“I’m lending it to Suze,” I say, pulling a regretful face. “But what about… a purple shawl with sequins?”
“Yes, please! And Binky says, have you still got that black wraparound skirt?”
“I have,” I say thoughtfully. “But actually, I’ve got another skirt I think would look even better on her…”
It’s about half an hour before everyone has borrowed what they want. Eventually they all pile out of my room, shrieking to me that they’ll return it all in the morning, and Suze comes in, looking completely stunning with her hair piled up on her head and hanging down in blond tendrils.
“Bex, are you sure you don’t want to come?” she says. “Tarquin’s going to be there, and I know he’d like to see you.”
“Oh right,” I say, trying not to look too appalled at the idea. “Is he in London, then?”
“Just for a few days.” Suze looks at me, a little sorrowfully. “You know, Bex, if it weren’t for Luke… I reckon Tarkie still likes you.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” I say quickly. “That was ages ago now. Ages!”
My one and only date with Tarquin is one of those events I am trying very hard never to remember again, ever.
“Oh well,” says Suze, shrugging. “See you later. And don’t work too hard!”
“I won’t,” I reply, and give a world-weary sigh. “Or at least, I’ll try not to.”
I wait until the front door bangs behind her, and the taxis waiting outside have roared off. Then I take a sip of tea and turn back to my first chapter.
Chapter One
Finance is very
Actually, I’m not really in the mood for this anymore. Suze is right, I should have a break. I mean, if I sit here hour after hour, I’ll get all jaded, and lose the creative flow. And the point is, I’ve made a good start.
I stand up and stretch, then wander into the sitting room, and pick up a copy of Tatler. It’s EastEnders in a minute, and then it might be Changing Rooms or something, or that documentary about the vets. I’ll just watch that — and then I’ll go back to work. I mean, I’ve got a whole evening ahead, haven’t I? I need to pace myself.
Idly, I flick open the magazine and am scanning the contents page for something interesting when suddenly my eye stops in surprise. It’s a little picture of Luke, with the caption Best of Brandon, page seventy-four! Why on earth didn’t he tell me he was going to be in Tatler?
The photograph is his new official one, the one I helped him choose an outfit for (blue shirt, dark blue Fendi tie). He’s staring at the camera, looking all serious and businesslike — but if you look closely at his eyes, there’s a little friendly spark in there. As I stare at his face I feel a tug of affection and realize Suze is right. I should just trust him, shouldn’t I? I mean — what does Alicia Bitchy-pants know about anything?
I turn to page seventy-four, and it’s an article on “Britain’s Top Movers and Shakers.” I scan down the page, and I can’t help noticing that some of the movers and shakers are pictured with their partners. Maybe there’ll be a picture of me with Luke! After all, somebody might have taken a picture of us together at a party or something, mightn’t they? Come to think of it, we were once snapped by the Evening Standard at a launch for some new magazine, although it never actually got into the paper.
Ooh! Here he is, number thirty-four! And it’s just him, in that same official photo, with not a glimpse of me. Still, I feel a twinge of pride as I see his picture (much bigger than some of the others, ha!) and a caption reading: “Brandon’s ruthless pursuit of success has knocked lesser competitors off the starting blocks.” Then the piece starts: “Luke Brandon, dynamic owner and founder of Brandon Communications, the blah-di blah-di…”
I skim over the text, feeling a pleasant anticipation as I reach the section labeled “Vital Statistics.” This is the bit where I’ll be mentioned! “Currently dating TV personality Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or maybe, “Partner of well-known finance expert Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or else—
Luke James Brandon
Age: 34
Education: Cambridge
Current status: Single.
Single?
Luke told them he was single?
A hurt anger begins to rise through me as I stare at Luke’s confident, arrogant gaze. Suddenly I’ve had enough of all this. I’ve had enough of being made to feel insecure and paranoid and wondering what’s going on. Hands trembling, I pick up the phone and jab in Luke’s number.
“Yes,” I say, as soon as the message has finished. “Yes, well. If you’re single, Luke, then I’m single too. OK? And if you’re going to New York, then I’m going to… to Outer Mongolia. And if you’re…”