the truth. Like when people write to advice columnists about their “friend” and it was really them who got caught wearing their wife’s swimwear.

“It’s a…a colleague at work,” I begin, my voice faltering. “I think she’s planning to…to move to a different department. She’s been talking to them behind my back and having lunches with them, and I’ve just found out she’s lied to me….” A teartrickles down my cheek. “Do you have any advice?”

“Of course I’ve got some advice!” says Mum cheerfully. “Love, she’s only a colleague! They come and go. You’ll have forgotten all about her in a few weeks’ time and moved on to someone else!”

“Right,” I say after a pause.

To be honest, that wasn’t the hugest help.

“Now,” Mum is saying. “Have you got a diaper holder yet? Because I saw a super one in John Lewis—”

“The thing is, Mum…” I make another attempt. “The thing is, I really like this colleague. And I can’t tell if she’s seeing these other people behind my back….”

“Darling, who is this friend?” Mum sounds perplexed. “Have you ever mentioned her before?”

“She’s just…someone I click with. We have fun, and we’re having a…a joint project…and, you know, it felt like it was really working. I thought we were so happy together….” There’s a huge lump in my throat. “I can’t bear to lose her.”

“You won’t lose her!” says Mum, laughing. “Even if she leaves you for another department, you can still have the odd coffee together—”

“The odd coffee together?” My voice shoots out in distress. “What good is the odd coffee together?”

Tears start running down my face at the thought of me and Luke stiffly meeting for the odd coffee, while Venetia sits drumming her nails in the corner.

“Becky?” exclaims Mum in alarm. “Sweetheart? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I snuffle, rubbing my face. “It’s just a bit…upsetting.”

“Is this girl really that important to you?” Mum is clearly baffled. I can hear Dad in the background, saying “What’s wrong?” and there’s a rustling as Mum turns away from the phone.

“It’s Becky,” I can hear her saying, sotto voce. “I think she’s a bit hormonal, poor love….”

Honestly, I am not hormonal. My husband is having an affair.

“Becky, now listen.” Mum is back on the line. “Have you talked to your friend about this? Have you asked her straight-out whether she’s planning to move departments? Are you even sure you’ve got your facts straight?”

There’s silence as I try to imagine confronting Luke when he comes home tonight. Calling him on his lie. What if he blusters and tries to pretend he was at the awards ceremony? What if he says he loves Venetia and he’s leaving me for her?

Either way, I feel totally sick at the prospect.

“It isn’t easy,” I say at last.

“Oh, Becky.” Mum sighs. “You’ve never been the best at facing up to things, have you?”

“No.” I scuff my foot on the carpet. “I suppose I haven’t.”

“You’re grown-up now, love,” says Mum gently. “You have to confront your problems. You know what you have to do.”

“You’re right.” I give a huge sigh, feeling some of the tension leave my body. “Thanks, Mum.”

“You take care, darling. Don’t let yourself get upset. Dad sends his love too.”

“See you soon, Mum. Bye. And thanks.”

I switch off the phone with a new resolve. It just shows, mothers do know best. Mum’s made me see this whole thing clearly for the first time. I’ve decided exactly what I’m going to do.

I’m going to hire a private detective.

FACULTY OF CLASSICS

OXFORD UNIVERSITY

OXFORD OX1 6TH

Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

3 November 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your telephone message, which my secretary relayed to me as best she could.

I am very sorry to hear your husband may be “having an affair in Latin,” as you put it. I can understand how anxious you must feel and will be pleased to translate any text messages you send me. I do hope this will prove illuminating.

Yours sincerely,

Edmund Fortescue

Professor of Classics

P.S. Incidentally, “Latin lover” is not generally taken to mean someone who talks to their lover in Latin; I do hope this is of some reassurance to you.

Denny and George

44 FLORAL STREET COVENT GARDEN LONDON W1

Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

4 November 2003

Dear Rebecca,

Thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear you have fallen out with your obstetrician.

We are touched that you have had so many happy times in here and feel it is “the perfect place to bring a baby into the world.” However, I’m afraid we cannot convert our shop into a temporary birthing suite, even for an old and valued customer.

We appreciate your offer to name the baby “Denny George Brandon”; however, I’m afraid this does not alter our decision.

Good luck with the birth.

Very best wishes,

Francesca Goodman

Store Manager

REGAL AIRLINES

HEAD OFFICE PRESTON HOUSE • 354 KINGSWAY • LONDON WC2

4TH

Mrs Rebecca Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

4 November 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

You appear to be under a severe misapprehension. If you gave birth midair on a Regal flight, your child would not “get free club-class travel for life.” Nor would you be entitled to join your child “as its guardian.”

Our flight attendants have not “all delivered zillions of babies before,” and I would point out that company policy forbids us from letting any woman more than thirty-seven weeks pregnant board a Regal flight.

I hope you choose Regal Airlines again soon.

Yours sincerely,

Margaret McNair

Customer Service Manager

KENNETH PRENDERGAST

Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers

Forward House 394 High Holborn

London WC1V 7EX

Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

5 November 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

I was perturbed to hear of your “new genius plan.” I strongly advise that you do not invest the remainder of your child’s fund in so-called “Antiques of the Future.” I am returning the Polaroid of the Topshop limited edition bikini, which I cannot comment on. Such purchases are not a “sure-fire win,” nor can anyone make a profit “if they just buy enough stuff.”

May I guide you towards more conventional investments, such as bonds and company shares?

Yours sincerely,

Kenneth Prendergast

Family Investment Specialist