‘You the bartering girl? Becky?’
‘What?’ I peer at him in surprise. What’s going on? I haven’t even put any ads in recently. Unless he’s got those latest Prada shades and wants to swap them for a blue Missoni scarf.
Which somehow I doubt.
‘My daughter promised you a marquee? Nicole Taylor? Sixteen-year-old?’
This is Nicole’s dad? I suddenly notice a nasty frown between his eyes. Shit. He looks quite scary. Is he going to tell me off for bartering with someone under-age?
‘Well yes, but—’
‘Whole story came out last night. My wife wanted to know where she got them bags you gave her. Nicole should never have done it.’
‘I didn’t realize she was so young,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘You think a marquee costs the same as a couple of handbags?’ he says menacingly.
Oh God. Does he think I was trying to pull some kind of scam?
‘No! I mean … I don’t know!’ My voice jumps with nerves. ‘I was just hoping someone might just have a spare marquee they didn’t want, you know, lying around the place—’
I break off as I suddenly realize my voice might be carrying up to the bathroom window. Shit.
‘Can we whisper, please?’ I edge nearer the cab. ‘It’s all supposed to be a secret. And if my husband comes out … I’m buying fruit off you, OK?’
Nicole’s dad shoots me an incredulous look, then says, ‘How much are them bags worth, anyway?’
‘They cost about a thousand pounds new. I mean, it depends how much you like Marc Jacobs, I suppose …’
‘Thousand quid.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘She’s a bloody little lunatic.’
I don’t dare chime in, either to agree or disagree. In fact, now I think about it, he might be talking about me.
Abruptly Nicole’s dad focuses on me again. ‘All right,’ he says heavily. ‘If my daughter promised you a marquee, I’ll supply a marquee. I can’t lay on the full monty, you’ll have to put it up yourself. But we’re quiet at the moment. I’ll sort you something.’
For an instant I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.
‘You’ll get me a marquee?’ I clap a hand over my mouth. ‘Oh my God. Do you know that you have just saved my life?’
Nicole’s dad gives a short laugh and hands me a card. ‘One of the lads’ll be in touch. Tell him the date, say Cliff knows about it, we’ll sort you out.’ He grinds the van into gear and starts reversing out of the drive.
‘Thanks, Cliff!’ I call after him. ‘Tell Nicole I hope she’s enjoying the bags!’
I want to dance around. I want to whoop. I’ve got a marquee! And it didn’t cost thousands, and it’s all sorted. I knew I could do it.
CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1
Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
28 February 2006
Dear Rebecca
Thank you for your prompt reply. It is most kind of you to issue permission so readily.
Unfortunately The British Journal of Monetary Economics is not an illustrated periodical and does not have a ‘photo-editor’ or ‘stylist’ as you suggest. I will therefore be unable to use the photographs of the Missoni coat, belt and boots that you so kindly enclosed and return them with thanks.
Yours sincerely
Edwin Tredwell
Director of Policy Research
TWELVE
This time, we’ve gone for a central London restaurant, well away from Luke’s office. As I arrive I can see Bonnie, already at a corner table, looking immaculate in a coral-coloured suit and the seed-pearl earrings which I made Luke buy her as a birthday present. She looks perfectly comfortable sitting there on her own, her head erect, calmly sipping a cup of tea. Like she’s sat on her own in restaurants a million times before.
‘The earrings look great!’ I say, sliding into the seat opposite.
‘They’re exquisite!’ says Bonnie, touching one. ‘I do hope you got my thank-you message, Becky. How on earth did you do it?’
‘I was really subtle,’ I say proudly. ‘I found them online and told Luke I wanted them for myself. Then I said, “Actually, no! They’d suit someone with different colouring. Someone like your assistant Bonnie, maybe!”’
I won’t mention that I had to say it about five times, louder and louder, before Luke even looked up from his laptop.
‘You’re very adept.’ Bonnie sighs. ‘I haven’t had quite so much luck with your basement gym, I’m afraid. I have tried to mention it—’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that any more. The house is off for the moment, anyway.’ I pick up the menu, then put it down distractedly. ‘I’m more bothered about the party. Can you believe what happened last night?’
‘People are so lax when it comes to invitations.’ Bonnie tuts with disapproval. ‘They never read instructions properly.’
‘So what am I going to do?’ I’m hoping Bonnie will have thought of some clever solution already – and sure enough, she nods calmly.
‘I have a suggestion. We contact each invitee personally, reiterate the top-secret nature of the party, and head off any further mishaps.’
‘Yes,’ I say slowly. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll take the list to work tomorrow.’
‘May I suggest, Becky, that I do the telephoning?’ says Bonnie gently. ‘If you do, you will give the impression that you are the point of contact. But you should not be the point of contact. We need to separate you from the guests as much as possible, to prevent any further slip-ups.’
‘But that would be too much work! You can’t do that!’
‘I don’t mind at all. Really, I’d be glad to.’ She hesitates. ‘It’s rather fun!’
‘Well … thanks!’
A waiter is hovering and I order a double-shot cappuccino. I need the caffeine. This party is harder work than I thought. My hand muscles are aching from cutting out plastic bags for pompoms (I’ve done seventy-two) and I’m constantly paranoid Luke’s going to stumble across my folder of notes. Last night I dreamed that he came back home just as I was making his birthday cake in a giant mixing bowl and I had to pretend it was breakfast and he kept saying, ‘But I don’t want cake for breakfast.’
Which is a stupid dream, because there’s no way I’m making a birthday cake for two hundred people.
Oh God. I need to add that to the list. Order birthday cake.
‘Becky, dear, relax,’ says Bonnie as though reading my mind. ‘Minor scares will always happen. But it seems to me you have this party remarkably well contained. You know, Luke has a very loyal staff,’ she adds quietly. ‘They’ll be delighted to have this chance to show their appreciation of him.’
‘Oh!’ I feel a tiny glow. ‘Well … that’s good, anyway.’
‘I’ve never had a boss who stuck up for his staff with such resolve. If ever there’s a difficult client or a complaint, Luke insists on taking the meeting himself. He says it’s his name above the door and he should take the flak. Of course, this can also be a weakness,’ she adds thoughtfully, sipping her tea. ‘I think he should probably delegate more.’
I can’t help looking at Bonnie anew. How much does she observe, sitting quietly in the corner, watching everyone?
‘This new carbon-thingy client sounds cool,’ I say, hoping to prod her into saying more.
‘Oh yes. Luke was thrilled with the result. Of course he’d tried to downplay his hopes … but I always know if a meeting is important to him,’ Bonnie suddenly gives a little smile, ‘because he reties his tie.’
‘Yes!’ I exclaim in delighted recognition. ‘He does that at home, too!’
We smile at each other, and I take a sip of my cappuccino. In some ways it feels weird, talking about Luke behind his back. But in other ways it’s really ni
ce, having someone to share with. No one else knows Luke’s everyday little quirks.
‘Have you always made friends with the wives of your bosses?’ I can’t help asking. ‘Or husbands?’
‘Not really.’ She looks almost amused. ‘They wouldn’t have seen me as … friend material, I don’t think.’
I’ve seen pictures of Lady Zara Forrest, the wife of Bonnie’s previous employer. She runs a spa in Notting Hill and is always doing interviews. I can’t really see her hanging out and chatting with Bonnie.
‘Well, I suppose it’s more natural for you to be friends with other people in the company,’ I say quickly. ‘It seems to have a really good atmosphere …’
‘Yes,’ says Bonnie. ‘Although of course, as Luke’s personal assistant, I’m in a tricky position. I have to be guarded on some matters. So it’s natural that there’s a little distance between me and the others.’ She smiles. ‘It’s always been that way.’
She’s lonely.
It hits me with a thud. Of course, she might have a massive social life outside work – but somehow I don’t think so. Luke once told me how available she is over the weekend, how she always replies to emails within the hour and how helpful it is to him. Maybe it is great for him. But what about her?
‘Well, I’m really glad we’ve got to know each other better,’ I say warmly. ‘I told you we’d be a good team. I’m working on the air-conditioning situation, by the way.’
Luke keeps his office far too cold. I’m not surprised Bonnie’s shivering.
‘Thank you!’ She dimples. ‘And is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘There must be something …’ I take a few sips of coffee, mulling it over. ‘Oh yes! You know that new shower gel Luke’s using? Doesn’t it smell awful?’
‘Shower gel?’ Bonnie seems thrown. ‘Well, I couldn’t comment …’
‘You must have smelt it. The rosemary and ginseng one? I hate it, but he says it wakes him up. Well, if you said you hated it too, he might stop using it.’
‘Becky, dear.’ Bonnie peers at me. ‘I couldn’t possibly mention something as personal as shower gel.’
‘Yes you could! Of course you could! Believe me, Luke respects your views on everything. He wouldn’t get offended. And that blue tie of his with the cars on it. Can you tell him that’s hideous, too?’
‘Becky, really …’
‘Come on.’ I smile winsomely at her, wife-to-PA. ‘You must hate that tie, too.’
‘Well …’ Bonnie looks uncomfortable. Of course she does.
I unwrap my little biscuit and crunch it, pondering. A new, radical thought has come to me. There’s another major way I could get her to influence Luke for me. Possibly.
‘Bonnie … are you an only child?’ I say at last.
‘No, I have a brother.’
Perfect!
‘Well, if you get the chance … could you possibly mention your brother to Luke and say how having a sibling has been really important to you? And maybe ask him if he wants any more children after Minnie and say how lovely it would be if he did? And how he should get a move on?’
Bonnie looks thunderstruck.
‘Becky! This really isn’t my business … I really couldn’t …’
‘Yes you could!’ I say encouragingly. ‘I so want another baby, and I know he does too, deep down, and he’d totally listen to you.’
‘But—’
‘Just if you get the chance,’ I say reassuringly. ‘If it comes up in conversation. Shall we get the bill?’
As we leave the restaurant, I give Bonnie an impulsive hug.
‘Thanks so much for everything, Bon. You’re the best!’
I should have hooked up with Bonnie ages ago. Next I’ll get her to tell Luke we need to go to Mauritius.
‘Not at all.’ She still looks a bit flustered, but smiles at me. ‘And please don’t worry about the party. I’m sure Luke doesn’t suspect anything.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ I glance up and down the street in sudden paranoia. ‘Did I tell you he bumped into me after our lunch? I told him I’d gone for Botox but he didn’t believe me, and now he keeps giving me these little looks, as though he knows I’m up to something—’ I stop at Bonnie’s expression. ‘What?’
‘Now it makes sense!’ she exclaims. She draws me aside, out of the flow of people on the pavement. ‘Becky, that day we met, Luke came back to the office and asked me if any designer-clothes shops had opened in the area. I assumed it was some kind of retail research. But now I wonder if he thought you were secretly …’ Bonnie trails off tactfully.
‘Shopping?’ I say incredulously. ‘He thought I was shopping?’
‘It’s possible, don’t you think?’ She twinkles. ‘It could be rather a good cover.’
‘But … but you don’t understand! I’ve promised not to shop! We’ve had this agreement, ever since that bank went bust! And I’m totally keeping to it!’
My mind is whirling with indignation. Did Luke think I was breaking my promise and covering up with a story about Botox? Is that why he kept looking so suspiciously at my bag?
I feel like marching into his office, throwing down my purse like a gauntlet and declaiming, ‘Rebecca Brandon née Bloomwood keeps her word, sir!’ And challenging him to a duel, maybe.
‘Oh dear.’ Bonnie looks troubled. ‘Becky, this is only surmise …’
‘No, I’m sure you’re right. He thinks I was shopping. Well, fine. Let him.’ I lift my chin firmly. ‘I’ll use it as a decoy.’
After all, the more Luke suspects I’m secretly shopping, the less he’ll suspect I’m secretly organizing a party. As I head off down the street, I’m full of resolve. If shopping is what Luke thinks I’m up to … then shopping is what he’ll get. Big time.
As I hear Luke’s key in the lock that evening, I’m ready for him. I’m wearing a vivid lime-green jumper that I’ve never worn before (total mistake, what was I thinking?) and that still has the shop tag hanging from the label. On top of that, I’ve got the leather jacket that I bought in the sales, with its Whistles label carefully reattached and poking out, plus a scarf, a necklace and a bright-orange belt, none of which I’ve ever worn.
I mean, I was planning to wear them. You know. When the right moment came.
I’ve dragged down some posh carrier bags from the top of the wardrobe and put them under the kitchen table, just peeking out. I’ve stuffed some Prada-logoed tissue paper into the kitchen bin, and half-hidden some old receipts behind the microwave. Minnie is following me around in her pyjamas and dressing gown, eating a honey sandwich and watching in wonderment. As I hear Luke heading towards the kitchen I say ‘Sshh!’ to her, just in case.
‘Sshh!’ she instantly replies, putting her finger to her lips. ‘Sshh, Mummy!’ She looks so serious, I can’t help laughing. Then I set up position in the kitchen, checking out my reflection in the fridge door with my best fashionista pose. When Luke comes in, I give quite a convincing jump.
‘You startled me, Luke!’ I say, and hastily rip off my jacket, making sure the pink Whistles tag bobs into view. ‘I was just … um … This is nothing. Nothing at all!’ I squash the jacket into a ball and whip it behind my back, as Luke gives me a puzzled look. He heads to the fridge and gets out a beer.
Ooh. Maybe I should have put the receipts in the fridge.
No. Too obvious.
‘Sshh, Daddy!’ says Minnie importantly to Luke, her finger still on her lips. ‘Hide-seek.’
That’s what she thinks I was doing. (Hide and seek is Minnie’s favourite game. Except it isn’t like normal hide and seek. You only count to three and you have to tell her where you’re going to hide. And when it’s her turn she always hides in the same place, which is the middle of the room.)
‘I’ll play in a minute, poppet. Interesting jumper,’ he says to me, raising his eyebrows. As well he might, since I look like a lime-green jelly bean.
‘It’s ancient!’ I say at once. ‘I bought it ages ago. You can ask Suz
e. Ring her up now if you don’t believe me! Go on!’
‘Becky …’ Luke gives a little laugh. ‘I never said I don’t believe you. Why are you so paranoid?’
‘Because … no reason!’ I edge over to the table and kick the carrier bags underneath in a surreptitious yet obvious manner. I can see Luke’s eyes zip down and clock them.
Ha! Result!
‘So, what were you up to today?’ he says easily, reaching for the bottle-opener.
‘Nothing! I didn’t go anywhere! God, you’re always quizzing me, Luke.’ I stuff the necklace inside my jumper as though to hide it.
Luke opens his mouth to speak – then seems to decide against it and instead uncaps his beer.
Take the cap to the bin … I silently will him. Go on, take it to the bin.
Yes!
I really should be a choreographer. Just as Luke’s about to pull out the bin, I leap across the kitchen with spot-on timing and plant a hand on the handle to stop him.
‘I’ll do that,’ I say super-casually. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.’
‘I’m just putting it in recycling.’ Luke seems puzzled. He makes to open the bin and I let just a bit of Prada tissue paper become visible before I grab the handle again.
‘I said I’ll do it!’ I say feverishly.
‘Becky, it’s fine.’ He wrenches the whole bin drawer open and the Prada tissue paper gusts up with the draught as though to say ‘Here I am! Look at me! Prada!’
For a moment neither of us speaks.
‘Gosh, what’s that doing there?’ I say in a high-pitched, unnatural voice, and start stuffing it down again. ‘That’s old. Really, really old. I mean, I can’t even remember the last time I went into a Prada. Or bought anything Prada. Or anything!’
I’m stumbling over my words and I’ve never sounded so guilty in my life.
In fact, I’m beginning to feel guilty. I feel like I’ve just maxed out my credit card and all the stuff is hidden under the bed.
‘Becky …’ Luke passes a hand over his brow. ‘What the hell is going on?’