“Was I?” Danny looks surprised. “Hey, you want to come to Paris with me next week? There is the best gay scene there—”
“Fab!” I nod. “The thing is, Danny, we kind of…sort of…need to have something quite…quickly.”
“Quickly?” Danny opens his eyes wide, looking betrayed. “What do you mean, ‘quickly’?”
“Well, you know! As soon as you can manage, really. We’re trying to save the store, so the sooner we can get something going, the better….” I trail off as Danny fixes a reproachful gaze on me.
“I could be ‘quick,’” he says, uttering the word with disdain. “I could throw together a few crap ideas in five minutes. Or I could do something meaningful. Which may take time. That’s the creative process — excuse me for being an artist.” He takes a gulp of wine and puts his glass down.
I can’t say that a few crap ideas in five minutes sound great to me.
Can I?
“Is there a middle road?” I venture at last. “Like…some fairly good ideas in about…a week?”
“A week?” Danny looks almost more offended than before.
“Or…whatever.” I back down. “You’re the creative person; you know how you work best. So! What do you want to eat?”
We order penne (me) and lobster (Danny) and the special quail’s-egg salad (Danny) and a champagne cocktail (Danny).
“So, how’ve you been?” Danny asks as the waiter eventually retreats. “I’ve been having a total nightmare with my boyfriend, Nathan. I thought he was seeing someone else.”
“Me too,” I confess.
“What?” Danny drops his roll in astonishment. “You thought Luke was…”
“Having an affair.” I nod.
“You’re kidding.” He seems genuinely shocked. “But you guys are so perfect.”
“It’s fine now,” I reassure him. “I know nothing’s going on. But I nearly had him followed by a private detective.”
“Get out.” Danny is leaning forward, his eyes alight. “So, what happened?”
“I canceled it.”
“Jesus.” Danny chews his roll, taking this all in. “So, why did you think he was cheating?”
“There’s this woman. She’s our obstetrician. And she’s Luke’s ex-girlfriend.”
“Ooh.” Danny winces. “The ex-girlfriend. Harsh. And what’s she like?”
I have a sudden flashback to Venetia making me put on those revolting surgical stockings, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
“She’s a redhaired bitch and I hate her,” I say, more vehemently than I meant to. “I call her Cruella de Venetia.”
“And she’s delivering the baby?” Danny starts laughing. “Is this for real?”
“It’s not funny!” I can’t help giggling too.
“I have to see this birth.” Danny skewers an olive on a cocktail stick. “‘Push!’ ‘I won’t, you bitch!’ You should sell tickets.”
“Stop it!” My stomach’s hurting from laughing. On the table my phone beeps with a text and I pull it over to have a look. “Hey, it’s Luke! He’s stopping by to say hello!” I texted Luke while we were ordering, to let him know where we were having lunch.
“Great.” Danny takes a swig of his champagne cocktail. “So, you guys are cool now?”
“We’re great. In fact, things are wonderful. We’re going to look at prams together tomorrow.” I give Danny a beatific smile.
“He doesn’t even know you thought he was cheating?”
“I brought it up a couple of times,” I say slowly, buttering another roll. “But he always denied anything was going on. I’m not going to mention it again.”
“Or the private detective.” Danny’s eyes gleam.
“Obviously not the private detective.” I narrow my eyes. “And don’t say a word, Danny.”
“I wouldn’t!” Danny exclaims innocently, and takes another slurp of champagne cocktail.
“Hi, guys!” I turn to see Luke making his way through the crowded restaurant. He’s wearing his new Paul Smith suit and has his BlackBerry in his hand. He gives me a tiny wink, and I force myself to stay composed, even though I want to smile wickedly as I remember this morning. And no, I’m not explaining. Let’s just say that if I’m so “unattractive” and “unsexy” like Venetia said, then why did Luke…
Anyway. Moving on.
“Danny! Long time.”
“Luke!” Danny leaps up and claps him on the back. “Great to see you!”
“Congratulations on all your success!” Luke pulls out a chair from a neighboring table. “I can’t stay long, but I wanted to say welcome to London.”
“Cheers, mate.” Danny puts on the worst cockney accent I have ever heard. He drains his champagne cocktail and gestures to a waiter to bring him another one. “And congratulations to you guys!” He runs a hand lightly over my tummy, then flinches as the baby kicks. “Jesus. Was that it?”
“It’s exciting!” Luke nods with a smile. “Only a few weeks to go!”
“Jesus.” Danny’s still staring at my stomach. “What if it’s a girl in there? Another little Becky Bloomwood. You better get back to the office, Luke, and earn some money. You’re gonna need it.”
“Shut up!” I hit him on the arm. But Luke’s already getting up from his seat. “I was only passing, anyway. Iain’s waiting for me in the car. See you again, Danny. Bye, sweetheart.” He kisses me on the forehead, then peers out the restaurant window as though searching for something.
“What is it?” I say, following his gaze.
“It’s…” Luke frowns. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but for the last few days I’ve felt as though I’m being followed.”
“Followed?”
“I’m seeing the same guy around the place all the time.” Luke shrugs. “He was outside the office yesterday, and I saw him just now.”
“But who on earth—” I come to a halt.
Shit. No. It can’t be.
I canceled them. I know I did. I phoned and left a message on Dave Sharpness’s answering machine. And I sent an e-mail.
I look up to see Danny’s delighted gaze on me.
“You think someone’s following you, Luke?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Like…a private detective, maybe?”
I will kill him.
“It’s probably nothing!” My voice is a bit strangled. “Just coincidence!”
“Probably.” Luke nods. “Strange, though. See you later.” He touches my hand, and we both watch him wend his way between the tables.
“Trust is a beautiful thing between a married couple,” observes Danny. “You two are very lucky.”
“Shut up!” I’m scrabbling for my phone. “I have to call them off!”
“I thought you already did.”
“I did! Days ago! It’s all a mistake!” I find Dave Sharpness’s card and jab in the number, my fingers fumbling in agitation.
“How do you think Luke will react when he finds out you’re having him trailed?” asks Danny conversationally. “I’d be quite pissed if it were me.”
“You are really not helping.” I glare at him. “And thanks for mentioning private detectives!”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Danny claps his hand over his mouth in mock apology. “Because he would never have worked it out on his own.”
I’m through to voice mail, and I take a deep breath.
“Mr. Sharpness. It’s Becky Brandon here. There seems to have been some confusion. I would like you to stop following my husband, Luke. I do not want any investigation. Please call off your operatives at once. Thank you.” I switch off the phone and take a gulp of Danny’s champagne cocktail, breathing hard. “There. Done.”
KENNETH PRENDERGAST
Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers
Forward House 394 High Holborn
London WC1V 7EX
Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
20 November 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
I have noted your new shareholding in the London Cappuccino Company.
I would recommend you do not make any further share purchases simply because of “fab shareholder perks” such as free coffee. You should be looking for solid, long-term growth prospects.
In answer to your other query, I am not aware of any jewelry companies which give away free diamonds to their shareholders.
Yours sincerely,
Kenneth Prendergast
Family Investment Specialist
FOURTEEN
I JUST HOPE they got my message. Or the one I left last evening. Or the one I left this morning. I must have blocked Dave Sharpness’s voice mail completely, telling him to stop the investigation. But until I speak to him myself, I can’t be positive the message has got through.
Which means the surveillance could still be on.
As we leave the flat together the next morning to go to the pram center, all my senses are on high alert. I feel sure someone’s watching us. But where? Hiding in the trees? Sitting in a parked car with a long lens trained on us? I edge down the steps of the building, my eyes darting from side to side. There’s an electronic clicking sound to my left, and I instinctively shield my face with my hand — until I realize it’s not a camera, it’s someone opening their car.
“Are you all right, darling?” Luke is watching me, bemused.
The postman comes by, and I shoot a suspicious glance at him. Is he really the postman?
Oh, yes. He is.
“OK.” I hurry to Luke. “Let’s get in the car. Now.”
We should have bought a car with blacked-out windows. I told Luke all along. And a built-in fridge.
My mobile rings just as we reach the gates of our block, and I jump a mile. That timing is too coincidental. It’ll be the private detective, telling me he’s in the boot of the car. Or he’s in the building opposite, with a sniper rifle aimed at Luke….
Stop it. I didn’t hire an assassin. It’s fine.
Even so, as I get my phone out, my hands are trembling. “Er…hello?” I say nervously.
“Hi, it’s me!” comes Suze’s breezy voice, with the clamor of children’s voices in the background. “Listen, if they have a twin Urban Baby cozy-toes in red trim, will you get it for me? I’ll pay you back.”
“Oh. Er…of course.” I grab a pen and scribble it down. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. I’d better go! Talk later!”
I put my phone away, still feeling jumpy. We’re being followed — I just know we are.
“So, where is this place?” Luke consults the leaflet and starts pressing buttons on his sat nav. The map pops up and he pulls a face. “It’s bloody miles away. Do we have to go here?”
“It’s the best place in London! Look!” I read from the leaflet. “You get to try all the top-quality prams on a variety of terrains and a consultant will help guide you through the maze.”
“The maze of pram-buying or a literal maze?” inquires Luke.
“I don’t know,” I admit, after searching through the leaflet. “But anyway, it’s got the widest choice and Suze said we should go there.”
“Fair enough.” Luke raises his eyebrows and does a U-turn. Then he frowns at the rearview mirror. “That car looks familiar.”
Shit.
Trying to appear casual, I swivel my head to see. It’s a brown Ford and a guy is driving it. A dark-haired, pockmarked, private detective kind of guy.
Shit shit shit.
“Let’s listen to the radio!” I say. I start tuning into different stations, turning the volume up, trying to distract him. “And anyway, so what if it’s familiar? There are lots of brown Fords in the world. Who knows how many? Probably…five million. No, ten…”
“Brown Ford?” Luke gives me a strange look. “What?”
I turn my head again. The brown Ford has disappeared. Where did it go?
“I meant that convertible BMW we passed,” Luke says, turning the radio down. “It looked like Mel’s husband’s car.”
“Oh, right,” I say after a pause, and subside. Maybe I’ll just keep my mouth shut for a bit.
I hadn’t quite realized it would take an hour to get to Pram City. It’s a warehouse based right out in North London, and there’s a special park-and-ride scheme where you get on a bus. I didn’t realize that, either. But still. It’ll be worth it when we have the most cool uber-pram in the world!
As we descend the bus steps, I have a surreptitious scope around — but I can’t see anyone who looks like a private investigator. It’s mostly pregnant couples like us. Unless…maybe Dave Sharpness has hired another pregnant couple to trail us?
No. I’m getting paranoid. I have to stop obsessing about this. Anyway, would it be the worst thing in the world if Luke found out? At least I care about our marriage. In a way, he should be flattered I’m having him followed.
Exactly.
We head toward the vast doors along with all the other couples, and as we enter, I can’t help feeling a little glow of pleasure. Here we are, choosing prams together. Just like I always imagined!
“So!” I beam up at Luke. “What do you think? Where shall we start?”
“Jesus,” Luke says, looking around. It’s a big domed building, with vicious air-conditioning and nursery rhymes playing over the sound system. Colorful ten-foot banners hanging from the rafters read STROLLERS, ALL-TERRAINS, TRAVEL SYSTEMS, TWINS AND MORE.
“What do we need?” Luke rubs his brow. “A pram? A travel system? A buggy?”
“It depends.” I try to sound knowledgeable, but the truth is I’m still foxed by this whole pram and pushchair business. Suze tried to explain the system to me, but it was just like going to press conferences when I was a financial journalist. I glazed over at the pros and cons of swiveling front wheels — and then when she finished I was too embarrassed to admit I hadn’t taken in a word.
“I’ve done some research,” I add, and reach in my bag for my Pram List, which I hand to Luke with pride. Over the last few weeks, every time I’ve seen a cool pram or buggy, I’ve written down its name — and it hasn’t been easy. I had to chase one all the way down High Street Kensington.
Luke is leafing through the pages in disbelief. “Becky, there’s about thirty prams here.”
“Well, that’s the long list! We just need to whittle it down a bit.”
“May I help you?” We both look up to see a guy with a round head and close-cropped hair approaching us. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a Pram City badge saying My Name Is Stuart, and he’s propelling a purple buggy along with one expert hand.
“We need a pram,” says Luke.
“Ah.” Stuart’s eyes drop to my stomach. “Congratulations! Is this your first visit here?”
“First and only,” says Luke firmly. “Not wishing to be rude, but we’d like to get everything wrapped up in one visit, wouldn’t we, Becky?”
“Absolutely!” I nod.
“Of course. Glenda? Take care of this, please? Back to Section D.” Stuart pushes the purple buggy across the shiny floor to a girl about ten yards away, then turns back to us. “Now, what kind of a pram were you looking for?”
“We’re not quite sure,” I say, glancing at Luke. “I think we need some help.”
“Of course!” Stuart nods. “Step this way.”
He leads us into the center of the Travel Systems area, then stops, like a museum guide.
“Every couple is different,” he says in a singsong voice. “Every baby is unique. So before we go any further, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your lifestyle, the better to steer your choice.” He reaches for a small pad of paper which is attached to his belt by springy wire. “Let’s look at terrain. What will you be requiring of your vehicle? Pavement walking and shopping? Off-road hiking? Extreme mountaineering?”
“All of them,” I say, slightly mesmerized by his voice.
“All of them?” exclaims Luke. “Becky
, when do you ever go extreme mountaineering?”
“I might!” I retort. “I might take it up as a hobby!” I have an image of myself lightly pushing a pram up the foothills of Everest while the baby goos happily up at me. “I don’t think we should rule anything out at this stage.”
“Uh-huh.” Stuart is scribbling some notes. “Now, will you require the pram to fold down quickly and easily for car use? Will you want it to convert to a car seat? Will you be looking for something light and maneuverable or sturdy and secure?”
I glance at Luke. He looks as flummoxed as I feel.
Stuart relents. “Let’s look at some models. That’ll get you started.”
Half an hour later, my head is spinning. We’ve looked at prams that turn into car seats, pushchairs that fold up with hydraulic action, buggies with bicycle wheels, prams with special-sprung German mattresses, and an amazing contraption that keeps the baby out of pollution and is “ideal for shopping and lattes.” (I love that one.) We’ve looked at foot muffs, raincovers, changing bags, and canopies.
To be honest, I’m ready for a latte now myself, but Luke is still totally engrossed. He’s poring over the framework of a pushchair with the hugest, most rugged wheels I’ve ever seen. It’s upholstered in khaki camouflage and looks like a great big Action Man toy.
“So, it has an articulated chassis,” he’s saying with interest. “How does that affect the turning circle?”
For God’s sake. It’s not a car.
“You can’t beat the turning circle on this model.” Stuart’s eyes are gleaming as he demonstrates. “The Warrior is the Humvee of off-roaders. You see the sprung axle?”
“The Warrior?” I echo, aghast. “We’re not getting a pram called the Warrior!”
Both men ignore me.
“It’s a great piece of engineering.” Luke takes hold of the handles. “Feels good.”
“This is a man’s pram. It’s not a fashion pram.” Stuart glances with slight disdain at the Lulu Guinness printed stroller I’m holding on to. “We had an ex-SAS guy in here the other day, Mr. Brandon.” He lowers his voice. “This is the pram he chose.”
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