“Luke—I've changed my mind,” I say, and close the lid of my case. “Let's not go down to the bar.” Luke looks up in surprise, and I give him the most seductive smile I can muster. “Let's stay up here, and order room service, and . . .” I take a few steps toward him, loosening my wrap top, “. . . and see where the night leads us.”
Luke stares at me, his hands still halfway up the buttons of his blue shirt.
“Take that off,” I say huskily. “What's the point of dressing up when all we want to do is undress each other?”
A slow smile spreads across Luke's face, and his eyes begin to gleam.
“You're so right,” he says, and walks toward me, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “I don't know what I was thinking of.”
Thank God! I think in relief, as he reaches for my wrap top and gently starts to untie it. This is perfect. This is exactly what I—
Ooh. Mmm.
Actually, this is pretty bloody perfect.
Four
BY EIGHT THIRTY the next morning, I still haven't got up. I don't want to move an inch. I want to stay in this lovely comfortable bed, wrapped up in this gorgeous white waffle duvet.
“Are you staying there all day?” says Luke, smiling at me. “Not that I don't want to join you.” He kisses me on the forehead and I snuggle down in the pillows without replying. I just don't want to get up. I'm so cozy and warm and happy here.
Plus—just a very small point—I still don't have any clothes.
I've already secretly rung down to reception three times about my Special Express. (Once while Luke was in the shower, once while I was in the shower—from the posh bathroom phone—and once very quickly when I sent Luke into the corridor because I said I heard a cat meowing.)
And it hasn't arrived. I have nil clothes. Nada.
Which hasn't mattered up until now, because I've just been lounging around in bed. But I can't possibly eat any more croissants or drink any more coffee, nor can I have another shower, and Luke's half-dressed already.
I'm just going to have to put on yesterday's clothes again. Which is really hideous, but what else can I do? I'll just pretend I'm sentimental about them, or maybe hope I can slip them on and Luke won't even realize. I mean, do men really notice what you . . .
Hang on.
Hang on a minute. Where are yesterday's clothes? I'm sure I dropped them just there on the floor . . .
“Luke?” I say, as casually as possible. “Have you seen the clothes I was wearing yesterday?”
“Oh yes,” he says, glancing up from his suitcase. “I sent them to the laundry this morning, along with my stuff.”
I stare at him, unable to breathe.
My only clothes in the whole world have gone to the laundry?
“When . . . when will they be back?” I say at last.
“Tomorrow morning.” Luke turns to look at me. “Sorry, I should have said. But it's not a problem, is it? I mean, I don't think you have to worry. They do an excellent job.”
“Oh no!” I say in a high, brittle voice. “No, I'm not worried!”
“Good,” he says, and smiles.
“Good,” I say, and smile back.
What am I going to do?
“Oh, and there's plenty of room in the wardrobe,” says Luke, “if you want me to hang anything up.” He reaches toward my little case and in a panic, I hear myself crying “Nooo!” before I can stop myself. “It's all right,” I add, as he looks at me in surprise. “My clothes are mostly . . . knitwear.”
Oh God. Oh God. Now he's putting on his shoes. What am I going to do?
OK, come on, Becky, I think frantically. Clothes. Something to wear. Doesn't matter what.
One of Luke's suits?
No. He'll just think it's too weird, and anyway, his suits all cost about £1,000 so I won't be able to roll the sleeves up.
My hotel robe? Pretend robes and waffle slippers are the latest fashion? Oh, but I can't walk around in a dressing gown as if I think I'm in a spa. Everyone will laugh at me.
Come on, there must be clothes in a hotel. What about . . . the chambermaids' uniforms! Yes, that's more like it! They must keep a rack of them somewhere, mustn't they? Neat little dresses with matching hats. I could tell Luke they're the latest thing from Prada—and just hope no one asks me to clear out their room . . .
“By the way,” says Luke, reaching into his case, “you left this behind at my flat.”
And as I look up, startled, he chucks something across the room at me. It's soft, it's fabric . . . as I catch it, I want to weep with relief. It's clothes! A single oversized Calvin Klein T-shirt, to be precise. I have never been so glad to see a plain washed-out gray T-shirt in my life.
“Thanks!” I say. And I force myself to count to ten before I add casually, “Actually, maybe I'll wear this today.”
“That?” says Luke, giving me a strange look. “I thought it was a nightshirt.”
“It is! It's a nightshirt-slash-dress,” I say, popping it over my head—and thank God, it comes to halfway down my thighs. It could easily be a dress. And ha! I've got a stretchy black headband in my makeup bag, which just about fits me as a belt.
“Very nice,” says Luke quizzically, watching me wriggle into it. “A little on the short side . . .”
“It's a minidress,” I say firmly, and turn to look at my reflection. And . . . oh God, it is a bit short. But it's too late to do anything about that now. I step into my clementine sandals and shake back my hair, not allowing myself to think about all the great outfits I had planned for this morning.
“Here,” says Luke. He reaches for my Denny and George scarf and winds it slowly round my neck. “Denny and George scarf, no knickers. Just the way I like it.”
“I'm going to wear knickers!” I say indignantly.
Which is true. I'll wait till Luke's gone, then pinch a pair of his boxer shorts.
“So—what's your deal about?” I ask hurriedly, to change the subject. “Something exciting?”
“It's . . . pretty big,” says Luke after a pause. He holds up a pair of silk ties. “Which one will bring me luck?”
“The red one,” I say after a little consideration. “It matches your eyes.”
“It matches my eyes?” Luke starts to laugh. “Do I look that rough?”
“It goes with your eyes. You know what I mean.”
“No, you were right first time,” says Luke, peering into the mirror. “It matches my eyes perfectly.” He glances at me. “You'd almost think I'd had no sleep last night.”
“No sleep?” I raise my eyebrows. “Before an important meeting? Surely that's not the way Luke Brandon behaves.”
“Very irresponsible,” agrees Luke, putting the tie round his neck. “Must be thinking of someone else.”
I watch as he knots the tie with brisk, efficient movements. “So come on—tell me about this deal. Is it a big new client?”
But Luke smiles and shakes his head.
“Is it Nat West? I know, Lloyds Bank!”
“Let's just say . . . it's something I want very much,” Luke says eventually. “Something I've always wanted. But this is all very boring,” he adds in a different tone.
“No, it's not!”
“Very dull indeed. Now—what are you going to do today? Will you be all right?” And now he sounds like he's changing the subject.
Actually, I think Luke's a bit sensitive about boring me with his work. Don't get me wrong, I think his business is really fascinating. But there was this one occasion when it was really late at night, and he was telling me about a new range of technical products he was going to represent and I kind of . . . fell asleep.
I think he took it to heart, because recently he's hardly talked about work at all.
“Have you heard the pool is closed this morning?” he says.
“I know,” I say, reaching for my blusher. “But that doesn't matter. I'll easily amuse myself.”
There's silence and I look up to see Luke sur
veying me doubtfully.
“Would you like me to order you a taxi to take you to the shops? Bath is quite near here—”
“No,” I say indignantly. “I don't want to go shopping!”
Which is true. When Suze found out how much those clementine sandals were, she got all worried that she hadn't been strict enough with me, so I promised not to do any shopping this weekend. She made me cross my heart and swear on—well, on my clementine sandals, actually. And I'm going to make a real effort to keep to it.
I mean, I should be able to last forty-eight hours.
“I'm going to do all lovely rural things,” I say, snapping my blusher closed.
“Like . . .”
“Like look at the scenery . . . and maybe go to a farm and watch them milking the cows, or something . . .”
“I see.”
“What?” I say suspiciously. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You're just going to pitch up at a farm, are you, and ask if you can milk the cows?”
“I didn't say I was going to milk the cows,” I say with dignity. “I said I was going to watch the cows. And anyway, I might not go to a farm, I might go and look at some local attractions.” I reach for a pile of leaflets on the dressing table. “Like . . . this tractor exhibition. Or . . . St. Winifred's Convent with its famous Bevington Triptych.”
“A convent,” echoes Luke after a pause.
“Yes, a convent!” I give him an indignant look. “Why shouldn't I visit a convent? I'm actually a very spiritual person.”
“I'm sure you are, my darling,” says Luke, giving me a quizzical look. “You might want to put on more than a T-shirt before you go . . .”
“It's a dress!” I say indignantly, pulling the T-shirt down over my bum. “And anyway, spirituality has nothing to do with clothes. ‘Consider the lilies of the field.' ” I shoot him a satisfied glance.
“Fair enough.” Luke grins. “Well, enjoy yourself.” He gives me a kiss. “And Becky, I really am sorry about all this. This wasn't the way I wanted our first weekend away to be.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, and give him a little poke in the chest. “You just make sure this mysterious deal is worth it.”
And I'm expecting Luke to laugh, or at least smile—but he just gives me a tiny nod, picks up his briefcase, and heads for the door.
I don't actually mind having this morning to myself, because I've always secretly wanted to see what it's like inside a convent. I mean, I know I don't exactly make it to church every week, but I do have a very spiritual side to me. It seems obvious to me that there's a greater force out there at work than us mere mortals—which is why I always read my horoscope in The Daily World. Plus I love that plainchant they play in yoga classes, and all the lovely candles and incense. And Audrey Hepburn in The Nun's Story.
In fact, to tell you the truth, a part of me has always been attracted to the simplicity of a nun's life. No worries, no decisions, no having to work. Just lovely singing and walking around all day. I mean, wouldn't that be great?
So when I've done my makeup and watched a bit of telly, I go down to reception—and after asking fruitlessly again about my package (honestly, I'm going to sue), I order a taxi to St. Winifred's. As we trundle along the country lanes, I look out at all the lovely scenery, and find myself wondering what Luke's deal can be about. What on earth is this mysterious “something he's always wanted”? I mean, I would have thought he's already got everything he wants. He's the most successful publicist in the financial field, he's got a thriving company, he's won loads of prizes . . . So what could it be? Big new client? New offices? Expanding the company, maybe?
I screw up my face, trying to remember if I've overheard anything recently—then, with a jolt, I remember hearing him on the phone a few weeks ago. He was talking about an advertising agency, and even at the time, I wondered why.
Yes. It's obvious, now that I think about it. He's always secretly wanted to be an ad director. That's what this deal is all about. He's going to branch out from PR and start making adverts.
And I could be in them! Yes!
I'm so excited at this thought, I almost swallow my chewing gum. I can be in an ad! Oh, this is going to be so cool. Maybe I'll be in one of those Bacardi ads where they're all on a boat, laughing and water-skiing and having a great time. I mean, I know it's usually fashion models, but I could easily be somewhere in the background. Or I could be the one driving the boat. It'll be so fantastic. We'll fly out to Barbados or somewhere, and it'll be all hot and sunny and glamorous, with loads of free Bacardi, and we'll stay in a really amazing hotel . . . I'll have to buy a new bikini, of course . . . or maybe two . . . and some new flip-flops . . .
“St. Winifred's,” says the taxi driver—and with a start I come to. I'm not in Barbados, am I? I'm in the middle of bloody nowhere, in Somerset.
We've stopped outside an old honey-colored building, and I peer through the window curiously. So this is a convent. It doesn't look that special, actually—just like a school, or a big country house. And I'm wondering whether I should even bother getting out, when I see a nun. Walking past, in black robes, and a wimple, and everything! A real live nun, in her real habitat. And she's completely natural. She hasn't even looked at the taxi. This is like being on safari!
I get out and pay the driver—and as I walk toward the heavy front door, I feel prickles of intrigue. There's an elderly woman going in at the same time who seems to know the way, so I follow her along a corridor toward the chapel. And as we walk in, I feel this amazing, holy, almost euphoric sensation coming over me. Maybe it's the lovely smell in the air or the organ music, but I'm definitely getting something.
“Thank you, Sister,” says the elderly woman to the nun. And she starts walking off to the front of the chapel—but I stand still, slightly transfixed.
Sister. Wow.
Sister Rebecca.
And one of those lovely flowing black habits, and a fantastic clear nun complexion all the time.
Sister Rebecca of the Holy . . .
“You look a little lost, my dear,” a nun says behind me, and I jump. “Were you interested in seeing the Bevington Triptych?”
“Oh,” I say. “Erm . . . yes. Absolutely.”
“Up there,” she points, and I walk tentatively toward the front of the chapel, hoping it will become obvious what the Bevington Triptych is. A statue, maybe? Or a . . . a piece of tapestry?
But as I reach the elderly lady, I see that she's staring up at a whole wall of stained-glass windows. And I have to admit, they're pretty amazing. I mean, look at that huge blue one in the middle. It's fantastic!
“The Bevington Triptych,” says the elderly woman. “It simply has no parallel, does it?”
“Wow,” I breathe reverentially, staring up with her. “It's beautiful.”
And it really is stunning. It just shows, there's no mistaking a real work of art, is there? Real genius just leaps out at you. And I'm not even an expert.
“Wonderful colors,” I murmur.
“The detail,” says the woman, clasping her hands, “is absolutely incomparable.”
“Incomparable,” I echo.
And I'm just about to point out the rainbow, which I think is a really nice touch—when I suddenly notice that the elderly woman and I aren't looking at the same window. She's looking at a much smaller, dingier one which I hadn't even noticed.
As inconspicuously as possible, I shift my gaze to the right one—and feel a pang of disappointment. Is this the Bevington Triptych? But it isn't even pretty!
“Whereas this Victorian rubbish,” the woman suddenly adds savagely, “is absolutely criminal! That rainbow! Doesn't it make you feel sick?” She gestures to my big blue window, and I gulp.
“I know,” I say. “It's shocking, isn't it? Absolutely . . . You know, I think I'll just go for a little wander . . .”
Hastily I back away, before she can say any more. And I'm sidling back down the side of the pews, wondering vaguely what to do nex
t, when suddenly I notice a little side chapel in the corner.
Spiritual retreat, reads a notice outside. A place to sit quietly, pray, and discover more about the Catholic faith.
Cautiously I poke my head inside the side chapel—and there's an old nun, sitting on a chair, doing embroidery. She smiles at me, and nervously I smile back and walk inside.
I sit down on a dark wooden pew, trying not to make any creaking sounds, and for a while I'm too awestruck to say anything. This is just amazing. The atmosphere is fantastic, all quiet and still—and I feel incredibly cleansed and holy just from being here. I smile again at the nun, shyly, and she puts down her embroidery and looks at me as though waiting for me to speak.
“I really like your candles,” I say in a quiet, reverent voice. “Are they from Habitat?”
“No,” says the nun, looking a bit startled. “I don't believe so.”
“Oh right.”
I give a tiny yawn—because I'm still sleepy from all this country air—and as I do so, I notice that one of my nails has chipped. So very quietly, I unzip my bag, get out my nail file, and start to buff it. The nun looks up, and I give her a rueful smile, and point to my nail (silently, because I don't want to ruin the spiritual atmosphere). Then, when I've finished, the edge is looking a bit ragged, so I take out my Maybelline express dry polish and very quickly touch it up.
All the while, the nun is watching me with a perplexed expression, and as I'm finishing, she says, “My dear, are you a Catholic?”
“No, I'm not, actually,” I say.
“Was there anything you wanted to talk about?”
“Um . . . not really.” I run my hand fondly over the pew I'm sitting on, and give her a friendly smile. “This carving is really nice, isn't it. Is all your furniture as nice as this?”
“This is the chapel,” says the nun, giving me a strange look.
“Oh, I know! But you know, loads of people have pews in their houses, too, these days. I saw this article in Harpers—”
“My child . . .” The nun lifts a hand to interrupt me. “My child, this is a place of spiritual retreat. Of quietness.”
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