Hang on. It’s not some polite way of saying he thinks I’m stupid, is it? Or a liar? Like “creative accounting.” Perhaps he’s trying to say that none of my articles is accurate.

Oh God, now I don’t know whether to look pleased or not.

To cover up my embarrassment, I look out of the window. We’ve stopped at a traffic light, and a very large lady in a pink velour jogging suit is trying to cross the road. She’s holding several bags of shopping and a pug dog, and she keeps losing grasp of one or other of them and having to put something down. I almost want to leap out and help her. Then, suddenly, she loses her grasp of one of the bags, and drops it on the ground. It falls open — and three huge tubs of ice cream come out of it and start rolling down the road.

Don’t laugh, I instruct myself. Be mature. Don’t laugh. I clamp my lips together, but I can’t stop a little giggle escaping.

I glance at Luke, and his lips are clamped together, too.

Then the woman starts chasing her ice cream down the road, pug dog in tow, and that’s it. I can’t stop myself giggling. And when the pug dog reaches the ice cream before the lady, and starts trying to get the lid off with its teeth, I think I’m going to die laughing. I look over at Luke, and I can’t believe it. He’s laughing helplessly, too, wiping the tears from his eyes. I didn’t think Luke Brandon ever laughed.

“Oh God,” I manage at last. “I know you shouldn’t laugh at people. But I mean. .”

“That dog!” Luke starts laughing again. “That bloody dog!”

“That outfit!” I give a little shudder as we start to move off again, past the pink woman. She’s bending over the ice cream, her huge pink bottom thrust up in the air. . “I’m sorry, but pink velour jogging suits should be banned from this planet.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” says Luke, nodding seriously. “Pink velour jogging suits are hereby banned. Along with cravats.”

“And men’s briefs,” I say without thinking — then blush pink. How could I mention men’s briefs in front of Luke Brandon? “And toffee-flavored popcorn,” I quickly add.

“Right,” says Luke. “So we’re banning pink velour jogging suits, cravats, men’s briefs, toffee-flavored popcorn. .”

“And punters with no change,” comes the taxi driver’s voice from the front.

“Fair enough,” says Luke, giving a little shrug. “Punters with no change.”

“And punters who vomit. They’re the worst.”

“OK. .”

“And punters who don’t know where the fuck they’re going.”

Luke and I exchange glances and I begin to giggle again.

“And punters who don’t speak the bloody language. Drive you crazy.”

“Right,” says Luke. “So. . most punters, in fact.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” says the taxi driver. “I’ve got nothing against foreigners. .” He pulls up outside Harrods. “Here we are. Going shopping, are you?”

“That’s right,” says Luke, getting out his wallet.

“So — what’re you after?”

I look at Luke expectantly. He hasn’t told me what we’re here to buy. Clothes? A new aftershave? Will I have to keep smelling his cheek? (I wouldn’t mind that, actually.) Furniture? Something dull like a new desk?

“Luggage,” he says, and hands a tenner to the driver. “Keep the change.”



Luggage! Suitcases and holdalls and stuff like that. As I wander round the department, looking at Louis Vuitton suitcases and calfskin bags, I’m quite thrown. Quite shocked by myself. Luggage. Why on earth have I never considered luggage before?

I should explain — for years now, I’ve kind of operated under an informal shopping cycle. A bit like a farmer’s crop rotation system. Except, instead of wheat-maize-barley-fallow, mine pretty much goes clothes-makeup-shoes-clothes. (I don’t usually bother with fallow.) Shopping is actually very similar to farming a field. You can’t keep buying the same thing — you have to have a bit of variety.

But look what I’ve been missing out on all this time. Look what I’ve been denying myself. I feel quite shaky as I realize the opportunities I’ve just been throwing away over the years. Suitcases, weekend bags, monogrammed hatboxes. . With weak legs I wander into a corner and sit down on a carpeted pedestal next to a red leather vanity case.

How can I have overlooked luggage for so long? How can I have just blithely led my life ignoring an entire retail sector?

“So — what do you think?” says Luke, coming up to me. “Anything worth buying?”

And now, of course, I feel like a fraud. Why couldn’t he have wanted to buy a really good white shirt, or a cashmere scarf? Or even hand cream? I would have been able to advise him authoritatively and even quote prices. But luggage. I’m a beginner at luggage.

“Well,” I say, playing for time. “It depends. They all look great.”

“They do, don’t they?” He follows my gaze around the department. “But which one would you choose? If you had to buy one of these suitcases, which one would it be?”

It’s no good. I can’t bluff.

“To be honest,” I say, “this isn’t really my field.”

“What isn’t?” he says, sounding incredulous. “Shopping?”

“Luggage,” I explain. “It’s not an area I’ve put a lot of time into. I should have done, I know, but. .”

“Well. . never mind,” says Luke, his mouth twisting into a smile. “As a nonexpert, which one would you choose?”

Well, that’s different.

“Hmm,” I say, and get to my feet in a businesslike manner. “Well, let’s have a closer look.”



God, we have fun. We line up eight suitcases in a row, and give them marks for looks, heaviness, quality of lining, number of interior pockets, and efficiency of wheels. (I test this by striding the length of the department, pulling the case behind me. By this time, the assistant has just given up and left us to it.) Then we look to see if they have a matching holdall and give that marks, too.

The prices don’t seem to matter to Luke. Which is a bloody good thing, because they’re astronomical — and at first sight, so scary, they make me want to run away. But it’s amazing how quickly £1,000 can start to seem like a very reasonable sum for a suitcase — especially since the Louis Vuitton monogrammed trunk costs about ten times as much. In fact, after a while I find myself thinking quite seriously that I too should really invest in a quality suitcase, instead of my battered old canvas bag.

But today is Luke’s shopping trip, not mine. And, strangely enough, it’s almost more fun choosing for someone else than for yourself. In the end, we narrow it down to a dark green leather case, which has wonderful trundly wheels, or the palest beige calfskin case, which is a bit heavier, but has a stunning silk lining and is so soft, I can’t stop running my fingers over it. And it has a matching holdall and vanity case — and they’re just as beautiful. God, if it were me, I’d. .

But then, it’s not up to me, is it? It’s Luke who’s buying the case. He’s the one who’s got to choose. We sit down on the floor, side by side, and look at them.

“The green one would be more practical,” says Luke eventually.

“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. “I suppose it would.”

“It’s lighter — and the wheels are better.”

“Mmm.”

“And that pale calfskin would probably scuff in a matter of minutes. Green’s a more sensible color.”

“Mmm,” I say, trying to sound as though I agree with him.

He gives me a quizzical look and says, “Right, well, I think we’ve made our choice, don’t you?” And, still sitting on the floor, he calls over the assistant.

“Yes, sir?” says the assistant, and Luke nods at him.

“I’d like to buy one of these pale beige suitcases, please.”

“Oh!” I say, and I can’t stop a smile of delight spreading over my face. “You’re getting the one I liked best!”

“Rule of life,” says Luke, getting to his feet and brushing down his trousers. “If you bother to ask someone’s advice, then bother to listen to it.”

“But I didn’t say which one. .”

“You didn’t have to,” says Luke, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet. “Your mmms gave it all away.”

His hand is surprisingly strong round mine, and as he pulls me up, I feel a slight swooping in my stomach. He smells nice, too. Some expensive aftershave, which I don’t recognize. For a moment, neither of us says anything.

“Right,” says Luke at last. “Well, I’d better pay for it, I suppose.”

“Yes,” I say, suddenly feeling ridiculously nervous. “Yes, I suppose you had.”

He walks off to the checkout and starts talking to the assistant, and I perch next to a display of leather suit-carriers, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. I mean, what happens next?

Well, we’ll just say good-bye politely, won’t we? Luke’ll probably have to get back to the office. He can’t hang around shopping all day. And if he asks me what I’m doing next, I tell myself, I really will say I’m busy. I’ll pretend I’ve got some important meeting arranged or something.

“All sorted out,” he says, coming back. “Rebecca, I’m incredibly grateful to you for your help.”

“Great!” I say brightly. “Well, I must be on my—”

“So I was wondering,” says Luke, before I can continue. “Would you like some lunch?”



This is turning into my perfect day. Shopping at Harrods, and lunch at Harvey Nichols. I mean, what could be better than that? We go straight up to the Fifth Floor restaurant, and Luke orders a bottle of chilled white wine and raises his glass in a toast.

“To luggage,” he says, and smiles.

“Luggage,” I reply happily, and take a sip. It’s just about the most delicious wine I’ve ever tasted. Luke picks up his menu and starts to read it, and I pick mine up, too — but to be honest, I’m not reading a word. I’m just sitting in a happy glow. I’m looking around with relish at all the smart women coming in to have lunch here, and making notes of their outfits and wondering where that girl over there got her pink boots from. And now, for some reason, I’m thinking about that nice card Luke sent me. And I’m wondering whether it was just being friendly — or. . or whether it was something else.