Shopaholic and Baby

SEVENTEEN

THESE BLOODY, BLOODY SHOES. There is not a single pair of them left in London. Especially not in green. No wonder Fabia wants them, they’re like the Holy Grail or something, except there aren’t even any clues in paintings. I spent yesterday trying all my contacts, every supplier I know, every shop, everywhere. I even called my old colleague Erin at Barneys in New York and she just laughed pityingly.

In the end, Danny stepped in to help. He made some calls around and finally tracked down a pair to a model he knows who is on a shoot in Paris. In return for a sample jacket, she gave them to a friend who was coming over to London last night. He met up with Danny and now he’s going to deliver them to me.

That’s the plan. But he isn’t here yet. And it’s already five past ten and I’m starting to panic. I’m standing on the corner of Delamain Road, dressed in my yummiest outfit of red print wrap dress, Prada heels, and a vintage-style fake fur stole, and all the cars keep slowing down to look. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best place to meet. I must look like some eight months’ pregnant hooker for pervy people.

I take out my phone and, yet again, redial Danny’s number. “Danny?”

“We’re here! We’re coming. We’re just driving over a bridge…whoa!”

Danny was supposed to be dropping the shoes round last night — only he went off clubbing instead, with some photographer he met on holiday. (Don’t ask. He started to tell me about the night they spent together in Marrakech, and honestly, I had to put my hands over the baby’s ears.) He’s shrieking with laughter, and I can hear the roar of his friend’s Harley-Davidson. How can he be having fun? Doesn’t he know how stressed out I am?

I’ve barely slept since Luke has been gone. And when I did get to sleep last night, I had the most awful dream. I dreamed I went to the top of the Oxo Tower, but Luke didn’t show up. I stood for hours in the wind and gale and rain pouring down on me and then at last Luke appeared, but he’d somehow turned into Elinor and she started yelling at me. And then all my hair fell off….

“Excuse me!”

A woman holding two small children by the hand is approaching, and giving me an odd look.

“Oh. Sorry.” I come to, and move out of the way.

In real life, I haven’t spoken to Luke since he left. He’s tried to call several times, but I just sent short texts back saying sorry I missed him and everything’s OK. I didn’t want to talk to him until he’d read my letter — which only happened last night, according to the tracking system. Somebody at the Geneva office signed for it at 6:11 p.m., so he must have read it by now.

The die is cast. By six o’clock tonight I’ll know, one way or another. Either he’ll be there, waiting for me, or…

Nausea rises through me and I shake my head briskly. I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to get through this shoot first. I take a bite of a Kit Kat for energy, and glance down again at the printed page that Martha e-mailed me. It’s an interview with one of the other yummy mummies-to-be from the article, which Martha said would “give me an idea.” The other yummy is called Amelia Gordon-Barraclough. She’s posing in a vast Kensington nursery wearing a beaded kaftan and about fifty-nine bracelets, and all her quotes sound totally smug.

“We commissioned all our nursery furniture from artisans in Provence.”

Well. Huh. I’ll say we got all ours from artisans in…outer Mongolia. No, we sourced it. People in glossy magazines never just buy something from a shop, they source it, or discover it in a junkyard, or get left it by their famous designer godmother.

“My husband and I do couples’ yoga together twice a day in our ‘retreat room.’ We feel it creates harmony in our relationship.”

With a pang, I have a sudden memory of Luke and me doing couples’ yoga on our honeymoon.

At least, we were doing yoga, and we were a couple.

A lump is rising in my throat. No. Stop it. Think confident. Think yummy. I’ll say that Luke and I do something much cooler than yoga. Like that thing I read about the other day. Qi-something.

My thoughts are broken by the roar of a motorbike, and I look up to see a Harley speeding along the quiet residential street.

“Hi!” I wave my arms. “Here!”

“Hey, Becky!” The motorbike comes to a throbbing halt beside me. Danny pulls off a motorbike helmet and leaps off the back, a shoe box in his hand. “There you go!”

“Oh, Danny, thanks.” I give him an enormous hug. “You saved my life.”

“No problem!” Danny says, getting back on the bike. “Let me know how it goes! This is Zane, by the way.”

“Hi!” I wave at Zane, who is in leathers from head to foot and raises a hand in greeting. “Thanks for the delivery!”

The motorbike zooms off again. I take hold of the handle of my suitcase, which is filled with spare outfits and props, and pick up the armful of flowers I bought this morning to make the house look nice. I head toward number thirty-three, somehow manhandle the case up the steps, and ring the doorbell. There’s no answer.

After a pause I ring again and call “Fabia!” But there’s still no reply.

She can’t have forgotten it’s this morning.

“Fabia! Can you hear me?” I beat on the door. “Fa-bi-a!”

There’s dead silence. No one’s there. I feel a beat of panic. What am I going to do? Vogue will be here any—

“Cooee! Hello there!” A voice from the street heralds me and I turn to see a girl leaning out of the window of a Mini Cooper. She’s skinny, has glossy hair, a Kabbala bracelet, and a huge engagement rock. She has to be from Vogue.

“Are you Becky?” she calls.

“Yes!” I force a bright smile. “Hi! Are you Martha?”

“That’s right!” Her eyes are running up and down the storys. “You’ve got a gorgeous house! I can’t wait to see inside!”

“Oh. Er…thanks!”

There’s an expectant pause and I lean casually against one of the pillars. Like I’m just hanging out on my front steps. Like people do.

“Everything all right?” asks Martha, looking puzzled.

“Fine!” I attempt an easy gesture. “Just you know…enjoying the air…”

I’m thinking frantically. Maybe we could do the whole shoot out here on the steps. Yes. I could say the front door is the best feature of the house and the rest of it isn’t worth bothering with….

“Becky, have you lost your key?” says Martha, still looking puzzled.

Genius. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Yes! Silly me!” I hit myself on the head. “And none of the neighbors have got one, and there’s no one in….”

“Oh no!” Martha’s face falls.

“I know.” I give a regretful shrug. “I’m really sorry. But if we can’t get in…”

As I say the words, the front door opens and I nearly fall into the house. Fabia has appeared, rubbing her eyes and wearing an orange Marni dress.

“Hi, Becky.” She sounds so drifty. Like she’s on tranquilizers or something.

“Wow!” Martha’s face lights up. “Someone was in! How lucky! Who’s this?”

“This is Fabia. Our…lodger.”

“Lodger?” Fabia wrinkles her nose.

“Lodger and good friend,” I amend hastily, putting an arm round her. “We’re very close….”

Thank God, down on the street a car has pulled up behind the Mini and is starting to hoot.

“Oh, shut up!” says Martha. “Becky, we’re just going to get some coffees. Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks! I’ll just wait here at home. At my home.” I put a proprietorial hand on the doorknob. “See you soon!”

I watch the car disappear, then wheel round to Fabia. “I thought you weren’t in! OK, we need to get going. I’ve got the stuff for you. Here’s the bag, and the top….” I hand her the carriers.

“Great.” Her eyes focus on them greedily. “Did you get the shoes?”

“Of course!” I say. “My friend Danny got a model to bring them over from Paris. Danny Kovitz, the designer?”

As I produce the box, I feel a dart of triumph. No one else in the world can get hold of these. I am so connected. I wait for Fabia to gasp or say, “You’re incredible!” Instead she opens the shoe box, peers at them for a few moments, then wrinkles her brow.

“These are the wrong color.” She puts the lid back on and pushes them toward me. “I wanted green.”

Is she color-blind? They’re the most gorgeous shade of pale sage green, plus they have Green printed in big letters on the box.

“Fabia, these are green.”

“I wanted more of a…” She waves an arm. “Bluey-green.”

I’m trying really hard to keep my patience. “Do you mean…turquoise?”

“Yeah!” Her face brightens. “Turquoise. That’s what I meant. These ones are too pale.”

I do not believe it. These shoes have traveled all the way from Paris via a fashion model and a world-famous designer and she doesn’t want them?

Well, I’ll have them.

“Fine,” I say, and take the box back. “I’ll get you the turquoise pair. But I really need to get into the house….”

“I don’t know.” Fabia leans against the door frame and examines a drawn thread on her sleeve. “It’s not that convenient, to be honest.”

Not convenient? It has to be convenient!

“But we agreed on today, remember? The people from Vogue are already here!”

“Couldn’t you put them off?”

“You don’t put Vogue off!” My voice rises in agitation. “They’re Vogue!”

She gives one of her careless shrugs, and all of a sudden I’m livid. She knew I was coming. It was all planned. She can’t do this to me!

“Fabia.” I lean close, breathing hard. “You are not wrecking my only chance to be in Vogue. I got you the top. I got you the bag. I got you the shoes! You have to let me into this house, or…or…”

“Or what?” says Fabia.

“Or…I’ll phone up Barneys and get you blacklisted!” I hiss in sudden inspiration. “That won’t be much fun if you’re living in New York, will it?”

Fabia turns pale. Ha. Gotcha.

“Well, where am I supposed to go?” she says sulkily, taking her arm off the door frame.

“I don’t know! Go and have a hot-stone massage or something! Just get out!” I shove my suitcase into the house and push past her into the hall.

Right. I have to be quick. I snap open my case, take out a silver-framed picture of me and Luke at our wedding and put it prominently on the hall table. There. It looks like my house already!

“Where is your husband, anyway?” says Fabia, watching me with folded arms. “Shouldn’t he be doing this too? You look like some kind of single mother.”

Her words hit me unawares. For a few seconds I don’t trust myself to answer.

“Luke’s…abroad,” I say at last. “But I’m meeting him later on. At six o’clock. At the viewing platform at the Oxo Tower. He’ll be there.” I take a deep breath. “I know he will.”

There’s a hotness in my eyes and I blink fiercely. I’m not going to disintegrate.

“Are you all right?” Fabia stares at me.

“It’s just…quite an important day for me.” I get out a tissue and dab my eyes. “Could I have a glass of water?”

“Jesus.” I can hear Fabia muttering as she heads toward the kitchen. “It’s only bloody Vogue.”

OK. I’m getting there. Twenty minutes have passed, Fabia has finally gone, and the house is really feeling as though it’s mine. I’ve taken down all Fabia’s photographs and replaced them with ones of me and my family. I’ve put B and L initial cushions on the sofa in the living room. I’ve arranged flowers in vases everywhere. I’ve memorized the contents of the kitchen cupboards and even planted some Post-it notes on the fridge, saying things like “We need more organic quinoa, darling” and “Luke — remember Couples’ Qi-gong on Saturday!”

Now I’m hastily decanting some of my own shoes into Fabia’s shoe cupboard, because they’re bound to ask me about my accessories. I’m just counting how many pairs of Jimmy Choos there are, when the doorbell suddenly rings, and I jump in a flurry of panic. I shove the rest of the shoes into the cupboard, check my reflection, and head down the stairs with trembling legs.

This is it! All my life I’ve wanted to itemize my clothes in a magazine!

As I reach the hall I do a quick recap in my head. Dress: Diane von Furstenburg. Shoes: Prada. Tights: Topshop. Earrings: present from Mum.

No, that’s not cool enough. I’ll call them…model’s own. No, vintage. I’ll say I found them sewn into a 1930s corset which I bought from an old atelier in a backstreet in Paris. Perfect.

I swing open the front door, plastering a bright smile on my face — and freeze.

It’s not Vogue. It’s Luke.

He’s wearing an overcoat and holding an overnight case and it looks like he didn’t shave this morning.

“What the hell is this?” he says with no preamble, lifting up my letter.

I stare back at him, dumbstruck. This isn’t right. He’s supposed to be at the Oxo Tower looking all romantic and loving. Not here on the doorstep, disheveled and moody.

“I…” I swallow. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” he echoes incredulously. “I’m reacting to this! You didn’t answer any of my calls, I had no bloody idea what was going on…. ‘Meet me at the top of the Oxo Tower.’” He shakes the letter at me. “What is all this crap?”

Crap?

“It’s not crap!” I cry, stung. “I was trying to save our marriage, in case you hadn’t realized—”

“Save our marriage?” He stares at me. “At the Oxo Tower?”

“It works in films! You were supposed to turn up, and it was all supposed to be lovely, like in Sleepless in Seattle.…”

My voice is thickening with disappointment. I so thought it was going to work. I so thought he was going to be there, and we’d run into each other’s arms, and be a happy family again.

“OK, I’m obviously missing something.” Luke is frowning down at the letter again. “This letter doesn’t even make sense. ‘I know you had an——’ Blank. What did I have? An embolism?”

He’s mocking me. I can’t bear it.

“An affair!” I yell. “An affair! Your affair with Venetia! I know about it, remember? And I just thought maybe you wanted to give our marriage another shot, but obviously not, so please just go. I have a Vogue shoot to do.” I brush angrily at my tear-filled eyes.

“My what?” He seems genuinely shell-shocked. “Becky, you’re joking.”

“Yeah, right.” I make to close the door, but he grabs my wrist hard.

“Stop.” Luke’s voice is like thunder. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. I get this letter out of the blue…you’re accusing me of having an affair…. You can’t run away without explaining.”

Has he moved in to a parallel universe? Did someone hit him over the head or something?

“You admitted it yourself, Luke!” I practically shriek in frustration. “You said you’d been trying to ‘protect’ me, because of my blood pressure or whatever. Remember that?”

Luke’s eyes are scanning my face, back and forth, as though searching for answers.

“The conversation we had in the hospital,” he says suddenly. “Before I left.”

“Yes! Does it all come flooding back now?” I can’t help sounding sarcastic. “You were planning to tell me after the baby. You were going to see how things ‘played out.’ You basically admitted it—”

“I wasn’t talking about having a fucking affair!” Luke explodes. “I was talking about the crisis situation with Arcodas!”

“I…” The wind is instantly taken out of my sails. “Wh-what?”

I suddenly notice two children standing on the pavement, staring at us. I guess we do look quite conspicuous, what with my huge bump and everything.

“Let’s adjourn inside,” I say in dignified tones. Luke follows my gaze.

“Right. Yes. Let’s…do that.”

He steps into the house and I close the door. For a moment there’s silence in the hall. I don’t know what to say. I feel totally thrown.

“Becky…I don’t know what wrong end of what stick you’ve got hold of.” Luke exhales long and hard. “There’s been some trouble at work and I’ve been trying to shield you from it. But I’m not having an affair. With Venetia?”

“But she told me you were.”

Luke looks astounded. “She can’t have done.”

“She did! She said you were leaving me for her. She said—” I bite my lip. It’s too painful to remember everything Venetia said.

“This is just…bloody…madness.” Luke shakes his head in exasperation. “I don’t know what kind of conversation you had with Venetia, what kind of…crossed wires or misinformation….”

“So you’re saying nothing’s been going on between you? Nothing at all?”

Luke clutches his hair, closing his eyes briefly. “Why would you think anything was going on?”

“Why?” I stare up at him. “Luke, are you serious? Where do I start? All those times you’ve gone out with her, just you and her. All those texts in Latin, which you wouldn’t tell me about. And everyone was so weird toward me at the office…and I saw you sitting together on her desk…and you lied, the night of the Finance Awards….” My voice is starting to wobble. “I knew you weren’t really there….”

“I lied because I didn’t want to worry you!” Luke sounds more fraught and angry than I’ve ever heard him. “My staff were weird to you at the office because I’d sent round an e-mail saying that nobody, but nobody, was to mention the company problems to you. On pain of being fired. Becky…I’ve been trying to protect you.”

I have a sudden flashback to him, sitting at his desk in the gloom, his brow creased. That was weeks ago. He’s been moody and absent ever since.

But then why would Venetia have said…

Why would she have…

“She told me you were leaving me for her.” My voice is really jumping around now. “She said you’d still want to visit the baby.” I give a sudden sob.

“Leaving you? Becky, come here.” Luke wraps his arms tightly around me, and all of a sudden I’m burying my head in his chest, tears streaming into his shirt. “I love you,” he says firmly. “I’m never leaving you. Or little Birkin.”

How did he…

Oh. He must have found my list of names.

“It’s Armageddon now,” I correct him, through my snuffles. “Or Pomegranate. That’s what I told your mother.”

“Excellent. I hope she passed out.”

“Nearly.” I try to smile, but I can’t. It’s all still too raw. I’ve had weeks and weeks of worrying and imagining and fearing the worst. I can’t just snap my fingers and act normal again.

“I thought I was going to be a single mother.” I gulp. “I thought you loved her. I didn’t know why you were being so weird. It’s been awful. If you had problems at work you should have told me.”

“I know I should.” He’s silent for a bit, resting his chin on my head. “To be honest, Becky…it’s been nice to have somewhere to escape from it all.”

I lift my head up and study Luke. He looks grim. And tired. It suddenly hits me. He looks really, really tired.

“What’s been going on?” I wipe my face. “What’s the trouble? You have to tell me now.”

“Arcodas,” he says shortly.

“But I thought it was all going so well,” I say, confused. “I thought that’s why you were opening the new offices.”

“I wish I’d never fucking pitched for them.” He sounds so bleak, I feel a thud of dread.

“Luke…what’s happened?” I say nervously. “Let’s sit down.” I make my way into Fabia’s sitting room and sink into a squashy suede sofa.

“A load of things,” says Luke, following me. He raises his eyebrows briefly at the B and L cushions, then sits down, resting his head in his hands. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do. I want to know everything. From the start.”

“It’s been a nightmare.” He turns his face toward me. “The main nightmare being a harassment claim.”

“Harassment?” I gape at him.

“Sally-Ann Davies. Remember her?”

“Of course.” I nod. “What happened?”

Sally-Ann has worked for the company ever since I’ve known Luke. She’s quite reserved, but really sweet and reliable.

“There were…incidents between her and Iain. She says he came on to her in an aggressive, unpleasant manner. She made a complaint. Which he laughed off.”

“God, how awful,” I breathe. “So…what did you…”

“I believe Sally-Ann one hundred percent.” Luke sounds totally resolute.

I’m silent. My mind has flashed back to the manila file from Dave Sharpness’s office. The dossier he collected on Iain. All those hushed-up cases.

Should I tell Luke?

No. Not unless I have to. It would raise so many awkward questions, and he might get angry when he hears what I did. Anyway, I shredded everything in the file, so I haven’t even got the evidence anymore.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I’d believe her too. So…what did Iain say?”

“Nothing that I’d care to repeat.” Luke’s face is tight. “He accused her of inventing the story to get a promotion. His opinion of women is pretty unspeakable.”

I frown, trying to think back over the past weeks. “Was that when you couldn’t come to my prenatal class?”

“That was the start of it, yes.” He massages his brow. “Becky, I couldn’t tell you. Believe me, I wanted to, but I knew how upset you’d get. And Venetia had just told me you needed to stay calm.”

Stay calm. Yup, that plan really worked.

“So what happened?”

“Sally-Ann was incredibly generous-spirited about it. She said she wouldn’t take it any further if she could be moved to another account. Which obviously we did. But the whole company was upset by it.” He sighs. “To be honest, Arcodas have been difficult to work with, right from the start.”

“Iain’s awful, isn’t he?” I say bluntly.

“It’s not just him.” Luke shakes his head. “The whole ethos. They’re bullies, all of them.” A shadow passes over his face. “And now…it’s happened again.”

“With Sally-Ann?”

Luke shakes his head. “Amy Hill, one of our assistants, was reduced to tears by another of the Arcodas team. He got violently angry and she said she felt physically threatened.”

“You’re kidding.”

“They walk round my company like they bloody own it.” He exhales sharply, as though trying to keep a grip on himself. “I called a meeting and requested that the member of Arcodas staff in question apologize to Amy.”

“And did he?”

“No.” Luke’s face twists. “He wants her fired.”

“Fired?” I’m aghast.

“His story is, she’s incompetent, and if she could get the job done he wouldn’t need to get tough. Meanwhile, all my staff are up in arms. They’re writing me e-mails of protest, refusing to touch the Arcodas account, threatening to resign….” Luke thrusts his hands through his hair, looking totally beleaguered. “Like I said, it’s a nightmare.”

I subside back onto Fabia’s sofa, trying to take all this in. I can’t believe Luke has been walking around with all of this to worry about for so long. Saying nothing. Trying to protect me.

Not having an affair after all.

I run my eyes over his averted face. He could still be lying, it occurs to me. Even if the stuff about Arcodas is true. He could still be seeing Venetia. He’s just playing along to keep you happy runs through my mind for the thousandth time.

“Luke, please,” I say in a rush. “Please. Tell me the truth once and for all. Are you seeing her?”

“What?” Luke turns to me, astounded. “Becky, I thought we’d dealt with this—”

“She said you were acting.” I twist my fingers miserably. “All this could just be put on. To…to keep me happy.”

Luke turns to face me square-on and takes both my hands in his, tight.

“Becky, we’re not seeing each other. Nothing is going on. I don’t know how I can put it any more plainly.”

“So why did she say you were seeing each other?”

“I don’t know.” Luke sounds at the end of his rope. “I honestly have no idea what she was talking about. Look, Becky, you’re just going to have to trust me. Can you do that?”

There’s silence. The truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know if I can trust him anymore.

“I want a cup of tea,” I mumble at last, and get up.

I thought everything would be better when we’d talked, when we’d got it all out in the open. But here it is, out in the open like an exhibit on a podium. And I still don’t know what to believe. Without meeting Luke’s eye, I head into the kitchen and start opening all Fabia’s hand-built cupboards, looking for the tea. God, this is supposed to be my house. I’m supposed to know where the tea is.

“Try that one,” says Luke, as I open a cupboard filled with saucepans and bang it shut again, except it won’t bang because it’s so expensive and well-made. “The corner cupboard?”

“Oh, right.” I open it and locate a box of tea bags. I put them on the counter and lean against it, all energy gone. Meanwhile Luke has headed over to the huge glass doors at the back and is staring out at the garden, his shoulders rigid.

This isn’t how I planned our reunion. Not one bit.

“What are you going to do about Arcodas?” I say at last, twisting the string of a tea bag. “You can’t fire Amy.”

“Of course I’m not going to fire Amy.”

“So, what are your options?”

“Option one: I patch things over,” says Luke without moving his head. “Take the flak, smooth down some feathers, and carry on.”

“Until it happens again,” I say.

“Exactly.” Luke turns with a grim little nod. “Option two: I call a meeting with Arcodas. Tell them straight, I’m not having my staff bullied. Get an apology for Amy. Make them see reason.”

“And option three?” I can tell there’s an option three from his expression.

“Option three: if they won’t cooperate”—he pauses for a long time—“we refuse to work for them. Withdraw from the contract.”

“Would that be possible?”

“It would be possible.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubs them. “It would be fucking expensive. There’s a penalty if we quit within the first year. Plus we’ve opened Europe-wide offices on the strength of this contract. It was supposed to be our brave new world. Our gateway to bigger and better things.”

I can hear the heavy disappointment in his voice. And suddenly I want to throw my arms around him tight. It was so exciting when Brandon Communications won the Arcodas pitch. They worked so hard to get it. It seemed like such a prize.

“So, what are you going to do?” I ask tentatively.

Luke has picked up an antique nutcracker from a side table. He starts rotating the handle, his face set.

“Or else I could tell my staff they just have to get on with it. A few might leave, but the others would knuckle down. People need jobs. They’ll put up with shit.”

“And have a miserable company.”

“A miserable, profitable company.” His voice has an edge which I don’t like. “We’re in this to make money, remember?”

The baby suddenly kicks me hard inside and I wince. Everything’s so…achy-painy. Me. Luke. The whole horrible situation.

“You don’t want that,” I say.

Luke doesn’t move a muscle. His face is flint-hard. Anyone watching would think he didn’t agree or hadn’t heard or didn’t care. But I know what’s inside his head. He loves his company. He loves it when it’s thriving and successful and happy.

“Luke, the staff at Brandon C…” I take a step toward him. “They’re your family. They’ve been loyal to you all these years. Think how you’d feel if Amy was your daughter. You’d want her employer to take a stand. I mean…you’re your own boss! The whole point is, you don’t have to work with anyone.”

“I’ll talk to them.” Luke’s eyes are still focused downward. “I’ll have it out. Maybe we can make it all work.”

“Maybe.” I nod, trying to sound more hopeful than I feel.

Suddenly Luke puts the nutcracker back on the table and looks up. “Becky, if I end up pulling out of the Arcodas deal…we won’t be squillionaires. You understand that.”

I feel a pang. It was pretty exciting when it was all going so well and we were going to conquer the world and fly around in private jets. And I was planning to buy these amazing £1,000 stiletto boots from Vivienne Westwood.

Anyway. There’s a £50 version in Topshop. I’ll get those instead.

“Maybe not right now.” I lift my chin defiantly. “But we will be when you pull off your next big deal. And in the meantime”—I look around the fabulous designer kitchen—“we’re doing pretty well. We can buy an island some other year.” I think for a moment. “Actually, islands are totally over. We didn’t want one.”

Luke stares at me for a moment, then gives a sudden snort of laughter.

“You know something, Becky Bloomwood? You are going to be one hell of a mother.”

“Oh!” I color, totally taken by surprise. “Really? In a good way?”

Luke comes across the kitchen and rests his hands gently on my bump. “This little person is very lucky,” he murmurs.

“Except I don’t know any nursery rhymes,” I say, a bit gloomy. “I won’t be able to get it off to sleep.”

“Nursery rhymes are overrated,” says Luke confidently. “I’ll read it pieces from the FT. That’ll send it off.”

We both gaze down at my swollen tummy for a while. I still can’t quite get my head round the fact that there’s a baby inside my body. Which has got to come out…somehow.

OK, let’s not go there. There’s still time for them to invent something.

After a while Luke raises his head. He has a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

“So…tell me, Becky,” he says lightly. “Is it Armageddon or Pomegranate?”

“What?” I look at him, confused.

“This morning, when I got home, I was trying to work out where you’d gone. I rooted around in your drawers for clues….” He hesitates. “And I came across that gender predictor test. You’ve found out, haven’t you?”

My heart gives an almighty thud. Shit. I should have thrown the test away. I’m so stupid.

Luke’s smiling, but I can see a trace of hurt in his eyes. And suddenly I feel really terrible. I don’t know how I could have been planning to leave Luke out of such an important moment. I don’t even quite know anymore why I was so desperate to find out the sex. Who cares?

I put one of my hands on his and squeeze it. “Actually, Luke…I didn’t do the test. I don’t know.”

Luke’s rueful expression doesn’t change.

“Come on, Becky. Just tell me. If only one of us is going to be surprised, there doesn’t seem much point in waiting anymore.”

“I didn’t do the test!” I insist. “Honestly! It was going to take too long and you had to have an injection….”

He doesn’t believe me. I can see it from his face. We’ll be in the delivery room and they’ll say “It’s a boy!” or whatever, and all he’ll think is “Becky already knew.”

A lump suddenly rises in my throat. I don’t want it to be like that. I want us to find out together.

“Luke, I didn’t find out,” I say desperately, tears stinging my eyes. “I really, honestly didn’t! I wouldn’t lie to you. You have to believe me. It’s going to be an amazing…wonderful…surprise. For both of us.”

I’m gazing up at him, my whole body tense, my hands clutching my skirt. Luke’s eyes are scanning my face.

“OK.” His brow finally relaxes. “OK. I believe you.”

“And I believe you too.” The words fall out of my mouth with no warning.

But now I’ve said them, I realize they’re true. I could demand more proof that Luke’s not seeing Venetia. I could get him followed again. I could be totally paranoid and miserable forever.

In the end, you have to choose whether or not to trust someone. And I do choose to trust him. I do.

“Come here.” Luke draws me in for a hug. “It’s OK, sweetheart. It’s all going to be fine.”

After a while I pull away from Luke. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, and get down a couple of mugs. Then I turn to him.

“Luke, why did Venetia say you were having an affair if you weren’t?”

“I have no idea.” Luke looks mystified. “Are you absolutely sure that’s what she meant? You couldn’t have misinterpreted what she was saying?”

“No!” I retort crossly. “I’m not that stupid! It was totally obvious what she meant.” I rip off a piece of Fabia’s paper towels and blow my nose on it. “And just so you know, I’m not having our baby delivered by her. Or going to any of her stupid tea parties.”

“Fine.” Luke nods. “I’m sure we can go back to Dr. Braine. You know, he’s e-mailed me a couple of times, just to see how you are.”

“Really? That’s so sweet of him….”

The doorbell rings and I start. It’s them. I’d almost half kind-of forgotten.

“Who’s that?” says Luke.

“It’s Vogue!” I say in agitation. “The whole reason I’m here! For the photo shoot!”

I hurry into the hall, and as I see my reflection in the mirror I feel a jerk of dismay. My face is blotchy; my eyes are all bloodshot and puffy; my smile is strained. I can’t remember my way round the house. I’ve totally forgotten all my yummy quotes. I can’t even remember who my underpants are by. I can’t do it.

The doorbell rings again, twice.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Luke has followed me into the hall.

“I’ll have to cancel!” Woefully, I turn to face him. “Look at me. I’m a mess! I can’t be in Vogue like this!”

“You’ll be wonderful,” he replies firmly, and strides to the front door.

“They think it’s our house!” I hiss after him in panic. “I told them we live here.”

Luke shoots me a what-do-you-take-me-for? glance over his shoulder, and swings open the door.

“Hello!” he says, in his most confident, head-of-a-huge-important-company voice. “Welcome to our home.”

Makeup artists should hereby get the Nobel Prize for adding to human happiness. And so should hairdressers.

And so should Luke.

It’s three hours later and the shoot is going brilliantly. Luke totally charmed all the Vogue people as soon as they arrived, and was completely convincing as we showed them around the house. They totally think we live here!

I feel like a different person. I certainly look like a different person. My blotchiness has been totally covered up, and the makeup artist was really sweet about it. She said she’d seen far worse and at least I wasn’t off my head on coke. Or six hours late. And at least I hadn’t brought some stupid yappy dog. (I get the feeling she’s not that keen on models.)

My hair looks totally fab and shiny, and they brought the most amazing clothes for me to wear, all in a trailer which they’ve parked outside. And now I’m standing on the sweeping staircase in a Missoni dress, beaming as the camera clicks, feeling just like Claudia Schiffer or someone.

And Luke is standing at the bottom of the staircase, smiling encouragingly up at me. He’s been here all along. He canceled all the rest of his morning meetings, and took part in the interview and everything. He said having a baby put other things into perspective and he thought fatherhood would change him as a person. He said he thought I was more beautiful right now than he’d ever seen me (which is a total lie, but still). He said…

Anyway. He said loads of nice things. And he knew who painted the picture above the fireplace in the sitting room when they asked. He’s brilliant!

“Shall we move outside now?” The photographer looks questioningly at Martha.

“That’s a nice idea.” She nods, and I walk down the stairs, carefully holding up my dress.

“Maybe I could wear the Oscar de la Renta dress?”

The stylist brought the most amazing purple evening dress and cloak, which was apparently made for some pregnant movie star to wear to a premiere but she never did. I just have to try it on.

“Yes, that’ll look spectacular against the grass.” Martha heads to the back of the hall and squints through the glass doors. “What an amazing garden! Did you landscape it yourselves?”

“Absolutely!” I glance at Luke.

“We hired a gardening company, obviously,” he says, “but the concept was all ours.”

“That’s right.” I nod. “Our inspiration was a kind of Zen…meets…urban structure….”

“The positioning of the trees was crucial to the project,” Luke adds. “We had them moved at least three times.”

“Wow.” Martha nods intelligently and scribbles in her notebook. “You’re real perfectionists!”

“We just care about design,” Luke says seriously. He shoots me a quick wink and I try not to giggle.

“So, you must be looking forward to seeing your little child out there on the lawn.” She looks up with a smile. “Learning to crawl…and walk…”

“Yes.” Luke takes my hand. “We certainly are.”

I’m about to add something, but my stomach suddenly tightens, like someone squeezed it with both hands. It’s been doing it for a while, now that I think about it — but that time was kind of stronger. “Ooh,” I say, before I can stop myself.

“What?” Luke looks alert.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “So, shall I put on the cloak?”

“Let’s get your makeup touched up,” says Martha. “And shall we do a sandwich run?”

I head across the hall, reach the front door, and stop. My stomach just tightened up again. It’s unmistakable.

“What is it?” Luke is watching me. “Becky, what’s going on?”

OK. Don’t panic.

“Luke,” I say as calmly as I can, “I think I’m in labor. It’s been going on for a while now.”

My stomach tightens again, and I start shallow panting, just like Noura said in that lesson. God, it’s amazing how I’m coping instinctively.

“A while?” Luke strides over to me, looking alarmed. “How long, exactly?”

I think back to when I first became aware of the sensations. “About five hours? Which means I’m probably…five centimeters dilated, maybe?”

“Five centimeters dilated?” Luke stares at me. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m halfway there.” My voice suddenly trembles with excitement. “It means we’re going to have a baby!”

“Jesus Christ.” Luke whips out his mobile phone and jabs at it. “Hello? Ambulance service, please. Quick!”

As he gives the address I feel suddenly shaky around the knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen until the nineteenth. I thought I had three more weeks to go.

And maybe I should have gone to more than one prenatal class.

“What’s going on?” Martha says, looking up from her notes. “Shall we do the garden shots now?”

“Becky’s in labor,” Luke says, putting his phone away. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go.”

“In labor?” Martha drops her notebook and pen and scrabbles to pick them up. “Oh my God! But it’s not due yet, is it?”

“Not for three weeks,” says Luke. “It must be early.”

“Are you all right, Becky?” Martha peers at me. “Do you need drugs?”

“I’m using natural methods,” I gasp, gripping my necklace. “This is an ancient Maori birthing stone.”

“Wow!” says Martha, scribbling. “Can you spell Maori?”

My stomach tightens again and I clutch the stone harder. Even with the pain, I can’t help feeling exhilarated. They’re right, birth is an amazing experience. I feel as if my whole body is working in harmony, as if this is what it was designed to do all along.

“Have you got a bag packed?” says Martha, watching me in alarm. “Aren’t you supposed to have a bag?”

“I’ve got a suitcase,” I say breathlessly.

“Right,” says Luke, snapping his phone shut. “Let’s get it. Quick. Where is it? And your hospital notes.”

“It’s…” I break off. It’s all at home. Our real home.

“Um…it’s in the bedroom. By the dressing table.” I look at him in slight desperation. Luke’s eyes snap with sudden understanding.

“Of course,” he says. “Well…I’m sure we can make a stop-off if we need to.”

“I’ll nip up and get it for you,” says Martha helpfully. “Which side of the dressing table is it?”

“No! I mean…um…actually, there it is!” I point at a Mulberry holdall that I’ve suddenly spotted in the hall cupboard. “I forgot, I put it there so as to be ready.”

“Right.” Luke drags it out of the cupboard, with some effort, and a tennis ball falls out of it.

“Why are you taking tennis balls to hospital?” asks Martha, looking puzzled.

“For…er…massage. Oh God…” I grip the Maori stone tightly and breathe deeply.

“Are you OK, Becky?” says Luke, looking anxious. “It seems to be getting worse.” He looks at his watch. “Where’s this bloody ambulance?”

“They’re getting stronger.” I manage to nod through the pain. “I should think I’m probably about six or seven centimeters dilated by now.”

“Hey, the ambulance is here.” The photographer pokes his head through the front door. “It’s just pulling up.”

“We should get going.” Luke holds out his arm to me. “Are you able to walk?”

“I think so. Just about.”

We head out the front door and pause on the top step. The ambulance is blocking the whole road, its blue light flashing round and round. I can see a few people watching, on the other side of the street.

This is it. When I come out of hospital…I’ll have a baby!

“Good luck!” calls Martha. “Hope it all goes well!”

“Becky…I love you.” Luke squeezes my arm tight. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing amazingly! You’re so calm, so composed….”

“It just feels totally natural,” I say with a kind of humble awe, like Patrick Swayze telling Demi Moore what heaven is like at the end of Ghost. “It’s painful…but it’s beautiful too.”

Two paramedics have got out of the back of the ambulance and are coming toward me.

“Ready?” Luke glances down at me.

“Uh-huh.” I take a deep breath and start walking down the steps. “Let’s do it.”