“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.
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.
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
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
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
I DON’T KNOW WHY I didn’t do this before. It’s like Mum says, I need to get my facts straight. All I need is to find out the answer to one simple question: Is Luke having an affair with Venetia? Yes or no.
And if he
is
—
My stomach spasms at the thought and I do a few quick shallow breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Ignore the pain. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I’m standing in West Ruislip tube station, right at the end of the Central Line, consulting my little A–Z. I’ve never been to this bit of northwest London before and I wouldn’t really have thought of it being the kind of place where private detectives hang out. (But then, I suppose I was really picturing downtown Chicago in the 1940s.)
I head off down the main road, glancing at my reflection in a shop window as I pass. It took me ages to decide what to wear this morning, but in the end I went for a simple black print dress, vintage shoes, and oversize opaque sunglasses. Although it turns out that sunglasses are a crap disguise. If anyone I knew spotted me, they wouldn’t think, “There’s a mysterious woman in black,” they’d think, “There’s Becky, wearing sunglasses and visiting a private detective.”