“Oh,” I say dully. “Of course I am.”

I’d forgotten all about it, to be honest. But it’s OK — I’ll just wait until tomorrow afternoon and say I’ve got period pain. Easy. No one ever questions that, especially men.

“Oh yes,” says Suze, gesturing to a Harper’s and Queen open on the floor. “And look who I came across just now in the Hundred Richest Bachelors list! Oh hi, Charlie,” she says into the phone. “It’s Suze! Listen—”

I look down at the open Harper’s and Queen and freeze. Luke Brandon is staring out of the page at me, an easy smile on his face.

Number 31, reads the caption. Age 32. Estimated wealth: £10 million. Scarily intelligent entrepreneur. Lives in Chelsea; currently dating Sacha de Bonneville, daughter of the French billionaire.

I don’t want to know this. Why would I be interested in who Luke Brandon is dating? Not remotely interested.

Sacha. Sacha, with her million-pound suitcase and perfect figure and whole wardrobe full of Prada. She’ll have immaculate nails, won’t she? Of course she will. And hair that never goes wrong. And some really sexy French accent, and incredibly long legs. .

Anyway, I’m not interested. Savagely I flip the page backward and start reading about Number 17, who sounds much nicer.

Dave Kington. Age 28. Estimated wealth: £20 million. Former striker for Manchester United, now management guru and sportswear entrepreneur. Lives in Hertfordshire, recently split from girlfriend, model Cherisse.

And anyway, Luke Brandon’s boring. Everyone says so. All he does is work. Obsessed with money, probably.

Number 16, Ernest Flight. Age 52. Estimated wealth: £22 million. Chairman and major shareholder of the Flight Foods Corporation. Lives in Nottinghamshire, recently divorced from third wife Susan.

I don’t even think he’s that good-looking. Too tall. And he probably doesn’t go to the gym or anything. Too busy. He’s probably hideous underneath his clothes.

Number 15, Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Age 26. Estimated wealth: £25 million. Landowner since inheriting family estate at age 19. V. publicity-shy. Lives in Perthshire and London with old nanny; currently single.

Anyway, what kind of man buys luggage as a present? I mean, a suitcase, for God’s sake, when he had the whole of Harrods to choose from. He could have bought his girlfriend a necklace, or some clothes. Or he could have. . He could have. .

Hang on a moment, what was that?

What was that?

No. That can’t be— Surely that’s not—

And suddenly, I can’t breathe. I can’t move. My entire frame is concentrated on the blurry picture in front of me. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart? Tarquin Suze’s-Cousin? Tarquin?

Tarquin. . has. . twenty-five. . million. . pounds?

I think I’m going to pass out, if I can ever ungrip my hand from this page. I’m staring at the fifteenth richest bachelor in Britain — and I know him.

Not only do I know him, I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night.

oh. my. god.

I’m going to be a millionairess. A multimillionairess. I knew it. Didn’t I know it? I knew it. Tarquin’s going to fall in love with me and ask me to marry him and we’ll get married in a gorgeous Scottish castle just like in Four Weddings (except with nobody dying on us).

Of course, I’ll love him, too. By then.

I know I haven’t exactly been attracted to him in the past. . but it’s all a matter of willpower, isn’t it? I bet that’s what most long-term successful couples would say counts in a relationship. Willpower and a desire to make it work. Both of which I absolutely have. You know what? I actually fancy him more already. Well, not exactly fancy. . but just the thought of him makes me feel all excited, which must mean something, mustn’t it?

It’s going to happen. I’m going to be Mrs. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart and have £25 million.

And what will Derek Smeath say then? Hah!

Hah!

“D’you want a cup of tea?” says Suze, putting down the phone. “Charlie’s such a poppet. He’s going to feature me in Britain’s Up-and-Coming-Talent.”

“Excellent,” I say vaguely, and clear my throat. “Just. . just looking at Tarquin here.”

I have to check. I have to check there isn’t some other Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Please God, please let me be going out with the rich one.

“Oh yes,” says Suze casually. “He’s always in those things.” She runs her eyes down the text and shakes her head. “God, they always exaggerate everything. Twenty-five million pounds!”

My heart stops.

“Hasn’t he got £25 million, then?” I says carelessly.

“Oh, no!” She laughs as though the idea’s ridiculous. “The estate’s worth about. . Oh, I don’t know, £18 million.”

Eighteen million pounds. Well, that’ll do. That’ll do nicely.

“These magazines!” I say, and roll my eyes sympathetically.

“Earl Grey?” says Suze, getting up. “Or normal?”

“Earl Grey,” I say, even though I actually prefer Typhoo. Because I’d better start acting posh, hadn’t I, if I’m going to be the girlfriend of someone called Tarquin Cleath-Stuart.

Rebecca Cleath-Stuart.

Becky Cleath-Stuart.

Hi, it’s Rebecca Cleath-Stuart here. Yes, Tarquin’s wife. We met at. . Yes, I was wearing Chanel. How clever of you!

“By the way,” I add, “did Tarquin say where I should meet him?”

“Oh, he’s going to come and pick you up,” says Suze.

But of course he is. The fifteenth richest bachelor in Britain doesn’t just meet you at a tube station, does he? He doesn’t just say “See you under the big clock at Waterloo.” He comes and picks you up.

Oh, this is it. This is it! Forget Luke Brandon, forget suitcases. My new life has finally begun.



I have never spent so long on getting ready for a date in my life. Never. The process starts at eight on Saturday morning when I look at my open wardrobe and realize that I don’t have a single thing to wear — and only ends at seven-thirty that evening when I give my lashes another layer of mascara, spray myself in Coco Chanel, and walk into the sitting room for Suze’s verdict.

“Wow!” she says, looking up from a frame she is upholstering in distressed denim. “You look. . bloody amazing!”

And I have to say, I agree. I’m wearing all black — but expensive black. The kind of deep, soft black you fall into. A simple sleeveless dress from Whistles, the highest of Jimmy Choos, a pair of stunning uncut amethyst earrings. And please don’t ask how much it all cost, because that’s irrelevant. This is investment shopping. The biggest investment of my life.

I haven’t eaten anything all day so I’m nice and thin, and for once my hair has fallen perfectly into shape. I look. . well, I’ve never looked better in my life.

But of course, looks are only part of the package, aren’t they? Which is why I cannily stopped off at Waterstones on the way home and bought a book on Wagner. I’ve been reading it all afternoon, while I waited for my nails to dry, and have even memorized a few little passages to throw into the conversation.

I’m not sure what else Tarquin is into, apart from Wagner. Still, that should be enough to keep us going. And anyway, I expect he’s planning to take me somewhere really glamorous with a jazz band, so we’ll be too busy dancing cheek to cheek to make conversation.

The doorbell rings and I give a little start. I have to admit, my heart is pounding with nerves. But at the same time I feel strangely cool. This is it. Here begins my new multimillion-pound existence. Luke Brandon, eat your heart out.

“I’ll get it,” says Suze, grinning at me, and disappears out into the hall. A moment later I hear her saying “Tarkie!”

“Suze!”

I glance at myself in the mirror, take a deep breath, and turn to face the door, just as Tarquin appears. His head is as bony as ever, and he’s wearing another of his odd-looking suits. But somehow none of that seems to matter anymore. In fact, I’m not really taking in the way he looks. I’m just staring at him. Staring and staring at him, unable to speak; unable to frame any thought at all except: twenty-five million pounds.

Twenty-five million pounds.

The sort of thought that makes you feel dizzy and elated, like a fairground ride. I suddenly want to run around the room, yelling “Twenty-five million! Twenty-five million!” throwing bank notes up in the air as if I were in some Hollywood comedy caper.

But I don’t. Of course I don’t. I say, “Hi, Tarquin,” and give him a dazzling smile.

“Hi, Becky,” he says. “You look wonderful.”

“Thanks,” I say, and look bashfully down at my dress.

“D’you want to stay for a titchy?” says Suze, who is looking on fondly, as if she’s my mother and this is senior prom night and I’m dating the most popular boy in school.

“Ermm. . no, I think we’ll just get going,” says Tarquin, meeting my eye. “What do you think, Becky?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Fourteen


A TAXI IS CHUGGING outside in the road, and Tarquin ushers me inside. To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed it isn’t a chauffeur-driven limousine — but still. This is pretty good, too. Being whisked off in a taxi by one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors to. . who knows where? The Savoy? Claridges? Dancing at Annabel’s? Tarquin hasn’t told me yet where we’re going.

Oh God, maybe it’ll be one of those mad places where everything is served under a silver dome and there’s a million knives and forks and snooty waiters looking on, just waiting to catch you out.

“I thought we’d just have a nice quiet supper,” says Tarquin, looking over at me.