How can she look so impassive? Doesn’t she understand how important this is?
“We will be contacting the customers in turn,” says Silvia. “We will be in touch if a bag becomes available for you.”
“I’ll do it for you, if you like,” I say, trying to sound helpful. “If you give me their numbers.”
Silvia looks at me silently for a moment.
“No, thank you. We will be in touch.”
“All right,” I say, deflating. “Well, thanks.”
There’s nothing more I can do. I’ll just stop thinking about it and enjoy the rest of Milan. Exactly. I give a final, longing glance at the Angel bag, then head out of the shop. I’m not going to obsess about this. I’m not even going to think about it. I’m going to focus on . . . culture. Yes.
Suddenly I stop dead in the street. I’ve given her the number of Luke’s flat in London. But didn’t he say something a while ago about putting in new phone lines?
What if I’ve left an obsolete number?
Quickly I retrace my steps and burst into the shop again.
“Hi!” I say breathlessly. “I just thought I’d give you another set of contact details, in case you can’t get through.” I rummage about in my bag and pull out one of Luke’s cards. “This is my husband’s office.”
“Very well,” Silvia says a little wearily.
“Only . . . come to think of it, if you speak to him, I wouldn’t mention the actual bag.” I lower my voice a little. “Say ‘the Angel has landed.’ ”
“The Angel has landed,” echoes Silvia, writing it down as though she makes coded phone calls all the time.
Which, now that I think about it, maybe she does.
“The person to ask for is Luke Brandon,” I explain, handing over the card. “At Brandon Communications. He’s my husband.”
Across the shop, I’m aware of Mr. Cashmere looking up from a selection of leather gloves.
“Luke Brandon,” repeats Silvia. “Very well.” She puts the card away and gives me a final nod.
“So, have you phoned anyone on the list yet?” I can’t resist asking.
“Signora Brandon,” snaps Silvia in exasperation. “You will have to wait your turn! I cannot do any better than that!”
“Are you so sure about that?” a raspy voice cuts in and we both look up to see Mr. Cashmere approaching us from across the shop.
What’s he doing?
“Excuse me?” Silvia says haughtily, and he winks at me.
“Don’t let them palm you off, girl.” He turns to Silvia. “If you wanted to, you could sell her this bag.” He jerks his stubby thumb at the Angel bag on the pedestal and puffs on his cigar.
“Signor—”
“I’ve been listening. If you haven’t called anyone on the waiting list, they don’t know this has come in. They don’t even know it exists.” He pauses meaningfully. “And you’ve got this young lady here, wants to buy it.”
“That is not the point, signore.” Silvia smiles tightly at him. “There is a strict protocol . . .”
“You have discretion. Don’t tell me you don’t. Oy, Roberto!” he suddenly calls. The man in the black glasses hurries over from somewhere in the back.
“Signor Temple?” he says smoothly, his eyes darting at me. “Everything is all right?”
“If I wanted this bag for my lady friend, would you sell it to me?” The man blows out a cloud of smoke and raises his eyebrows at me. He looks like he’s enjoying this.
Roberto glances at Silvia, who jerks her head at me and rolls her eyes. I can see Roberto taking in the situation, his brain working hard.
“Signor Temple.” He turns to the man with a charming smile. “You are a very valued customer. It is a very different matter . . .”
“Would you?”
“Yes,” Roberto says, after a pause.
“Well then.” The man looks at Roberto expectantly.
There’s silence. I hold my breath.
“Silvia,” Roberto says at last. “Wrap up the bag for the signorina.”
Oh my GOD!
“It’s my pleasure,” says Silvia, shooting me a dirty look.
I can’t believe this has happened.
“I—I don’t know how to thank you!” I stutter. “That’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for me, ever!”
“My pleasure.” The man inclines his head and extends his hand. “Nathan Temple.”
“Becky Bloomwood,” I say, shaking it. “I mean, Brandon.”
“You really wanted that bag.” He raises his eyebrows appreciatively. “Never seen anything like it.”
“I was desperate for it!” I admit with a laugh. “I’m so grateful to you!”
Nathan Temple waves his hand in a “don’t mention it” gesture, then takes out a lighter and lights his cigar, which has gone out. When he’s puffing away again he looks up.
“Brandon . . . as in Luke Brandon.”
“You know Luke?” I’m amazed. “What a coincidence!”
“By reputation.” He blows out a cloud of cigar smoke. “He has quite a name, your husband. He’s coming back to the company after his year off, I understand?”
“Well . . . yes,” I say in surprise. “How did you know that?”
Nathan Temple winks again.
“I’ve had my eye on him for a while. Talented man. Couple of years ago, all the banks were launching online services. But the one that got all the publicity was SBG. Your husband’s client.”
“Signor Temple.” Roberto comes bustling over with several carrier bags, which he hands to my new friend. “The rest will be shipped according to your orders. . . .”
“Good man, Roberto,” says Nathan Temple, clapping him on the back. “See you next year.”
“Please let me buy you a drink,” I say quickly. “Or lunch! Or . . . anything!”
“Unfortunately, I have to go. Nice offer, though.”
“But I want to thank you for what you did. I’m so incredibly grateful!”
Nathan Temple lifts his hands modestly.
“Who knows? Maybe one day you can do a favor for me.”
“Anything!” I exclaim eagerly, and he smiles.
“Enjoy the bag. All right, Harvey.”
Out of nowhere, a thin blond man in a chalk-striped suit has appeared. He takes the bags from Nathan Temple and the two walk out of the shop.
I lean against the counter, radiant with bliss. I have an Angel bag. I have an Angel bag!
“That will be two thousand euros,” comes a surly voice from behind me.
Oh, right. I’d kind of forgotten about the two thousand euros part.
I automatically reach for my purse—then stop. Of course. I don’t have my purse. And I’ve maxed out my Visa card on Luke’s belt . . . and I have only seven euros in cash.
Silvia’s eyes narrow at my hesitation.
“If you have trouble paying . . .” she begins.
“I don’t have trouble paying!” I retort at once. “I just . . . need a minute.”
Silvia folds her arms skeptically as I reach into my bag again and pull out a Bobbi Brown Sheer Finish compact.
“Do you have a hammer?” I say. “Or anything heavy?”
Silvia is looking at me as though I’ve gone completely crazy.
“Anything will do. . . .” Suddenly I glimpse a hefty-looking stapler sitting on the counter. I pick it up and start bashing as hard as I can at the compact.
“Oddìo!” Silvia screams.
“It’s OK!” I say, panting a little. “I just need to . . . there!”
The whole thing has splintered. Triumphantly I pull out a MasterCard, which was glued to the backing. My Defcon One, code-red-emergency card. Luke really doesn’t know about this one. Not unless he’s got X-ray vision.
I got the idea of hiding a credit card in a powder compact from this brilliant article I read on money management. Not that I have a big problem with money or anything. But in the past, I have had the odd little . . . cris
is.
So this idea really appealed to me. What you do is, you keep your credit card somewhere really inaccessible, like frozen in ice or sewn into the lining of your bag, so you’ll have time to reconsider before making each purchase. Apparently this simple tactic can cut your unnecessary purchases by 90 percent.
And I have to say, it really does work! The only, tiny, flaw is, I keep having to buy new powder compacts, which is getting a bit expensive.
“I’ll pay with this,” I say, and hand it to Silvia, who is peering at me as though I’m a dangerous lunatic. She swipes it gingerly through her machine, and a minute later I’m scrawling my signature on the slip. I thrust it back at her, and she files it away in a drawer.
There’s a tiny pause. I’m almost exploding with anticipation.
“So . . . can I have it?” I say.
“Here you are,” she says sulkily, and hands me the creamy carrier.
My hands close over the cord handles and I feel a surge of pure, unadulterated joy.
It’s mine.
As I get back to the hotel that evening I’m floating on air. This has been one of the best days of my life. I spent the whole afternoon walking up and down the via Montenapoleone with my new Angel bag prominently displayed on my shoulder . . . and everyone admired it. In fact, they didn’t just admire it . . . they gawped at it. It was like I was a sudden celebrity!
About twenty people came up to me and asked where I got it, and a woman in dark glasses who had to be an Italian movie star got her driver to come and offer me three thousand euros for it. And best of all, all I kept hearing was people saying, “La ragazza con la borsa di Angel”! Which I worked out means the Girl with the Angel Bag! That’s what they were calling me!
I drift blissfully through the revolving doors into the foyer of the hotel to see Luke standing by the reception desk.
“There you are!” he says, sounding relieved. “I was beginning to worry! Our taxi’s here.” He ushers me out into a waiting taxi and slams the door. “Linate Airport,” he says to the driver, who immediately zooms into an oncoming stream of traffic, to a chorus of horns.
“So, how was your day?” I say, trying not to flinch as we’re nearly hit by another taxi. “How was the meeting?”
“It went well! If we can get the Arcodas Group as clients it’ll be seriously good news. They’re expanding hugely at the moment. It’s going to be an exciting time.”
“So . . . do you think you’ll get them?”
“We’ll have to woo them. When we get back I’m going to start preparing a pitch. But I’m hopeful. I’m definitely hopeful.”
“Well done!” I beam at him. “And was your hair OK?”
“My hair was fine.” He gives a wry smile. “In fact . . . it was admired by all.”
“You see?” I say with delight. “I knew it would be!”
“And how was your day?” says Luke as we swing round a corner at about a hundred miles an hour.
“It was fantastic!” I’m glowing all over. “Absolutely perfect. I adore Milan!”
“Really?” Luke looks intrigued. “Even without this?” He reaches into his pocket and produces my purse.
God, I’d forgotten all about that.
“Even without my purse!” I say with a little laugh. “Although . . . I did manage to buy you a little something.”
I hand over the bronze-wrapped package and watch excitedly as Luke pulls out the belt.
“Becky, that’s . . . wonderful!” he says. “Absolutely . . .” He trails off, turning it over in his hands.
“It’s to replace the one I ruined,” I explain. “With the hot wax, remember?”
“I remember.” He sounds utterly touched. “And . . . this is really all you bought in Milan? A present for me?”
“Er . . .”
I give a kind of noncommittal shrug and clear my throat, playing for time.
Marriages are based on honesty and trust. If I don’t tell him about the Angel bag, then I’m betraying that trust.
But if I do tell him . . . I’ll have to explain about my Defcon One, code-red-emergency credit card. Which I’m not sure is such a solid idea.
I don’t want to spoil the last precious moments of our honeymoon with some stupid argument.
But we’re married, I think in a rush of emotion. We’re husband and wife! We shouldn’t have secrets! OK, I’m going to tell him. Right now.
“Luke—”
“Wait.” Luke cuts me off, his voice a little gruff. “Becky, I want to apologize.”
Apologize?
“You said you’d changed. You said you’d grown up. And . . . you have.” He spreads his hands. “To be honest, I was expecting you to come back to the hotel having made some huge, extravagant purchase.”
Oh God.
“Er . . . Luke . . .” I venture.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” he says, frowning. “Here you are, your first visit to the fashion capital of the world—and all you’ve bought is a present for me. Becky . . . I’m really moved.” He exhales sharply. “Chandra was right. You do have a beautiful spirit.”
There’s silence. This is my cue to tell him the truth.
But how can I tell him I don’t have a beautiful spirit, I have a crappy old normal one?
“Well . . .” I find myself obsessively refolding the bronze wrapping paper. “Er . . . you know. It’s just a belt!”
“It’s not just a belt to me,” he says quietly. “It’s . . . a symbol of our marriage.” He clasps my hand for a few moments, then smiles. “I’m sorry . . . what did you want to say?”
I could still come clean.
I could still do it.
“Um . . . well . . . I was just going to tell you . . . the buckle’s adjustable.” I give him a slightly sickly smile and turn away, pretending to be fascinated by the view out the window.
OK. So I didn’t tell the truth.
But in my defense, if he’d just paid attention when I’d read him Vogue he would have seen for himself. I mean, I’m not hiding it or anything. Here I am with one of the most coveted status symbols in the world on my arm—and he hasn’t even noticed!
And anyway, this is absolutely the last time I lie to him. From now on, no more white lies, no more gray lies, no more fibs. We will have a perfect marriage of honesty and truth. Yes. Everyone will admire our harmonious, loving ways, and people will call us the Couple Who—
“Linate Airport!” The driver’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn and look at Luke with a sudden apprehensive thrill.
“Here we are,” he says, and meets my eyes. “Still want to go home?”
“Absolutely!” I reply firmly, ignoring the nervous flutters in my stomach.
I get out of the taxi and stretch my legs. Passengers are milling about with trolleys, and a plane is taking off with a thunderous roar, almost right above me.
God, we’re really doing it. In a few hours we’ll be in London. After all these months traveling.
“By the way,” says Luke. “There was a message from your mother on my mobile this afternoon. She wanted to know if we were still in Sri Lanka, or had we gone to Malaysia yet?”
He lifts his eyebrows comically at me, and I feel a giggle rise. They are all going to get such a shock! They’re all going to be so thrilled to see us!
And suddenly I’m full of excitement. We’re on our way home!
Four
Oh my God. We’ve done it. We’re back! We’re actually back on English soil.
Or, at least, English tarmac. We spent last night in Luke’s flat, and now we’re driving along the Surrey roads in a hired car, all ready to surprise Mum and Dad. In about two minutes we’ll arrive at their house! It’s just after eleven, so they’ll be having coffee in the garden as usual, with no idea!
I can barely keep still for excitement. In fact, I keep banging my knee on the South American tribal mask. I can just see the looks on Mum and Dad’s faces when they see us! Mum’s face will light up, and Dad will look astounded,
then his face will break into a smile . . . and we’ll be running to each other through the clouds of smoke. . . .
Actually, maybe there won’t be any clouds of smoke. I’m thinking of The Railway Children. But anyway, it’ll be fantastic. The most fantastic reunion ever!
To be honest, Mum and Dad have probably found it quite hard-going without me. I’m their only daughter, and this is the longest they’ve ever had to go without seeing me. Ten whole months.
I will so make their day, coming back home.
We swing into Mayfield Avenue and for the first time I feel just the tiniest twinge of nerves.
“Luke, should we have called?” I say.
“Too late now,” Luke replies calmly, and signals left.
We’re nearly at our street. Oh God. I really am starting to feel jittery.
“What if they’re so shocked to see us that they have heart attacks?” I say in sudden panic.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine!” Luke laughs. “Don’t worry!”
And now we’re in Elton Road, my parents’ road. We’re coming up to their house. We’re here.
Luke pulls into the drive and turns off the engine. For a moment neither of us moves.
“Ready?” says Luke.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I get out of the car and slam the door. It’s a bright, sunny day and the street is quiet, apart from a few birds twittering and the distant sound of a lawn mower.
I walk up to the front door, hesitate, and then, with a sudden surge of excitement, lift my hand and firmly press the bell.
Nothing happens.
I wait a few moments, then ring again. But there’s silence.
They’re not in.
How can they not be in?
I feel indignant. Where on earth are my parents? They’re always home! That’s where they belong! Don’t they realize their only beloved daughter is back from her round-the-world trip?
“We could go for a coffee and come back later,” suggests Luke.
“I suppose so,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.
This has ruined my whole plan. I was all ready for our great emotional reunion—not going off for a stupid cup of coffee!
Disconsolate, I walk up the path and lean on the wrought-iron gate. I fiddle with the broken catch, which Dad has said for twenty years he’s going to mend, and look at the roses which Mum and Dad had put in last year for our wedding. God, we’ve been married nearly a year. That’s a weird thought.
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