“Look, Becky.” Luke sighs. “Kenneth is very happy to recommend suitable investments. You don’t need to worry.”
“That’s not the point!” I say indignantly. “Luke, you don’t understand. We’re going to be parents. We need to make all important decisions together. Otherwise our child will run around hitting us and we’ll end up hiding in the bedroom and never have sex again!”
“What?”
“It’s true! It’s on Supernanny!”
Luke looks totally baffled. He really should watch more TV.
“All right, fine,” he says at last. “We can decide things together. But I’m not putting the baby’s trust fund in some high-risk emerging market.”
“Well, I’m not putting it in some stodgy old bank account where it doesn’t make any profit!” I retaliate.
“Stalemate.” Luke’s mouth twitches. “So…what does Supernanny recommend when parents have fundamentally differing approaches to trust fund investment?”
“I’m not sure she’s covered it,” I admit. Then a sudden brain wave hits me. “I know. We’ll split up the money. You invest half and I’ll invest half. And we’ll see who does best.” I can’t resist adding, “I bet it’s me.”
“Oh, I see.” Luke raises his eyebrows. “So…this is a challenge, is it, Mrs. Brandon?”
“He who dares wins,” I say nonchalantly, and Luke starts to laugh.
“OK. Let’s do this. Half each, to be invested in anything we choose.”
“You’re on,” I say, holding out my hand. We shake gravely, as the phone starts ringing.
“I’ll get it,” Luke says, and heads over to his desk. “Hello? Oh, hi there. How are you?”
I am so going to win this! I’ll pick loads of brilliant investments and make the baby an absolute mint. Maybe I’ll invest in futures. Or gold. Or…art! I just need to find the next Damien Hirst and buy a pickled cow or whatever, and then auction it for a huge profit at Sotheby’s, and everyone will say how farsighted and genius I was….
“Really?” Luke is saying. “No, she never mentioned it. Well, thanks.” He puts down the phone and turns to face me with a quizzical expression. “Becky, that was Giles from the real estate agents. Apparently you had a long talk earlier this week. What exactly did you say to him?”
Shit. I knew there was another tricky subject I had to broach. I should really start a list.
“Oh yes, that.” I clear my throat. “I just told Giles we were willing to be more flexible in our requirements.” I straighten some papers on my desk, not looking up. “Like you said. Expand our search area a bit.”
“A bit?” echoes Luke incredulously. “To the Caribbean ? He’s sending us the details of eight bloody beach villas and wants to know if we’d like to arrange flights!”
“You’re the one who said we had to look further afield, Luke!” I say defensively. “It was your idea!”
“I meant Kensington! Not Barbados!”
“Have you seen what we can get in Barbados?” I counter eagerly. “Look at this!” I push my office chair across the floor to his computer, click on a browser, and find my way onto a Caribbean realty page.
Property Web sites are the best thing ever. Especially the ones with virtual tours.
“See this one?” I point at the screen. “Five bedroom villa with infinity pool, sunken garden, and guest cottage!”
“Becky…” Luke pauses, as though thinking how to explain the situation to me. “It’s in Barbados.”
He is so hung up on that one detail.
“So what?” I say. “It’d be fab! The baby would learn to swim, and you could send all your e-mails from the guest cottage…and I could go running on the beach every day….”
I have an alluring image of myself in a string bikini, pushing one of those jogger prams along a glistening white Caribbean beach. And Luke would be all tanned in a polo shirt, drinking a rum punch. He could get into surfing, and put beads in his hair again—
“I’m not putting beads in my hair again.” Luke interrupts my thoughts.
That’s so spooky! How on earth did he…
Oh, OK. I possibly may have shared my Caribbean fantasy with him before.
“Look, sweetheart,” he says, sitting down. “Maybe in five, ten years’ time we can think about something like this. If things go to plan, we’ll have a lot of options by then. But for now it has to be central London.”
“Well, what are we going to do, then?” I close the Barbados Web page crossly. “There’s nothing on the market. It’ll be Christmas and we’ll be out on the streets, and we’ll have to go to a homeless shelter with the baby, and eat soup….”
“Becky.” Luke lifts a hand to stop me. “We won’t have to eat soup.” He clicks one of his e-mails, opens an attachment, and presses Print. A moment later the printer springs into action.
“What?” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Here.” He collects the pages and hands them to me. “This is why Giles rang. In case we were ‘still considering London,’ as he put it. It’s just come on the market, round the corner from here. Delamain Road. But we need to be quick.”
I scan the first page, taking in the words as fast as I can.
Elegant family house…ideal for entertaining…grand entrance hall…magnificent luxury kitchen…
Wow. I have to admit, this looks amazing.
Garden with architect-designed play area…six bedrooms…dressing room with walk-in shoe cupboard…
I catch my breath. A walk-in shoe cupboard! But surely that’s just another way of saying—
“It’s even got a Shoe Room.” Luke is watching me with a grin. “Giles was pretty pleased about that. Shall we go and see it?”
I am so excited about this house! And not just because of the Shoe Room. I’ve read the details over and over, and I can just see Luke and me living there. Taking a shower in the frameless limestone RainJet cubicle…making coffee in the Bulthaup kitchen with its state-of-the-art appliances…and then maybe strolling out into the secluded west-facing garden with its range of mature specimen shrubs. Whatever they are.
It’s later that day and we’re walking along the leafy Maida Vale road on the way to our appointment to view it. I’m clutching the printout of the details in my hand, but I barely need to; I practically know them by heart.
“Twenty-four…twenty-six…” Luke is squinting at the numbers as we pass. “It’ll be on the other side of the road….”
“There it is!” I stop dead and point across the street. “Look, there’s the impressive pillared entrance and double doors with attractive fanlight! It looks fab! Let’s go!”
Luke’s hand holds me back as I’m about to hurry across the road. “Becky, before we go in, just a word.”
“What?” I’m tugging at his hand like a dog trying to get off the leash. “What is it?”
“Try to play it cool, OK? We don’t want to look too keen. First rule of business dealing, you should always look as though you could walk away.”
“Oh.” I stop yanking his hand. “All right.”
Cool. I can play it cool.
But as we head across the road and up to the front door, my heart’s hammering. This is our house, I just know it is!
“I love the front door!” I exclaim, ringing the bell. “It’s so shiny!”
“Becky…cool, remember,” says Luke. “Try not to look so impressed.”
“Oh, right, yes.” I adopt the best unimpressed expression I can muster, just as the door swings open.
A very slim woman in her forties is standing on black-and-white marble tiles. She’s wearing white D&G jeans, a casual top which I know cost her £500, and a diamond ring so huge, I’m amazed she can lift her arm.
“Hi.” Her voice is a husky mockney drawl. “Are you here to see the house?”
“Yes!” At once I realize I sound too excited. “I mean…yeah.” I affect a similar nonchalance. “We thought we’d have a look.”
“Fabia Paschali.” Her handshake i
s like wet cotton wool.
“Becky Brandon. And this is my husband, Luke.”
“Well, come on through.”
We follow her in, our feet echoing on the tiles, and as I look around I have to suppress a loud intake of breath. This hall is huge. And the sweeping staircase is like something out of Hollywood! I immediately have an image of myself trailing down it in a fantastic evening dress while Luke waits admiringly at the bottom.
“We’ve had fashion shoots here,” says Fabia, gesturing at the staircase. “The marble is imported from Italy and the chandelier is antique Murano. It’s included.”
I can see she’s waiting for a reaction.
“Very nice,” says Luke. “Becky?”
Cool. I must be cool.
“It’s all right.” I give a little yawn. “Can we see the kitchen?”
The kitchen is just as amazing. It has a vast breakfast bar, a glass roof, and about every gadget known to mankind. I’m trying as hard as I can not to look overawed as Fabia runs through the appliances. “Triple oven…chef’s hob…This is a rotating multisurface chopping area….”
“Not bad.” I run a hand over the granite with a jaded air. “Do you have a built-in electric sushi maker?”
“Yes,” she says as though I’ve asked something really obvious.
It has a built-in electric sushi maker!
Oh God, it’s just spectacular. And so is the terrace with built-in summer kitchen and barbecue. And the drawing room fitted out with David Linley shelves. As we follow Fabia upstairs to the main bedroom I’m practically expiring, trying not to exclaim at everything.
“Here’s the dressing room….” Fabia shows us into a smallroom lined with paneled walnut wardrobes. “This is my customized shoe cupboard….” She opens the door and we walk in.
I feel faint. Either side of us are rows and rows of shoes, lined up immaculately on suede-lined shelves. Louboutins…Blahniks…
“It’s amazing!” I blurt out. “And look, we’re the same size and everything. This is so meant to be—” Luke casts me a warning glance. “I mean…yeah.” I give an offhand shrug. “It’s OK, I guess.”
“Have you got kids?” Fabia glances at my stomach as we move away.
“We’re expecting one in December.”
“We’ve got two at boarding school.” She rips a Nicorette patch off her arm, frowns at it, and drops it in a bin. Then she reaches in her jeans pocket and produces a packet of Marlboro Lights. “They’re on the top floor now but their nurseries are still done up if you’re interested.” She flicks a lighter and takes a puff.
“Nurseries?” echoes Luke, glancing at me. “More than one?”
“His and hers. We had one of each. Never got round to redecorating. This is my son’s….” She pushes open a white-paneled door.
I stand there, open-mouthed. It’s like fairyland. The walls are painted with a mural of green hills and blue sky and woods and teddy bears having a picnic. In one corner is a painted crib in the shape of a castle; in the other is a real little red wooden train on tracks, big enough to sit on, with a toy in each carriage.
I feel an overwhelming stab of desire. I want a boy. I so want a little boy.
“And my daughter’s is over here,” Fabia continues.
I can barely tear myself away from the boy’s nursery, but I follow her across the landing as she opens the door—and can’t help gasping.
I have never seen anything so beautiful. It’s a little girl’s dream. The walls are decorated with hand-painted fairies, the white curtains are looped back with huge lilac taffeta bows, and the little cradle is festooned with broderie anglaise frills like a princess’s bed.
Oh God. Now I want a girl.
I want both. Can’t I have both?
“So, what do you think?” Fabia turns to me.
There’s silence on the landing. I can’t speak for longing. I want these nurseries more than I have ever wanted anything, ever. I want this whole house. I want to live here and have our first Christmas here as a family, and decorate a huge pine tree in the black-and-white hall, and hang a tiny stocking above the fireplace….
“Pretty nice,” I manage at last, with a small shrug. “I suppose.”
“Well,” Fabia draws on her cigarette. “Let’s show you the rest.”
I feel like I’m floating as we progress through all the other rooms. We’ve found our house. We’ve found it.
“Make her an offer!” I whisper to Luke as we’re peering into the hot water cupboard. “Tell her we want it!”
“Becky, slow down.” He gives a little laugh. “That’s not the way to negotiate. We haven’t even seen it all yet.”
But I can tell he loves it too. His eyes are bright, and as we come down to the hall again he’s asking questions about the neighbors.
“Well…thanks,” he says at last, shaking Fabia’s hand. “We’ll be in touch through the estate agent.”
How can he restrain himself? Why isn’t he getting out his checkbook?
“Thank you very much,” I add, and am about to shake Fabia’s hand myself when there’s the sound of a key at the front door. A tanned man in his fifties comes in, wearing jeans and a leather jacket and carrying a cool art-portfolio–type thing.
“Hi, there.” He looks from face to face, clearly wondering if he’s supposed to know us. “How are you?”
“Darling, these are the Brandons,” says Fabia. “They’ve been looking round the house.”
“Ah. Through Hamptons?” He frowns. “I would have called if I’d known. I accepted an offer ten minutes ago. Through the other agent.”
I feel a shot of horror. He’s done what?
“We’ll make you an offer right now!” I blurt out. “We’ll offer the asking price!”
“Sorry. It’s done.” He shrugs and takes off his jacket. “Those Americans who looked round this morning,” he adds to Fabia.
No. No. We can’t be losing our dream house!
“Luke, do something.” I try to speak calmly. “Make an offer! Quick!”
“You don’t mind, do you?” Fabia looks surprised. “You didn’t seem that keen on the place.”
“We were playing cool!” I wail, all semblance of nonchalance vanishing. “Luke, I knew we should have said something earlier! We love the house! I adore the nurseries! We want it!”
“We’d very much like to offer above the asking price,” says Luke, stepping forward. “We can act with the utmost speed and have our solicitor contact yours in the morning.”
“Look, as far as I’m concerned, the house has gone,” says Fabia’s husband, rolling his eyes. “I need a drink. Good luck with your search.” He strides away, over the tiles toward the kitchen, and I hear a fridge opening.
“I’m sorry,” Fabia says with a shrug, and leads us toward the front door.
“But…” I trail off helplessly.
“That’s OK. If the deal falls through, please let us know.” Luke gives her a polite smile and slowly we walk out into the mild autumn afternoon. Leaves are drifting off the trees onto the paved path and I can smell a bonfire in the air.
I could just see myself living on this street. Pushing the baby along in a pram, waving to all the neighbors…
“I can’t believe it.” My voice is a little choked.
“It was just a house.” Luke puts his arm round my slumped shoulders. “We’ll find another one.”
“We won’t. We won’t ever find a place like that. It was the perfect house!” I stop, my hand on the wrought-iron gate. I can’t just give up. I’m not some lame giver-upper.
“Wait here,” I say to Luke, swiveling on my heel. I rush back along the path, up the steps, and plant a foot in the door before Fabia can close it.
“Listen,” I say urgently. “Please. Fabia, we really, really love your house. We’ll pay anything you want.”
“My husband’s already done the deal.” She shrinks back. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“You can talk him round! What can I do
to persuade you?”
“Look.” She sighs. “It’s not up to me. Could you please move your feet?”
“I’ll do anything!” I cry in desperation. “I’ll buy you something! I work at a fashion store, I can get really cool stuff—”
I break off. Fabia is peering at my foot, jammed in the door. Then she looks at the other one.
It’s not my feet she’s interested in, it’s my Archie Swann cowboy boots in beaten-up calfskin with the leather drawstring. Archie Swann is the new kid on the shoe block, and these exact boots were in Vogue last week, under “Most Coveted.” I saw Fabia checking them out the moment we arrived.
Fabia raises her eyes to mine. “I like your boots,” she says.
I’m momentarily speechless.
Play it cool, Becky, play it cool.
“I waited a whole year for these boots,” I say at last, feeling as though I’m treading on eggshells. “You can’t get them anywhere.”
“I’m on the waiting list at Harvey Nichols,” she bats back.
“Maybe.” I force a casual tone. “But you won’t get them. They only made fifty pairs and they’ve run out. I’m a personal shopper, so I know these things.”
I am totally bluffing here. But I think it’s working. She’s practically salivating over them.
“Becky?” Luke is coming back up the path toward me. “What’s going on?”
“Luke!” I lift a hand. “Stay there!” I feel like Obi-Wan Kenobi telling Luke Skywalker not to interfere because he doesn’t understand the strength of the Force.
I wriggle out of my left boot, leaving it standing on the doormat like a totem.
“It’s yours,” I say. “If you accept our offer. And the other one when we exchange contracts.”
“Call the agent tomorrow,” says Fabia, sounding almost breathless. “I’ll talk my husband round. The house is yours.”
I did it! I don’t believe it!
As fast as I can, in one boot and one stockinged foot, I hurry down the steps toward Luke.
“We’ve got the house!” I throw my arms round his neck. “I got us the house!”
“What the fuck—” He stares at me. “What did you say? Why are you only wearing one boot?”
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