“I know!” I say in surprise. “That's why I came in. For quietness.”
“Good,” says the nun, and we lapse into silence again.
In the distance, a bell starts tolling, and I notice the nun begins murmuring very quietly under her breath. I wonder what she's saying? My granny used to knit things, and mutter the pattern to herself. Maybe she's lost track of her embroidery.
“Your sewing's going really well,” I say encouragingly. “What's it going to be?” She gives a tiny start, and puts down her embroidery.
“My dear,” she says, and exhales sharply. Then she gives me a warm smile. “My dear, we have some quite famous lavender fields. Would you like to go and see them?”
“No, it's all right.” I beam at her. “I'm just happy, sitting here with you.”
The nun's smile wavers slightly. “What about the crypt?” she says. “Would you be interested in that?”
“Not particularly. But honestly, I'm not bored! It's just so lovely here. So . . . tranquil. Just like The Sound of Music.”
She stares at me as though I'm speaking gibberish, and I realize she's probably been in the convent so long, she doesn't know what The Sound of Music is.
“There was this film . . .” I start to explain. Then it occurs to me, maybe she doesn't know what a film is, even. “It's like, moving pictures,” I say carefully. “You watch it on a screen. And there was this nun called Maria . . .”
“We have a shop,” interrupts the nun urgently. “A shop. What about that?”
A shop! For a moment I feel all excited, and want to ask what they sell. But then I remember the promise I made to Suze.
“I can't,” I say regretfully. “I told my flatmate I wouldn't go shopping today.”
“Your flatmate?” says the nun. “What does she have to do with it?”
“She just gets really worried about me spending money—”
“Does your flatmate run your life?”
“Well, it's just I made her this quite serious promise a while ago. You know, a bit like a vow, I suppose . . .”
“She'll never know!” says the nun. “Not if you don't tell her.”
I stare at her, a bit taken aback.
“But I'd feel really bad, breaking my promise! No, I'll just stay here with you for a bit longer, if that's OK.” I pick up a little statue of Mary which has caught my eye. “This is nice. Where did you get it?”
The nun stares at me, her eyes narrowing.
“Don't think of it as shopping,” she says at last. “Think of it as making a donation.” She leans forward. “You donate the money—and we give you a little something in return. You couldn't really count it as shopping at all. More . . . an act of charity.”
I'm silent for a few moments, letting this idea sink in. The truth is, I do always mean to do more for charity, and maybe this is my chance.
“So, it'll be like doing a good deed?” I say, just to be sure.
“Exactly the same. And Jesus and all his angels will bless you for it.” She takes hold of my arm. “Now, you go along and have a browse. Come on, I'll show you the way . . .”
As we leave the side chapel, the nun shuts the door and takes down the Spiritual Retreat notice.
“Aren't you coming back?” I say in surprise.
“Not today, no,” she says, and gives me an odd look. “I think I'll leave it for today.”
You know, it's just like they say—virtue is its own reward. As I arrive back at the hotel later that afternoon, I'm glowing with happiness at all the good I've done. I must have donated at least £50 in that shop, if not more! In fact, not to show off or anything, but I'm obviously naturally very altruistic. Because once I started donating, I couldn't stop! Each time I parted with a bit more money, I felt a real high. And although it's a completely incidental point, I ended up with some really nice stuff in return. Lots of lavender honey, and lavender essential oil, and some lavender tea, which I'm sure will be delicious, and a lavender pillow to help me sleep.
The amazing thing is, I'd never really given lavender much thought before. I just thought of it as a plant in people's gardens. But that young nun behind the table was quite right—it has such vital, life-enhancing properties that it should be part of everyone's life. Plus St. Winifred's lavender is completely organic, she explained, so it's vastly superior to other varieties, but the prices are much lower than many competing mail-order catalogues. She was the one who persuaded me to buy the lavender pillow, actually, and to put my name on the mailing list. She was really quite persistent, for a nun.
When I get back to Blakeley Hall, the minicab driver offers to help me lug it all in, because the box of lavender honey is quite heavy. And I'm standing at the reception desk, giving him a nice hefty tip and thinking I might go and have a nice bath with my new lavender bath essence . . . when the front door into reception swings open. Into the hotel strides a girl with blond hair, a Louis Vuitton bag, and long tanned legs.
I stare at her in disbelief. It's Alicia Billington. Or, as I call her, Alicia Bitch Longlegs. What's she doing here?
Alicia is one of the account executives in Brandon Communications—which is Luke's PR company—and we've never exactly got along. In fact, between you and me, she's a bit of a cow and, secretly, I wish Luke would fire her. A few months ago, actually, she nearly did get fired—and it was kind of to do with me. (I was a financial journalist then, and I wrote this piece . . . oh, it's a bit of a long story.) But in the end she just got a stiff warning, and since then, she's really pulled her socks up.
I know all this because I have little chats every now and then with Luke's assistant, Mel, who's a real sweetie and keeps me up on all the gossip. She was telling me only the other day that she reckons Alicia's really changed. She isn't any nicer, but she certainly works harder. She badgers journalists until they put her clients into their stories, and often stays really late at the office, tapping at her computer. And only the other day she told Mel she wanted a full list of all the company's clients, with contact names, so she could familiarize herself with them. Plus she wrote some company strategy report which Luke was really impressed by. Mel added gloomily that she reckons Alicia wants a promotion—and I think she could be right.
The trouble with Luke is, he only looks at how hard a person works and what results they get—and not at what a completely horrible cow they are. In fact, just the other day I heard him telling someone how reliable Alicia was in stressful situations and how he's really starting to depend on her. So the chances are, she probably will get a promotion—and become even more unbearable.
As I watch her come in, I'm slightly transfixed. Half of me wants to run away and half of me wants to know what she's doing here. But before I can decide, she spots me, and raises her eyebrows slightly. And oh God, suddenly I realize what I must look like—in a grotty old gray T-shirt that, to be honest, looks nothing like a dress, and my hair a mess, and my face all red from lugging carrier bags full of lavender honey. And she's in an immaculate white suit.
“Rebecca!” she says, and puts her hand over her mouth in mock dismay. “You're not supposed to know I'm here! Just pretend you haven't seen me.”
“What . . . what do you mean?” I say, trying not to sound as disconcerted as I feel. “What are you doing here?”
“I've just popped in for a quick introductory meeting with the new associates,” says Alicia. “You know my parents only live five miles away? So it made sense.”
“Oh right,” I say. “No, I didn't.”
“But Luke's given us all strict instructions,” says Alicia, “we're not allowed to bother you. After all, this is your holiday!”
And there's something about the way she says it that makes me feel like a child.
“Oh, I don't mind,” I say robustly. “When something as . . . as important as this is going on. In fact, Luke and I were talking about it earlier on actually. Over breakfast.”
OK, so I only mentioned breakfast to remind her that Luke and I are going out together. Which I know
is really pathetic. But somehow, whenever I'm talking to Alicia, I feel we're in some secret little competition, and if I don't fight back, she'll think she's won.
“Really?” says Alicia. “How sweet.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “So—what do you think of this whole enterprise? You must have an opinion.”
“I think it's great,” I say after a pause. “Really great.”
“You don't mind?” Her eyes are probing my face.
“Well . . . not really.” I shrug. “I mean, it was supposed to be a holiday, but if it's that important—”
“I don't mean the meetings!” says Alicia, laughing a little. “I mean—this whole deal. The whole New York thing.”
I open my mouth to reply—then feebly close it again. What New York thing?
And like a buzzard sensing weakness, she leans forward, a tiny, malicious smile at her lips. “You do know, don't you, Rebecca, that Luke's going to move to New York?”
I can't move for shock. That's what he's so excited about. Luke's moving to New York. But . . . but why hasn't he told me?
My face feels rather hot and there's a horrible thickening in my chest. He's going to New York and he hasn't even told me.
“Rebecca?”
My head jerks up, and I quickly force a smile onto my face. I can't let Alicia realize this is all news to me. I just can't.
“Of course I know about it,” I say huskily, and clear my throat. “I know all about it. But I . . . I never discuss business in public. Much better to be discreet, don't you think?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she answers—and the way she looks at me makes me think she isn't convinced for a minute. “So . . . will you be going out there too?”
I stare back, my lips trembling, unable to think of an answer, my face growing pinker and pinker—when suddenly, thank God, a voice behind me says, “Rebecca Bloomwood. Parcel for a Miss Rebecca Bloomwood.”
My head jerks round in astonishment, and, I don't believe it. A man in uniform is approaching the desk, holding my huge, battered Special Express parcel, which I'd honestly given up for lost. All my things, at last. All my carefully chosen outfits. I can wear anything I like tonight!
But somehow . . . I don't really care anymore. I just want to go off somewhere and be on my own and think for a bit.
“That's me,” I say, managing a smile. “I'm Rebecca Bloomwood.”
“Oh right!” says the man. “That's nice and easy then. If you could just sign here . . .”
“Well, I mustn't keep you!” exclaims Alicia, eyeing my parcel amusedly. “Enjoy the rest of your stay, won't you?”
“Thanks,” I reply. “I will.” And, feeling slightly numb, I walk away, clutching my clothes tightly to me.
I go up to our room, dump the parcel on the bed, and sit down next to it, trying to keep perspective on this. OK, let's just go over the facts. Luke's making plans to move to New York. And he hasn't told me.
Yet. He hasn't told me yet.
As I think this through, my numbness starts to melt away. Of course. He's probably planning to tell me everything this evening. Waiting for the right moment. That's probably why he brought me here in the first place. He couldn't know that Alicia would stick her oar in, could he?
Feeling better already, I reach for a complimentary packet of biscuits, tear it open, and begin to munch one. It's like they say, don't run before you can walk. Don't cross bridges before you come to them. Don't do . . . that other thing you shouldn't do.
I've just finished my third biscuit and have switched on the television to watch Ready Steady Cook, when the door opens and Luke comes in. His eyes are sparkling and he seems full of a suppressed energy. I stare at him, feeling a little weird.
I'm sure he's going to tell me. He wouldn't just move to America without saying anything.
“Did your meetings go well?” I say, my voice feeling false.
“Very well, thanks,” says Luke, taking off his tie and throwing it on the bed. “But let's not talk about that.” He smiles at me. “Did you have a good day?”
“Fine, thanks!”
“You want to go for a walk? Come on. I haven't seen you all day.” He reaches for my hand, pulls me up off the bed, and puts his arms round my waist. “I've missed you,” he says against my hair, and his arms tighten around my body.
“Have you?” I give a little laugh. “Well, you know . . . perhaps I should come to your meetings, and hear what they're all about!”
“You wouldn't enjoy them,” says Luke, returning my laugh. “Come on, let's go out.”
We head down the stairs and out of the heavy front door and start walking over the grass toward a group of trees. The sun is still warm, and some people are playing croquet and drinking Pimms. After a while I take off my sandals and walk along barefoot, feeling myself relax.
“Are you hungry?” says Luke casually as we get near a large oak tree. And I'm about to reply, “No, I've just had three biscuits,” when I see it, waiting for us in the long grass.
A red-and-white checked picnic blanket. A little wicker hamper. And . . . is that a bottle of champagne? I turn toward Luke in disbelief.
“Is this . . . did you . . .”
“This,” says Luke, touching my cheek, “is in some small way to make up. You've been so incredibly understanding, Becky.”
“That's all right,” I say awkwardly. “If it was for something as important as . . .” I hesitate. “As . . . well, whatever amazing opportunity this might be . . .”
I look at Luke expectantly. This is the perfect moment for him to tell me.
“Even so,” says Luke. He moves away and reaches for the champagne bottle and I sit down, trying not to give away my disappointment.
I'm not going to ask him. If he wants to tell me he can. If he doesn't want to . . . then he must have his reasons.
But there's no harm in prompting him, is there?
“I love the countryside!” I exclaim as Luke hands me my champagne. “And I love cities, too.” I gesture vaguely in the air. “London . . . Paris . . .”
“Cheers,” says Luke, raising his glass.
“Cheers.” I take a sip of champagne and think quickly. “So . . . um . . . you've never really told me much about your family.”
Luke looks up, a bit surprised.
“Haven't I? Well, there's me and my sister . . . and Mum and Dad . . .”
“And your real mother, of course.” Casual, Becky. Casual. “I've always thought she sounds really interesting.”
“She's a truly inspiring person,” says Luke, his face lighting up. “So elegant . . . you've seen the picture of her?”
“She looks beautiful,” I nod encouragingly. “And where is it she lives again?” I wrinkle my brow as though I can't quite remember.
“New York,” says Luke, and takes a swig of his drink.
There's a taut silence. Luke stares ahead, frowning slightly, and I watch him, my heart thumping. Then he turns to me, and I feel a spasm of fright. What's he going to say? Is he going to tell me he's moving thousands of miles away?
“Becky?”
“Yes?” I say, my voice half-strangled by nerves.
“I really think you and my mother would love each other. Next time she's in London, I'll be sure to introduce you.”
“Oh . . . right,” I say. “That would be really great.” And morosely, I drain my glass.
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
8 September 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your letter of 4 September, addressed to Sweetie Smeathie, in which you ask him to rush through an extension of your overdraft “before the new guy arrives.”
I am the new guy.
I am currently reviewing all customer files and will be in touch regarding your request.
Yours sincerely,
John Gavin
Overdraft Facilities Director
Five
WE ARRIVE BAC
K in London the next day—and Luke still hasn't mentioned his deal or New York, or anything. And I know I should just ask him outright. I should casually say, “So what's this I hear about New York, Luke?” and wait and see what he says. But somehow I can't bring myself to do it.
I mean, for a start, he's made it plain enough that he doesn't want to talk about it. If I confront him, he might think I've been trying to find out stuff behind his back. And for another start, Alicia might have got it wrong—or even be making it up. (She's quite capable of it, believe me. When I was a financial journalist she once sent me to the completely wrong room for a press conference—and I'm sure it was deliberate.) So until I'm absolutely certain of my facts, there's no point saying anything.
At least, this is what I tell myself. But I suppose if I'm really honest, the reason is that I just can't bear the idea of Luke turning to me and giving me a kind look and saying, “Rebecca, we've had a lot of fun, but . . .”
So I end up saying nothing and smiling a lot—even though inside, I feel more and more miserable. As we arrive back outside my flat, I want to turn to him and wail, “Are you going to New York? Are you?”
But instead, I give him a kiss, and say lightly, “You will be OK for Saturday, won't you?”
It turns out Luke's got to fly off to Zurich tomorrow and have lots of meetings with finance people. Which of course is very important and I completely understand that. But Saturday is Tom and Lucy's wedding at home, and that's even more important. He just has to be there.
“I'll make it,” he says. “I promise.” He squeezes my hand and I get out of the car and he says he has to shoot off. And then he's gone.
Disconsolately, I open the door to our flat, and a moment later Suze comes out of the door of her room, dragging a full black bin liner along the ground.
“Hi!” she says. “You're back!”
“Yes!” I reply, trying to sound cheerful. “I'm back!”
Suze disappears out of our door, and I hear her lugging her black bag down the stairs and out of the main front door—then bounding up to our flat again.
“So, how was it?” she says breathlessly, closing the door behind her.
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