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by Sophie Kinsella

  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 thi
nk 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 hold-all 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.”