Thousands of dollars.
Although, for a designer like Vera Wang, that price is actually quite . . .
Well, it's really very . . .
I feel slightly sick. I don't even want to think about how much it cost. The point is, I'll be able to wear it for years. Yes! Years and years. And I need designer clothes if I'm going to be a famous television star. I mean, I'll have important events to go to—and I can't just turn up in M&S, can I? Exactly.
And I've got a £10,000 credit card limit. That's the real point. I mean, they wouldn't give it to me if they didn't think I could afford it.
Suddenly I hear a sound at the door, and quickly rise to my feet. Heart thumping, I go to the wardrobe I've been stashing all my shopping in, open the door, and quickly shove my Barneys bags inside—then close the door and turn round with a smile, just as Luke enters the room, talking on his mobile.
“Of course I'm in fucking control,” he's spitting furiously into the phone. “What the fuck do they think they're—” He breaks off and is silent for a few moments. “I don't need to fly back to London! Alicia has it all in hand. She says there's absolutely no problem with Provident Assurance, she spoke to them today and they're very happy. Someone's just shit-stirring, God knows who. Yes, I know,” he says in a calmer voice. “Yes. OK, will do. I'll see you tomorrow, Michael. Thanks.”
He switches off his mobile, puts it away, and looks at me as though he's almost forgotten who I am. But then his brow softens and he smiles.
“Hi!” he says, and drops his briefcase onto a chair.
“Hi!” I say brightly, moving away from the wardrobe door. “Stranger.”
“I know,” says Luke, rubbing his face wearily. “I'm sorry. Things have been . . . a bit of a nightmare, to be frank. I heard about your screen test, though. Fantastic news.”
He goes to the minibar, pours himself a scotch, and downs it. Then he pours himself another one and takes a slug while I watch anxiously. His face is pale and tense, I notice, and there are shadows under his eyes.
“Is it all . . . going OK?” I ask gingerly.
“It's going,” he replies. “That's about as much as I can say.” He walks over to the window and stares out over the glittering Manhattan skyline, and I bite my lip nervously.
“Luke—couldn't someone else go to all these meetings? Couldn't someone else fly out and take some of the load? Like . . . Alicia?”
It nearly kills me even to mention her name—but I honestly am getting a bit worried. Slightly to my relief, though, Luke shakes his head.
“I can't bring in somebody new at this stage. I've been managing it all until now; I'll just have to see it through. I just had no idea they'd be so pedantic. I had no idea they'd be so . . .” He sits down in an armchair and takes a slug of his drink. “I mean, Jesus, they ask a lot of questions. I know Americans are thorough but—” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “They have to know everything. About every single client, every single potential client, everybody who's ever worked for the company, every single bloody memo I've ever sent . . . Is there any possibility of litigation here? Who was your receptionist in 1993? What car do you drive? What fucking . . . toothpaste do you use? And now, with these rumors . . . they're picking everything apart all over again.”
He breaks off and drains his glass, and I stare at him in dismay.
“They sound awful!” I say, and the flicker of a smile passes across Luke's face.
“They're not awful. They're just very conservative, old-school investors—and something's rattling them. I don't know what.” He exhales sharply. “I just need to keep them steady.”
His voice is trembling slightly—and as I glance at his hand I see that it's clenched tightly around his glass. I've never seen Luke like this, to be honest. He usually looks so utterly in control, so completely smooth . . .
“Luke, I think you should have an evening off. You haven't got a meeting tonight, have you?”
“No,” says Luke, looking up. “But I need to go through some of these forecasts again. Big meeting tomorrow, with all the investors. I need to be prepared.”
“You are prepared!” I reply. “What you need is to be relaxed. If you work all night, you'll just be tired and tense and ratty.” I go over to him, take his glass out of his hand, and start to massage his shoulders. “Come on, Luke. You really need a night off. I bet Michael would agree. Wouldn't he?”
“He's been telling me to lighten up,” admits Luke after a long pause.
“Well, then, lighten up! Come on, a few hours of fun never did anybody any harm. Let's both dress up and go somewhere really nice, and dance, and drink cocktails . . .” I kiss him gently on the back of his neck. “I mean, why on earth come to New York and not enjoy it?”
There's silence—and for an awful moment I think Luke's going to say he hasn't got time. But then suddenly he turns round—and thank God, I can see the faint glimmer of a smile.
“You're right,” he says. “Come on. Let's do it.”
It turns into the most magical, glamorous, glossy evening of my life. I put on my Vera Wang dress and Luke puts on his smartest suit, and we go to a fabulous restaurant all done like an Art Deco cruise ship, where beautiful people are eating lobster and there's an old-fashioned jazz band, just like in the movies. Luke orders Bellinis, and we toast each other, and as he relaxes, he tells me more about his deal. In fact, he confides in me more than he ever has before.
“This city,” he says, shaking his head. “It's a demanding place. Like . . . skiing down the edge of a precipice. If you make one mistake—that's it. You fall.”
“But if you don't make any mistakes?”
“You win,” says Luke. “You win it all.”
“You're going to win,” I say confidently. “You're going to wow them all tomorrow.”
“And you're going to wow them at your screen test,” says Luke, as a waiter appears at our table with our first course—the most amazing sculptures made out of seafood, presented on hexagonal plates. He pours our wine, and Luke lifts his glass in a toast.
“To you, Becky. You're going to be a huge success.”
“No, you're going to be a huge success,” I reply, feeling a glow of pleasure all around me. “We're both going to be huge successes!”
Maybe it's the Bellini, going to my head—but suddenly I feel again exactly as I did in Barneys. I'm not the old Becky—I'm someone new and sparkling. Surreptitiously I glance at myself in a nearby mirror, and feel a twinge of delight. I mean, just look at me! All poised and groomed, in a New York restaurant, wearing a thousands-of-dollars dress, with my wonderful, successful boyfriend—and a screen test tomorrow for American television!
I feel completely intoxicated with happiness. This expensive, glossy world is where I've been heading all along. Limos and flowers; waxed eyebrows and designer clothes from Barneys; a purse stuffed with business cards of TV executives. These are my people; this is where I'm meant to be. My old life seems a million, zillion miles away, like a tiny dot on the horizon. Mum and Dad and Suze . . . my untidy room in Fulham . . . EastEnders with a pizza . . . I mean, let's face it. That was never really me, was it?
We end up staying out for hours. We dance to the jazz band, eat passion fruit sorbet, and talk about everything in the world but work. Luke asks the band to play “These Foolish Things,” which is a song I completely love—and then sings along as we dance (very out of tune, but I don't say anything). When we get back to the hotel we're both laughing, and tripping slightly as we walk, and Luke's hand is making its way deftly inside my dress.
“Miss Bloomwood?” says the concierge as we pass the desk. “There's a message for you to call a Susan Cleath-Stuart, in London. Whatever time you get in. Apparently it's urgent.”
“Oh God,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She'll just be calling to lecture me about how much I spent on my new dress. ‘How much? Oh Bex, you shouldn't have . . .' ”
“It's a fantastic dress,” says Luke, running his hands appreciatively up a
nd down it. “Although there's far too much of it. You could lose this bit here . . . and this bit . . .”
“Would you like the number?” says the concierge, holding out a piece of paper.
“No, thanks,” I say, waving my hand. “I'll call her tomorrow.”
“And please,” adds Luke, “hold all calls to our room, until further notice.”
“Very well,” says the concierge with a twinkle. “Good night, sir. Good night, ma'am.”
We travel up in the lift, grinning stupidly at each other in the mirrors—and as we arrive at our room, I realize that I'm really feeling quite drunk. My only consolation is, Luke looks completely plastered, too.
“That,” I say, as the door closes behind us, “was the best night of my life. The very best.”
“It isn't over yet,” says Luke, coming toward me with a meaningful gleam in his eye. “I feel I need to reward you for your most insightful comments, Miss Bloomwood. You were right. All work and no play . . .” He starts to pull my Vera Wang straps gently down off my shoulders. “Makes Jack . . .” he murmurs against my skin. “A very . . .”
And suddenly we're tumbling down onto the bed together, and his mouth is on mine, and my mind is wheeling with alcohol and delight. As he's pulling off his shirt, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I stare at my intoxicated, happy self for an instant, and hear a voice inside saying: remember this moment forever. Remember this moment, Becky, because right now, life is perfect.
The rest is a haze of drunken, blurry pleasure, drifting into oblivion. The last thing I remember is Luke kissing me on the eyelids and telling me to sleep well and that he loves me. That's the last thing.
And then, like a car crash, it happens.
Twelve
AT FIRST, I don't realize anything is wrong. I wake up feeling extremely bleary—to see Luke handing me a cup of tea.
“Why don't you check the messages?” he says, giving me a kiss, and heads toward the shower. After a few sips of tea, I lift the telephone receiver and press the star button.
“You have twenty-three messages,” says the telephone voice—and I gape at it in astonishment. Twenty-three?
Perhaps they're all job offers! is my first thought. Perhaps it's people calling from Hollywood! In great excitement I press the button to hear the first one. But it's not a job offer—it's Suze—and she's sounding really hassled.
“Bex, please ring me. As soon as you get this. It's . . . it's really urgent. Bye.”
The voice asks me if I'd like to hear my remaining messages—and for a moment I hesitate. But Suze did sound pretty desperate—and I remember with a twinge of guilt that she called last night, too. I dial the number—and to my surprise, it clicks onto her answer machine.
“Hi! It's me!” I say as soon as Suze's voice has finished speaking. “Well, you're not in, so I hope whatever it is has sorted itself—”
“Bex!” Suze's voice practically bursts my eardrum. “Oh my God, Bex, where have you been?”
“Out,” I say puzzledly. “And then asleep. Suze, is everything—”
“Bex, I never said those things!” she interrupts, sounding distressed. “You have to believe me. I'd never say anything like that. They just . . . twisted everything round. I told your mum, I didn't have any idea—”
“My mum?” I say in puzzlement. “Suze, slow down. What are you talking about?”
There's silence.
“Oh God,” says Suze. “Bex, haven't you seen it?”
“Seen what?” I say.
“The Daily World,” says Suze. “I . . . I thought you got all the British papers.”
“We do,” I say, rubbing my dry face. “But they'll still be outside the door. Is there . . . is there something about me?”
“No,” says Suze a little too quickly. “No. I mean . . . there is this one very tiny thing. But it's not worth looking at. I really wouldn't bother. In fact—throw The Daily World away, I would. Just . . . put it in the bin, without even opening it.”
“There's something nasty, isn't there?” I say apprehensively. “Do my legs look really fat?”
“It's really nothing!” says Suze. “Nothing! So anyway . . . have you been to Rockefeller Center yet? It's supposed to be great! Or FAO Schwarz? Or . . .”
“Suze, stop,” I interrupt. “I'm going to go and get it. I'll call you back.”
“OK, look, Bex, just remember,” says Suze in a rush. “Hardly anyone reads The Daily World. You know, like about three people. And it's tomorrow's fish-and-chips. And everyone knows the newspapers make up complete lies . . .”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “I'll remember that. And don't worry, Suze! These stupid little things don't faze me!”
But as I put the phone down, my hand is trembling slightly. What on earth can they have said about me? I hurry to the door, grab the pile of papers, and cart them all back to the bed. I seize hold of The Daily World and feverishly start to leaf through it. Page after page . . . but there's nothing there. I go back to the beginning and leaf through more carefully, looking at all the tiny box items—and there really is no mention of me at all. I lean back on my pillows, bemused. What on earth is Suze going on about? Why on earth is she so—
And then I spot the center double-page spread. A single folded sheet, lying on the bed, which must have fallen out as I grabbed hold of the paper. Very slowly I reach for it. I open it. And it's as though someone's punched me in the stomach.
There's a picture of me. It's a photo I don't recognize—not very flattering. I'm walking along, in some street . . . A New York street, I realize with a lurch. And I'm holding lots of shopping bags. And there's a picture of Luke, in a circle. And a little picture of Suze. And the headline reads . . .
I can't even tell you what it says. I can't even say it. It's . . . it's too awful.
It's a huge article, spanning the whole center spread. As I read it, my heart is thudding; my head feels hot and cold. It's so nasty. It's so . . . personal. Halfway through I can't stand it anymore. I close the paper, and stare ahead, breathing hard, feeling as though I might throw up.
Then almost immediately, with trembling hands, I open it again. I have to see exactly what they've said. I have to read every horrible, humiliating line.
When I've finally finished, I sit, breathing hard, trying to keep control. I can't quite believe this is really happening. This paper has already been printed millions of times. It's too late to stop it. In Britain, I suddenly realize, this has been out for hours. My parents will have seen it. Everyone I know will have seen it. I'm powerless.
As I'm sitting there, the telephone gives a shrill ring, and I jump with fright. After a moment it rings again, and I stare at it in terror. I can't answer. I can't talk to anybody, not even Suze.
The phone rings for the fourth time, and Luke strides out of the bathroom, a towel round his waist and his hair slicked back.
“Aren't you going to get that?” he says shortly, and grabs for the receiver. “Hello? Yes, Luke Brandon here.”
I feel a swoop of fear, and wrap the duvet more tightly around me.
“Right,” Luke is saying. “Fine. I'll see you then.” He puts the phone down and scribbles something on a pad of paper.
“Who was that?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“A secretary from JD Slade,” he says, putting his pen down. “Change of venue.”
He starts to get dressed, and I say nothing. My hand tightens around the Daily World page. I want to show him . . . but I don't want to show him. I don't want him to read those horrible things about me. But I can't let him see it from someone else.
I can't sit here forever, saying nothing. I close my eyes—then take a deep breath and say, “Luke, there's a thing about me in the paper.”
“Good,” says Luke absently, doing up his tie. “I thought you might get a bit of publicity. Which paper?”
“It's . . . it's not good,” I say, and lick my dry lips. “It's really awful.”
; Luke looks at me properly and sees my expression.
“Oh, Becky,” he says, “it can't be that bad. Come on, show me. What does it say?” He holds out his hand, but I don't move.
“It's just . . . really horrible. And there's a great big picture—”
“Did you have a bad hair day?” says Luke teasingly, and reaches for his jacket. “Becky, no piece of publicity is ever 100 percent perfect. You're always going to find something to fret about, whether it's your hair, or something you said . . .”
“Luke!” I say despairingly. “It's nothing like that. Just . . . have a look.”
Slowly I unfold the paper and give it to Luke. He takes it cheerfully—but as he gazes at it, his smile slowly disappears.
“What the fuck— Is that me?” He glances at me briefly, and I swallow, not daring to say anything. Then he scans the page while I watch nervously.
“Is this true?” he says at last. “Any of it?”
“N-no!” I stammer. “At least . . . not . . . not all of it. Some of it is . . .”
“Are you in debt?”
I meet his gaze, feeling my face turn crimson.
“A . . . a little bit. But I mean, not like they say . . . I mean, I don't know anything about a summons . . .”
“Tuesday afternoon!” He hits the paper. “For Christ's sake. You were at the Guggenheim. Find your ticket, we'll prove you were there, get a retraction—”
“I . . . Actually . . . Luke . . .” He looks up and I feel a lurch of pure fear. “I didn't go to the Guggenheim. I . . . I went . . . shopping.”
“You went . . .” He stares at me—then silently starts to read again.
When he's finished he stares ahead expressionlessly.
“I don't believe this,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him.
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