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….”