“She’s a card!” Dave Sharpness wheezes with laughter. “No, you order a second investigation and you’ll get it half-price. Saves you coming back, you see. Wrap up all your investigatory needs in one go.”
“But I don’t have any other investigatory needs.”
“Are you sure about that?” He raises his eyebrows. “Have a good think, Mrs. Brandon. No other little mysteries you need to clear up? No missing persons you’d like us to trace? The offer’s valid only today. You’ll regret it if you lose out.” He hands me the flyer. “You’ll see our full list of services here….”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m not interested, then find myself closing it again.
Perhaps I should just have a little think about this. I mean, it is a pretty good deal. And maybe there is something else I’d like to find out about. My eyes run down the headings on the flyer. I could trace an old schoolchum…or track a vehicle by GPS satellite…or simply discover more about a friend or neighbor….
Oh my God. I have it!
I’m not sure Dave really got the whole eyebrow thing. But I explained as fully as I could and drew him a picture and in the end he became quite enthusiastic. He said if he didn’t find out where and how Jasmine was getting her eyebrows shaped, he wasn’t Regional Salesman of the Year, 1989 (Southwest). I don’t know what that’s got to do with private detecting, but anyway. He’s on the case. Both of them.
So it’s done. The only thing is, I now feel horribly guilty.
The nearer I get to home the guiltier I feel, until I can’t bear it anymore. I hurry into the shop at the end of our road and buy Luke a bunch of flowers and some chocolates, and at the last moment I throw in a miniature whisky.
His car is in our parking space, which means he must be home. As I travel up in the lift I start getting my story straight. My plan is: I’ll just say I was at work all afternoon.
No. He might have called there for some reason and found out I took the afternoon off.
I’ll say I was shopping. Nowhere near West Ruislip.
But what if someone saw me in West Ruislip? What if one of Luke’s employees lives in West Ruislip and she was working from home and rang Luke and said, “Guess what, I’ve just seen your wife!”
OK, I was in West Ruislip. I was there for…another reason. To see a pregnancy hypnotherapist. Yes. Brilliant.
By now I’ve reached our front door, and as I unlock it, my heart’s thumping with nerves.
“Hi!” Luke appears in the hall, holding a huge bouquet, and I stare at him, transfixed. We both have flowers?
Oh God. He knows.
No. Don’t be stupid. How could he know? And why would that make him buy flowers?
Luke seems a little puzzled too. “These are for you,” he says after a pause.
“Right,” I say in a constricted voice. “Well…these are for you.”
Awkwardly we exchange bouquets, and I hand Luke his chocolates and miniature whisky.
“Let’s go…” Luke nods toward the kitchen, and I follow him to the area where we have a sofa and a low table. Late afternoon sunshine is blazing in through the window, and it almost feels like summer.
Luke sinks onto the sofa beside me and takes a swig from a bottle of beer on the table. “Becky, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He rubs his brow, as though marshaling his thoughts. “I know I’ve been distant these past few days. It’s been a strange time. But…I think I’ve managed to get rid of something that was bothering me.”
He finally looks up, and I feel a dart of understanding. He’s talking in subtext! It couldn’t be clearer. Something that was bothering me. That’s her. Venetia came on to him—and he rejected her. That’s what he’s trying to tell me! He turned her down!
And here I am, hiring private detectives, like I don’t trust him. Like I don’t love him.
“Luke, I’m sorry too!” I say in a rush of remorse. “I really am.”
“For what?” Luke looks taken aback.
“For…er…” Do not blurt it all out, Becky. “For…that time I forgot to order the groceries. I’ve always felt really bad about it.”
“Come here.” Luke laughs and pulls me close for a kiss. For a while we just sit there, the sun warm on our faces. It’s ages since we just sat like this. The baby is squirming energetically inside me, and we both watch as my dress jumps with the motion. It is pretty freaky, just like Suze said. But it’s exciting too.
“So,” says Luke, putting a hand on my stomach. “When are we going to look at prams?”
“Soon!” I put my arms round him and hug him tight in relief. Luke loves me. It’s all happy again. I knew it would be.
TO: Dave Sharpness
FROM: Rebecca Brandon
SUBJECT: Luke Brandon
* * *
Dear Mr. Sharpness,
Just to repeat the message I left on your answering machine, I would like you to CALL OFF the investigation on my husband. Repeat: CALL IT OFF. He is not having an affair after all.
I will contact you in due course about the deposit I paid you.
With best wishes,
Rebecca Brandon
* * *
* * *
FACULTY OF CLASSICS
* * *
OXFORD UNIVERSITY
* * *
OXFORD • OX1 6TH
Mrs. R Brandon
37 Maida Vale Mansions
Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
11 November 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
I am delighted to enclose translations of the Latin text messages you sent me, and hope they put your mind at rest. They are all entirely innocuous: for instance, sum suci plena means “I’m full of life” rather than the more graphic meaning you ascribed to it.
I also think you may have been unduly concerned by the phrases licitum dic, fac me, and sex, which in Latin means “six.”
If I can be of any further assistance, please do not hesitate to let me know. Perhaps some Latin lessons?
With very best wishes.
Yours sincerely,
Edmund Fortescue
Professor of Classics
* * *
THIRTEEN
THE WHOLE WORLD looks different when your husband isn’t having an affair.
Suddenly a phone call is just a phone call. A text is just a text. A late night out isn’t a reason to have a row. It even turns out fac me doesn’t mean…what I thought it did.
Thank God I canceled the private detective, is all I can say. I even burned all his paperwork and receipts, so there was no chance of Luke finding out. (And then quickly invented a story about defective hair tongs when the smoke alarm went off.)
Luke is so much more relaxed these days, and he hasn’t even mentioned her for two weeks. Except when an invitation came to a Cambridge reunion party and he said casually, “Oh yes, Ven told me about this.” It’s a black-tie dance at the Guildhall in London, and I’m determined to look as fab and glam as I can, like Catherine Zeta-Jones at the Oscars. Yesterday I bought the best dress, all clingy and sexy in midnight-blue silk, and now I need some matching heels.(And Venetia can just choke on her chicken.)
So everything’s going brilliantly. We’re exchanging contracts on the house next week, and last night we talked about throwing a massive housewarming-christening party, which would be so cool. And the really big news is that Danny arrives today! He flies in this morning and is coming straight to the store to meet everyone and announce his collaboration with The Look. Then he and I are having lunch, just the two of us. I’m so looking forward to it.
As I arrive at The Look at nine thirty, the place is already bustling with excitement. A reception area has been set up on the ground floor, with a table of champagne glasses and a big screen showing footage from Danny’s latest catwalk show. A few journalists have arrived for the press conference, and all the PR department is milling around bright-eyed, handing out media packs.
“Rebecca.” Eric advances on me before I’
ve even taken my coat off. “A word, please. Any news on the design?”
This is the only teeny little hitch. Danny said he’d submit a provisional design to us by last week. And he still hasn’t. I spoke to him a couple of days ago, and he said it was pretty much there, he just needed the final inspiration. Which could mean anything. It probably means he hasn’t even started. Not that I’ll let Eric know this.
“It’s in the final stages,” I say as convincingly as I can.
“Have you seen anything?”
“Absolutely!” I cross my fingers behind my back.
“So, what’s it like?” His brows narrow. “Is it a top? A dress? What?”
“It’s…groundbreaking.” I wave my hands vaguely. “It’s a kind of…You’ll have to see it. When it’s ready.”
Eric doesn’t look convinced.
“Your friend Mr. Kovitz has just made yet another request,” he says. “Two tickets for Euro Disney.” He gives me a baleful stare. “Why is he going to Euro Disney?”
I can’t help cursing Danny inside. Why can’t he buy his own bloody tickets to Euro Disney?
“Inspiration!” I say at last. “He’s probably going to make some satirical comment on…modern culture.”
Eric doesn’t look impressed.
“Rebecca, this plan of yours is costing a lot more time and money than I anticipated,” he says heavily. “Money which could have gone into conventional marketing. It had better work.”
“It will! I promise it will!”
“And if it doesn’t?”
I feel a surge of frustration. Why does he have to be so negative ? “Then…I resign!” I say with a flourish. “OK? Satisfied?”
“I’ll hold you to that, Rebecca,” Eric says with an ominous look.
“You do that!” I say confidently, and hold his gaze till he walks away.
Shit. I just offered to resign. Why on earth did I do that? I’m just wondering whether to run after Eric and say “Ha-ha, I was only joking!” when my phone starts ringing and I flip it open. “Hello?”
“Hi, Becky? Buffy.”
I stifle a sigh. Buffy is one of Danny’s assistants and she’s been calling every evening, just to check some tiny detail or other.
“Hi, Buffy!” I force a cheerful tone. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to check Mr. Kovitz’s hotel room had been ordered as he wanted it? Eighty degrees, the TV tuned to MTV, three cans of Dr Pepper by the bed?”
“Yes. I ordered it all.” Suddenly something occurs to me. “Buffy, what time is it in New York?”
“It’s four A.M.,” she says brightly, and I stare at the phone, gobsmacked.
“You’ve got up at four A.M. just to check that Danny has Dr Pepper in his hotel room?”
“That’s OK!” She sounds totally breezy. “It’s all part of working in the fashion industry!”
“He’s here!” comes a cry from the door. “Danny Kovitz is here!”
“Buffy, I have to go,” I say hastily, and thrust my phone down. As I head toward the doors I glimpse a limo on the street outside and feel a prickle of excitement. It’s amazing how important Danny has got!
Then the doors swing back, and there he is! He’s as skinny as ever, and dressed in old jeans and the coolest black jacket, with one sleeve made out of mattress ticking. He looks tired and his curly hair is disheveled, but his blue eyes light up as he sees me, and he comes running forward.
“Becky! Oh my God, look at you.” He envelops me in an enormous hug. “You look fabulous!”
“Look at you!” I retort. “Mr. Famous!”
“C’mon. I’m not famous.…” Danny makes a two-second stab at being self-deprecating. “Well…OK. Yes, I am. Isn’t it wild?”
I can’t help giggling. “So, is this your entourage?” I nod at the woman in a headset who has come in alongside a huge, bald secret-service–type guy.
“That’s my assistant, Carla.”
“I thought Buffy was your assistant.”
“My second assistant,” Danny explains. “And that’s Stan, my bodyguard.”
“You need a bodyguard?” I say in amazement. Even I didn’t realize Danny had got quite that famous.
“Well, I don’t really need him,” Danny admits. “But I thought it would be cool. Hey, did you get them to put Dr Pepper in my room?”
“Three cans.” I see Eric approaching and quickly steer Danny away, toward the champagne table. “So…how’s the design coming?” I ask casually. “Only I’m getting some pressure from my boss….”
A familiar defensive look comes over Danny’s face.
“I’m working on it, OK?” he says. “My team had some ideas but I’m not happy with them. I need to soak up the feel of the shop…the vibe of London…maybe take inspiration from some other European cities….”
Other European cities ?
“Right. And…how long do you think that will take? About?”
“Let me introduce myself,” cuts in Eric, who has finally caught up with us. “Eric Wilmot. Head of marketing here at The Look. Welcome to Britain.” He shakes Danny’s hand with a grim smile. “We’re delighted to be collaborating with such a talented young designer on such an exciting fashion project.”
That sentence came word-for-word out of the press release. I know, because I wrote it.
“Danny was just telling me how he’s really close to coming up with a final design!” I say to Eric, praying that Danny keeps his mouth closed. “Isn’t that exciting? Although no exact time scale yet…”
“Mr. Kovitz?” A girl of about twenty, wearing green boots and a very strange coat made out of what looks like cellophane, is shyly approaching. “I’m from Fashion Student Gazette. I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan. We all are, in my year at Central Saint Martins. Could I ask you a few questions about your inspiration?”
Ha. You see? I shoot a triumphant look at Eric, who just scowls back.
It’s pretty exciting, being part of a major fashion launch at a major department store! Even if it is a failing, empty department store.
Everybody gives a speech, even me. Brianna announces the initiative and thanks all the journalists for coming. Eric says again how excited we are to be working with Danny. I explain that I’ve known Danny ever since he was first stocked at Barneys (I don’t mention that all his T-shirts fell to bits and I nearly got the sack). Danny says how thrilled he is to be designer in residence at The Look, and how he’s sure within six months this will be the only place to shop in London.
By the end, everyone’s in a brilliant mood. Everyone except Eric.
“Designer in residence?” he says as soon as he gets me alone. “What does that mean, ‘designer in residence’? Does he think we’re putting him up all bloody year?”
“No!” I say. “Of course not!”
I may have to have a little chat with Danny.
At last, after draining all the champagne, the fashion journalists melt away. Brianna and Eric disappear off to their offices and I’m left alone with Danny. Or at least, with Danny and his people.
“So, shall we go for lunch?” I suggest.
“Sure!” Danny says, and glances at Carla, who immediately speaks into her headset. “Travis? Travis, it’s Carla. Could you bring the car around, please?”
Cool! We’re going in the limo!
“There’s quite a nice place round the corner—” I begin, but Carla cuts me off.
“Buffy has made reservations at three Zagat-recommended restaurants. Japanese, French, and I believe the third was Italian….”
“How about…Moroccan?” Danny says as the driver opens the door.
“I’ll give Buffy a call,” Carla says without batting an eyelid. She speed-dials as we all get into the limo. “Buffy, Carla. Could you please hold the reservations you’ve made and research a Moroccan restaurant for lunch? That’s Moroccan,” she repeats, enunciating clearly. “London West One. Thanks, hon.”
“I feel like a latte,” says Danny suddenly.
“A mocha latte.”
Without missing a beat, Carla speaks into her phone again. “Hello, Travis, this is Carla,” she says. “Could we please pull over at a Starbucks. That’s Starbucks.”
Thirty seconds later, the limo draws up beside a Starbucks. Carla opens the door.
“Just a mocha latte?” she says.
“Uh-huh,” Danny says, stretching out lazily.
“Anything for you, Stan?” Carla looks at the bodyguard, who is sunk in his seat, plugged into his iPod.
“Huh?” He opens his eyes. “Oh, right, Starbucks. Get me a cappuccino. Real foamy.”
The car door closes and I turn to Danny in disbelief. Does he have people running after him like this all day?
“Danny…”
“Uh-huh?” Danny looks up from flipping through Cosmo Girl. “Hey, are you cold in here? I feel cold.” He switches on his phone and speed-dials. “Carla, the car’s a little cold. OK, thanks.”
That does it.
“Danny, this is ridiculous!” I exclaim. “Can’t you talk to the driver yourself? Can’t you get your own latte?”
Danny looks genuinely perplexed.
“Well…I could,” he says. “I guess.” His phone rings and he switches it on. “Yes, cinnamon. Oh, that’s too bad.” He puts his hand over the phone. “Buffy can’t find a Moroccan restaurant for us. How about Lebanese fusion?”
“Danny…” I feel like I’m on another planet. “There’s a really nice restaurant right here.” I gesture outside. “Can’t we just go there? The two of us, no one else?”
“Oh.” Danny seems to be getting his head round this idea. “Well…sure. Let’s do it.”
We get out of the car just as Carla approaches holding a Starbucks take-out tray.
“Is something wrong?” She surveys us in alarm.
“We’re going for lunch,” I say. “Just Danny and me. In there.” I point at the restaurant, which is called Annie’s.
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