Shopaholic and Baby

SIXTEEN

I THOUGHT MARRIAGE was forever. I really did. I thought Luke and I would grow old and gray together. Or at least old. (I’m not intending to go gray, ever. Or wear those gross dresses with elastic waistbands.)

But we’re not going to grow old together. We’re not going to sit on benches together, or watch our grandchildren play. I’m not even going to make it past thirty with him. Our marriage has failed.

Every time I try to speak I think I’ll cry, so I’m not really speaking. Luckily there’s no one here to speak to. I’m in a private room at the Cavendish Hospital, which is where they brought me last night. If you want attention at a hospital, just arrive with a celebrity doctor in black tie. I’ve never seen so many nurses running around. First they thought I might be in labor, and then they thought I might have preeclampsia, but in the end they decided I was just a bit overtired and dehydrated. So they put me in this bed, with a saline drip. I should be going home today, after I’ve been checked out.

Luke stayed with me all night too. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him. So I pretended I was asleep, even this morning when he quietly said, “Becky? Are you awake?”

Now he’s gone off to take a shower and I’ve opened my eyes. It’s a really nice room, with soft green walls and even a little sofa. But who cares, when my life is over? What does anything matter anymore?

I know two out of three marriages fail, or whatever it is. But I honestly thought…

I thought we were…

Roughly, I brush a tear away. I’m not going to cry.

“Hello?” The door opens and a nurse pushes in a trolley. “Breakfast?”

“Thanks,” I say, my voice croaky, and I sit up as she plumps my pillows around me. I take a sip of tea and eat a piece of toast, just so the baby has something to keep it going. Then I check my reflection in my compact mirror. God, I look like crap. I’ve still got on the remnants of last night’s makeup, and my hair has frizzed from the rain. And the so-called “hydrating” drip has done nothing for my skin.

I look like a reject.

I gaze at myself, feeling bitter. It’s what happens to everyone. You get married and you think everything’s great, but all the time your husband was having an affair and then he leaves you for another woman with red swishy hair. I should have seen it coming. I never should have relaxed.

I gave that man the best years of my life, and now I’m tossed aside for a newer model.

Well, OK, I gave him a year and a half of my life. And she’s older than me. But still.

There’s another movement at the door and I stiffen. A moment later it opens and Luke cautiously makes his way in. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, I notice, and he’s cut himself shaving.

Good. I’m glad he did.

“You’re awake!” he says. “How are you feeling?”

I nod, clamping my lips together. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. I’m going to keep my dignity, even if it means I can only talk in monosyllables.

“You look better.” He sits down on the bed. “I was worried about you.”

Again I hear Venetia’s cool, assured voice: Luke’s just playing along to keep you happy. I look up and meet his gaze, willing him to give himself away, searching for some chink in his façade. But he’s putting on the best act I’ve ever seen. A concerned, loving husband at his wife’s bedside.

I’ve always known Luke was good at PR. It’s his job. It’s made him a millionaire. But I never realized he could be this good. I never knew he could be this…double-faced.

“Becky?” Now he’s searching my face. “Is everything OK?”

“No. It’s not.” There’s silence as I summon up all my strength. “Luke…I know.”

“You know?” Luke’s tone is easy but at once there’s a guarded look in his eyes. “Know what?”

“Don’t pretend, OK?” I swallow hard. “Venetia told me. She told me what’s been going on.”

“She told you?” Luke gets to his feet, his face aghast. “She had no right—” He breaks off and turns away. And I feel a sickening thud deep inside me. Everything is suddenly hurting. My head, my eyes, my limbs.

I hadn’t realized how hard I was clinging to a last shred of hope. That somehow Luke would sweep me up in his arms, explain everything away, and tell me he loved me. But the shred’s melted away. It’s all over.

“Maybe she thought I ought to know.” Somehow I muster tones of cutting sarcasm. “Maybe she thought I’d be interested!”

“Becky…I was trying to protect you.” Luke turns, and he looks genuinely miserable. “The baby. Your blood pressure.”

“So, when were you planning to tell me?”

“I don’t know.” Luke exhales, pacing to the window and back again. “After the baby. I was going to see how things…played out.”

“I see.”

Suddenly I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be dignified and grown-up. I want to yell and scream at him. I want to burst into sobs and throw things.

“Luke, please…just go.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about this. I’m tired.”

“Right.” He doesn’t move an inch. “Becky…”

“What?”

Luke rubs his face hard, as though trying to scrub away his problems. “I’m supposed to be going to Geneva. The De Savatier Investment Fund launch. It could not have come at a worst time. I can cancel….”

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

“Becky…”

“Go to Geneva.” I turn away and stare at the green hospital wall.

“We have to talk about this,” he perseveres. “I have to explain.”

No. No no no. I’m not listening to him tell me all about how he fell for Venetia, and he never meant to hurt me but he just couldn’t help himself, and he still sees me as a good friend.

I’d rather not know anything about it, ever.

“Luke, just leave me alone!” I spit it out without turning my head. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. And anyway, I’m supposed to stay calm for the baby. You’re not supposed to upset me.”

“Right. Fine. Well, I’ll go then.”

Luke sounds pretty upset himself now. Well, tough luck.

I’m aware of him walking across the room, his tread slow and reluctant.

“My mother’s in town,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’ve told her to leave you alone.”

“Fine,” I mumble into the pillow.

“I’ll see you when I get back. Should be around Friday lunchtime. OK?”

I don’t respond. What does he mean, he’ll see me? When he comes round to move all his stuff into Venetia’s flat? When he summons a meeting with his divorce lawyers?

There’s a long silence and I know Luke’s still there, waiting. But then, at last, I hear the door open and close, and the faint sound of his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.

I wait ten minutes before I lift my head. I feel surreal and kind of blurry, as though I’m in the middle of a dream. I can’t quite believe this is all really happening. I’m eight months pregnant and Luke’s having an affair with our obstetrician and our marriage is over.

Our marriage is over. I repeat the words to myself, but they don’t ring true. I can’t make them register. It seems only five minutes ago that we were on honeymoon, blissfully lazing on the beach. That we were dancing at our wedding in Mum’s back garden, me in Mum’s old frilly wedding dress and a lopsided flower garland. That a whole press conference was stopping still for him to pass me a twenty-quid note so I could buy a Denny and George scarf. Back in the days when I barely knew him, when he was the sexy mysterious Luke Brandon and I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.

I feel a wrenching pain deep inside, and all of a sudden tears are spilling onto my cheeks, and I’m burying my sobbing head in the sheets. How can he leave me? Hasn’t he enjoyed being married to me? Haven’t we had fun together?

Before I can stop it, Venetia’s voice slides into my head. You were a refreshing change, Becky. You make him laugh. But you’re hardly on the same level.

Stupid…stupid…cow. Bitch. Skinny…horrible…pretentious…

I wipe my eyes and sit up and take three long breaths. I’m not going to think about her. Or any of it.

There’s a knocking at the door. “Mrs. Brandon?” It sounds like one of the nurses.

“Er…hang on….” I hastily splash some water onto my face from my drinking jug, and wipe it with the sheet. “Yes?”

The door opens and the pretty nurse who brought me my breakfast smiles at me. “You have a visitor.”

My mind leaps in one joyous bound to Luke. He’s come back, he’s sorry, it was all a mistake….

“Who is it?” I grab my compact from the cabinet, grimace at my reflection, and tug at my frizzy hair.

“A Mrs. Sherman?”

I nearly drop the compact in dismay. Elinor? Elinor’s here? I thought Luke told her to leave me alone.

I haven’t seen Elinor since our wedding in New York. Or at least…our “wedding” in New York.(It was all a bit complicated in the end.) We’ve never really got on, mainly on account of her being a snobby, ice-cold bitch, who abandoned Luke when he was tiny and totally screwed him up. And the way she was rude to Mum. And the way she didn’t let me into my own bloody engagement party! And—

“Are you OK, Rebecca?” The nurse looks at me in slight alarm, and I realize I’m breathing harder and harder. “I can tell her you’re asleep if you like.”

“Yes, please. Tell her to go away.”

I’m in no state to see anyone right now. Not with my face all pink and my eyes still teary. And why should I make any effort to see Elinor? Surely the only advantage of splitting up with your husband is that you don’t need to see your mother-in-law anymore. I won’t miss her, and she won’t miss me.

“Fine.” The nurse comes over and squints at my drip. “A doctor will be along soon to check you over, then I should think you’ll be going home. Should I tell Mrs. Sherman that you’ll be leaving?”

“Actually…”

A new thought has just struck me. There’s an even bigger advantage to splitting up with your husband. You don’t have to be polite to your mother-in-law anymore.

I can say what I like to Elinor. I can be as rude as I like. For the first time in days, I feel a streak of cheer.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see her after all. Just let me get ready….” I reach for my makeup bag and clumsily knock it to the floor. The nurse picks it up and gives me an anxious look.

“Are you OK? You seem very on edge.”

“I’m fine. I was just a bit…upset earlier. I’ll be fine.”

The nurse disappears, and I open my makeup bag. I dab on some eye gel and brush myself with bronzer. I am not going to look like a victim here. I’m not going to look like some poor pathetic wronged wife. I have no idea what Elinor knows, but if she even mentions Luke and me splitting up, or dares to look pleased about it, I’ll…I’ll tell her the baby isn’t Luke’s, that it was fathered by my prison penpal Wayne and the whole scandal’s going to hit the papers tomorrow. That’ll freak her out.

I spray myself with perfume and quickly slick on some lip gloss as I hear footsteps approaching. There’s a knock at the door and I call, “Come in.” A moment later it swings open — and there she is.

She’s wearing a mint-green suit and the same Ferragamo pumps she buys every season, and she’s carrying a crocodile Kelly bag. She’s thinner than ever, her hair a lacquered helmet, her face pale and stretched-looking. Which figures. When I worked in Barneys in New York, I saw women like Elinor every single day. But over here she looks…Well, there’s no other word for it: weird.

Her mouth moves a millimeter, and I realize this is her greeting. “Hi, Elinor.” I don’t bother trying to smile. She’ll just assume I’ve had Botox too. “Welcome to London.”

“London is so tawdry these days,” she says with disapproval. “So tasteless.”

She’s just unbelievable. The whole of London is tasteless?

“Yeah, especially the Queen,” I say. “She has no idea.”

Ignoring me, Elinor stalks to a chair and sits down on the edge of it. She surveys me stonily for a few moments. “I gather you left the doctor I recommended, Rebecca. Who are you seeing now?”

“Her name’s…Venetia Carter.” I feel a knife of pain as I say the name. But Elinor doesn’t react a smidgen. She can’t know.

“Have you seen Luke?” I venture.

“Not yet.” She pulls off a pair of calfskin gloves and runs her eyes over my hospital-gowned frame. “You’ve put on a lot of weight, Rebecca. Does this new doctor approve?”

You see? This is what she’s like. Not “How are you?” or “Don’t you look blooming?”

“I’m pregnant,” I snap. “And I’m having a big baby.”

Elinor’s expression doesn’t soften. “Not too large, I hope. Oversize babies are vulgar.”

Vulgar? How dare she call my lovely baby vulgar?

“Yes, well, I’m glad it’s going to be big,” I say in defiance. “That way there’ll be more room for…the tattoos.”

I can just about see a jolt of shock pass across her practically immobile face. That’ll bust her stitches. Or staples. Whatever’s holding her together.

“Didn’t Luke tell you about our tattoo plans?” I adopt a surprised tone. “We’ve found a special newborn-baby tattooist who comes right into the delivery room. We thought we’d have an eagle on its back, with our names in Sanskrit….”

“You are not tattooing my grandchild.” Her voice is like gunfire.

“Oh yes, we are. Luke really got the tattoo bug while we were on honeymoon. He has fifteen of them!” I smile blandly at her. “And as soon as the baby’s born he’s going to get its name tattooed on his arm. Isn’t that sweet?”

Elinor’s gripping her Kelly bag so hard, the veins are standing up. I can tell she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not.

“Have you decided on a name?” she says at last.

“Uh-huh.” I nod. “Armageddon for a boy, Pomegranate for a girl.”

For a moment she seems unable to reply. I can tell she’s desperate to raise her eyebrows, or frown, or something. I almost feel sorry for her real face, trapped under the Botox like a caged animal.

“Armageddon?” she manages at last.

“Isn’t it great?” I nod again. “Macho, but kind of elegant. And unusual!”

Elinor looks like she’s going to explode. Or implode.

“I will not have this!” she suddenly erupts, rising to her feet. “Tattooing! These names! You’re…irresponsible beyond—”

“‘Irresponsible’?” I interrupt in disbelief. “Are you serious? Well, at least we’re not planning to abandon—” I stop abruptly, feeling like the words are too hot for my mouth. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to launch a full-blown attack on Elinor. I haven’t got the energy, for a start. And anyway…I feel distracted. All of a sudden my head is buzzing with thoughts.

“Rebecca.” Elinor approaches the bed, her eyes snapping. “I have no idea if you’re being frank with me—”

“Shut up!” I lift a hand, not caring if I’m rude. I have to concentrate. I have to think this through. I’m suddenly starting to see things clearly, like a tune falling into place.

Elinor walked out on Luke. Now Luke’s walking out on our baby. It’s history repeating itself. Does Luke realize this? If he just saw it…if he just understood what he was doing…

“Rebecca!”

I look up, as though out of a daze. Elinor looks like she wants to pop with exasperation.

“Oh, Elinor…I’m sorry,” I say, all rancor gone. “It was lovely of you to come by, but I’m a bit tired now. Please drop round for tea sometime.”

Elinor looks like the wind has been taken out of her sails. I think she was probably squaring up for a fight too.

“Very well,” she says frostily. “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Here are the details of my exhibition.”

She hands me an invitation for a private viewing, along with a glossy brochure entitled “The Elinor Sherman Collection.” It’s illustrated with a photograph of an elegant white plinth, on top of which is resting another, smaller white plinth.

God, I don’t understand modern art.

“Thanks,” I say, eyeing it dubiously. “We’ll be sure to make it. Thanks for coming. Have a nice day!”

Elinor gives me one last, narrowed look, then picks up her gloves and Kelly bag and strides out of the room. As soon as she’s gone, I bury my head in my hands, trying to think. Somehow I have to get through to Luke. He doesn’t want to do this. Deep in his heart, I know he doesn’t. I feel like he’s been lured away by the evil fairies and I just need to break the spell.

But how? What do I do? If I call him, he’ll brush me off and promise to call back later and never will. His e-mails are read by his secretaries…. It’s not exactly a subject for a text….

I have to write a letter.

It hits me like a thunderbolt. I have to write a letter, like in the old days before phone calls and e-mail. God, yes. I’ll compose the best letter I’ve ever written in my life. I’ll explain all my feelings, and his. (He sometimes needs them explained to him.) I’ll put the case before him plainly.

I’m going to save our marriage. He doesn’t want a broken family — I know he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t.

A nurse is passing by the door, and I call out, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” She looks in with a smile.

“Would it be possible to get some writing paper?”

“There’s some in the hospital shop, or…” She frowns in thought. “One of my colleagues has some, I think. Just hang on a moment….”

A moment later she’s back, with a pad of Basildon Bond. “One sheet enough?”

“I may need more than that,” I say momentously. “Could I have…three?”

I cannot believe how much I’ve written to Luke. Once I started, I just couldn’t stop. I had no idea there was so much pent up inside me.

I started off talking about our wedding and how happy we were then. Then I talked about all the things we love to do together, and how much fun we’ve had and how excited we were when we discovered we were having a baby. Then I moved on to Venetia. I didn’t call her by name. I called her the Threat to Our Marriage. He’ll know what I’m talking about.

And now I’m on page seventeen (one of the nurses ran down and bought me my own pad of Basildon Bond) and I’m getting to the main bit. The plea to him to give our marriage another shot. Tears are running down my face, and I keep having to break off to snuffle into a tissue.

In our vows, you promised to love me forever. I know you think you don’t anymore. I know there are other women in this world, who are maybe cleverer and maybe can speak Latin. I know you’ve had an…

I can’t bring myself to write the word affair — I just can’t.

I’ll just put a dash, like they used to in old-fashioned books.

I know you’ve had an——. But it doesn’t have to ruin everything. I’m prepared to put the past behind us, Luke, because I believe above anything else that we belong together. You, me, and the baby.

We can be a happy family. I know we can. Please don’t give up on us. Maybe you’re secretly scared of parenthood, but we can do it together! Like you said, it’s the biggest adventure we’ll ever have.

I break off from writing to wipe my eyes. I need to finish this now. I need some way for him to show me…to answer…to let me know…

Suddenly it comes to me. We need a great big tall tower, just like in romantic movies. And we’ll meet at the top at midnight….

No. I get too tired by midnight. We’ll meet at the top at…six o’clock. The wind will be blowing and Gershwin will be playing and I’ll see from his eyes that he’s put Venetia behind him forever. And I’ll say simply, “Are you coming home?” And he’ll say—

“Are you OK, Becky?” The nurse pops her head round the door. “How’s it going?”

“Nearly finished.” I blow my nose. “Where’s a tall tower in London? If I wanted to meet someone.”

“Dunno.” The nurse wrinkles her nose. “The Oxo Tower’s pretty tall. I went there the other day. They’ve got a viewing platform and a restaurant….”

“Thanks!”

Luke, if you love me and want to save our marriage, meet me at the top of the Oxo Tower at six o’clock on Friday. I will be waiting at the viewing platform.

Your loving wife,

Becky.

I put my pen down, feeling totally drained, as though I’ve just composed a Beethoven symphony. All I have to do now is FedEx the letter to his Geneva office…and then just wait till Friday night.

I fold the seventeen pages in half, and am trying unsuccessfully to cram them into the matching Basildon Bond envelope, when my mobile rings on the cabinet.

Luke! Oh my God. But he hasn’t read the letter yet!

With trembling hands I grab the phone, but it’s not Luke after all. It’s a number I don’t recognize. It isn’t Elinor calling to lecture me, is it?

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Hello, Becky? It’s Martha here.”

“Oh.” I push my hair back off my face, trying to place the name. “Er…hi.”

“Just checking you’re still all set for the shoot on Friday?” she says chattily. “I can’t wait to see your house!”

Vogue. Shit. I’d totally forgotten about it.

How could I forget about a Vogue photo shoot? God, my life must really be in pieces.

“So, is everything OK?” Martha’s voice is trilling gaily down the phone. “You haven’t had the baby yet, or anything?”

“Well, no…” I hesitate. “But I am in hospital.” As I say the words I realize I shouldn’t really have my mobile on in a hospital. But this is Vogue on the phone. There must be an exemption for Vogue, surely.

“Oh no!” Her voice falls in dismay. “You know, we’re having such bad luck with this piece! One of the yummy mummies had her twins early, which was really annoying, and the other has had pre-eclampy-something and is on bed rest! We can’t do the interview or anything! Are you on bed rest?”

“I…hang on a minute….”

I put the phone down on the bed, trying to galvanize my spirits. I have never felt less like having my picture taken in my life. I’m fat, I’m tear-stained, my hair is terrible, my marriage is crumbling away…. I give a deep, shuddery sigh, and then catch sight of my blurry reflection in a nearby glass-fronted cupboard. Hunched over, head drooping. I look defeated. I look awful.

In an immediate reflex action I sit up straighter. What am I saying? Is my life over too? Just because my husband had an affair?

No way. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I’m not going to give up. Maybe my life is in pieces. But I can still be yummy. I’ll be the yummiest bloody mummy-to-be they’ve ever seen.

I lift the phone to my ear again. “Hi, Martha?” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Sorry about that. It’s all fine for the shoot on Friday. I’m coming out of hospital today, so I’ll be there!”

“Great!” I can hear the relief in Martha’s voice. “Can’t wait! It’ll only take two or three hours, and I promise we won’t exhaust you! I’m sure you have lots of lovely clothes, but our stylist will bring along some pieces too…. Now let me just check your address. You live at thirty-three Delamain Road?”

I never got that stuff for Fabia, it suddenly occurs to me. But I’ve still got time. It’ll be fine.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Lucky thing, those houses are amazing! We’ll see you there then, eleven o’clock.”

“See you then!”

I switch off the phone and breathe out hard. I’m going to be in Vogue. I’m going to be yummy. And I’m going to save my marriage.

FROM: Becky Brandon

TO: Fabia Paschali

SUBJECT: Tomorrow

Hello, Fabia!

Just to confirm, I will be coming tomorrow with a Vogue crew and the shoot will last from around 11am till 3pm.

I have got the purple top and the Chloe bag, but unfortunately, although I’ve tried everywhere, I can’t locate the Olly Bricknell shoes you want. Is there anything else that you’d like?

Again, thanks so much and look forward to seeing you tomorrow!

Becky

FROM: Fabia Paschali

TO: Becky Brandon

SUBJECT: Re: Tomorrow

Becky,

No shoes, no house.

Fabia

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

26 November 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

I have noted your new shareholdings in Sweet Confectionary, Inc., Estelle Rodin Cosmetics, and The Urban Spa plc. I cannot, however, agree that these are the “best investments in the world.”

Please let me reiterate. Free chocolates, samples of perfume, and discount spa treatments — while pleasant — are no sound basis for investment. I urge you to reconsider your current investment strategy and would be pleased to advise you further.

Yours sincerely,

Kenneth Prendergast

Family Investment Specialist