“You did what?” Suze looks aghast. “What if he’d seen you?”

“He did see me. I pretended I was shopping.”

“Bex…” Suze clutches her hair. “What if nothing’s going on? Just seeing them holding hands isn’t proof. You don’t want to ruin all the trust between you and Luke.”

“So, what should I do?” I look from face to face. “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” says Suze firmly. “Bex, I know Luke loves you. And he hasn’t done anything really incriminating, has he? It would be different if he’d lied to you, or if you’d seen them kissing….”

“I agree.” Jess nods vigorously. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Becky.”

“But…” I trail off, winding the wrapper tightly around my fingers. I don’t know how to explain it; I just have a bad feeling. It’s not just the texting, or the dinners. It’s not even seeing them just now. It’s something about her. It’s something in her eyes. She’s a predator.

But if I say that to the others, they’ll say I’m imagining it.

“All right,” I say at last. “I won’t do anything.”

“Let’s order,” says Suze firmly, shoving a menu at me.

“There’s a set menu,” says Jess, putting a typed sheet on top of the à la carte. “It’s more economical, if we only have two courses and don’t choose any of these ridiculous items with truffles.”

I immediately want to retort that truffles are my favorite food and who cares how much they cost? But the trouble is, I kind of agree. I’ve never got the whole thousand-pounds-for-a-truffle thing.

Oh God. Please don’t say I’m starting to agree with Jess.

“And you can help me think of how to get my own back on Lulu,” adds Suze, passing the bread basket.

“Ooh,” I say, cheering up. “How come?”

“She’s been asked to do a TV program,” Suze says with disdain. “One of those makeover shows where she goes to the house of some crap mother and tells them how to cook healthily for their children. And she’s asked me to be the first crap mother!”

“No!”

“She’s already put my name forward to the production company!” Suze’s voice rises in indignation. “They phoned me up and said was it true that I only fed my children canned food and that none of them could speak?”

“What a nerve!” I take a roll and spread some butter on it. There’s nothing like having someone else to hate, to make you forget your problems.

We have a great lunch, the three of us, and by the end of it I feel so much better. We all decide Lulu is the absolute pits. (Jess has never met Lulu, but I give her a pretty good description.) And then Jess relays her own problems. She told Tom about Chile and it didn’t go too well.

“First he thought I was joking,” she says, crumbling a roll into little bits. “Then he thought I was testing his love. So he proposed.”

“He proposed?” I say in an excited squeak.

“Obviously, I told him to stop being so ridiculous,” says Jess. “And now…we’re not really talking.” She says it in a matter-of-fact way, but I can see the sadness in her eyes. “Just one of those things.” She takes a deep gulp of wine, which is really unlike Jess. I glance at Suze, who gives me an anxious frown.

“Jess, are you sure about Chile?” I say tentatively.

“Yes.” She nods. “I have to go. I have to do this. I’ll never get this opportunity again.”

“And Tom can always come and visit you out there,” Suze points out.

“Exactly. If he would just stop listening to his mother!” Jess shakes her head in exasperation. “Janice is in total hysterics. She keeps sending me pages which she’s printed out from the Internet, saying Chile’s a dangerous, unstable country riddled with disease and land mines.”

“Is it?” I say fearfully.

“Of course not!” says Jess. “She’s talking absolute rubbish.” She takes a sip of wine. “There’s just a few land mines, that’s all. And a small cholera problem.”

A few land mines? Cholera?

“Jess, be really careful out there,” I say on impulse, and grab her hand. “We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Yes, be careful,” chimes in Suze.

“I will.” Jess’s neck flushes pink. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, anyway.” As the waiter arrives with our coffees she withdraws her hand, looking awkward. “I. like your hair clip, Becky.”

She obviously wants to change the subject.

“Oh, thanks,” I touch it fondly. “Isn’t it fab? It’s Miu Miu. Actually, it’s part of the baby’s trust fund portfolio.”

There’s silence and I look up to see both Suze and Jess staring at me.

“Bex, how can a Miu Miu hair clip be part of a trust fund portfolio?” says Suze uncertainly.

“Because it’s an Antique of the Future!” I say with a flourish.

“What’s an Antique of the Future?” Suze looks puzzled.

Ha. You see. I am so ahead of the game!

“It’s this fab new way to invest,” I explain. “It’s easy-peasy! You just buy anything and keep the packaging, and then in fifty years you auction it and make a fortune!”

“Right,” says Suze, looking dubious. “So, what else have you bought?”

“Um…” I think. “Quite a few things from Miu Miu, actually. And some Harry Potter figures and Barbie princess dolls…and this fab bracelet from Topshop…”

“Becky, a Topshop bracelet isn’t an investment,” says Jess, looking incredulous.

She really hasn’t got the point.

“Maybe not now,” I explain patiently. “But it will be. It’ll be on the Antiques Road Show — you’ll see!”

“Bex, what’s wrong with a bank?” says Suze anxiously.

“I’m not putting the baby’s money into some crappy bank like everyone else!” I say. “I’m a financial professional, remember, Suze. This is what I do.”

“What you used to do.”

“It’s like riding a bike,” I assure her loftily. I’m not actually that great at riding a bike, but I needn’t mention that.

“So, is that it?” asks Jess. “Have you invested all the money?”

“Oh, no. I’ve still got loads!” I take a sip of coffee, then notice an abstract painting on the wall next to me. It’s just a big blue square of oil paint on canvas, and there’s a little price tag of £195. “Hey, look at that!” I say, focusing on it with interest. “D’you think I should—”

“No!” chime Jess and Suze in unison.

Honestly. They didn’t even know what I was going to say.



I arrive home that evening to find a dark, empty flat and no Luke. He’s with her immediately shoots through my mind.

No. He’s not. Stop it. I make myself a sandwich, kick off my shoes, and curl up on the sofa with the remote. As I’m flicking down the channels looking for Birth Stories, which I’m addicted to (only I have to watch the crucial bit through my fingers), the phone rings.

“Hi.” It’s Luke, sounding hurried. “Becky, I forgot to remind you — I’m out at the Finance Awards. I’ll be back late.”

“Oh, right.” Now I remember — I did know about the Finance Awards. In fact, Luke invited me, but I couldn’t face an evening of boring old fund managers. “OK. I’ll see you then. Luke…”

I break off, my heart thumping. I don’t know what I want to say, let alone how to say it.

“I have to go.” Luke hasn’t even noticed my troubled silence. “See you later.”

“Luke…” I try again, but the line’s already dead.

I stare into space for a while, imagining the perfect conversation in which Luke asked me what was wrong and I said, Oh nothing, and he said, Yes there is, and it ended with him saying he totally loved me and Venetia was really ugly and how about we fly to Paris tomorrow?

A blaring theme song from the TV drags me from my daze and I look up at the screen. Somehow I’ve gone too far down the cable list, and I’m on some obscure business and finance channel. I’m just trying to remember the number for the Living Channel, when my attention is drawn to the screen by a portly guy in a dinner jacket. I recognize him. It’s Alan Proctor from Foreland Investments. And there’s that girl Jill from Portfolio Management, sitting next to him. What on earth…

I don’t believe it. The Finance Awards are actually being televised! On some cable channel which nobody ever watches — but still! I sit up and focus on the screen. Maybe I’ll see Luke!

“And we’re live from Grosvenor House at this year’s Finance Awards….” an announcer is saying. “The venue has been changed this year due to increased numbers….”

Just for fun, I reach for the phone and speed-dial Luke. The camera pans around the ballroom and I scan the screen intently, looking at all the black-tied people sitting at tables. There’s Philip, my old editor at Successful Saving, swigging back the wine. And that girl from Lloyds who always used to wear the same green suit to press conferences…

“Hi, Becky,” Luke answers abruptly. “Is everything OK?”

“Hi!” I say. “I just wondered how it’s going at the Finance Awards?”

I’m waiting for the camera to pan to Luke. Then I can say, “Guess what, I’m watching you!”

“Oh…the same old, same old,” Luke says after a pause. “Packed room at the Dorchester…gruesome crowds…”

The Dorchester?

I stare at the phone for a moment. Then, feeling hot and cold, I press my ear hard to the receiver. I can’t hear any background babble. He’s not in a crowded ballroom, is he?

He’s lying.

“Becky? Are you there?”

“I…um…yes.” I feel dizzy with shock. “So, who are you sitting next to?”

“I’m next to…Mel. I’d better go, sweetheart.”

“OK,” I say numbly. “Bye.”

The camera’s just panned to Mel. She’s sandwiched between two large men in suits. There isn’t an empty chair at the whole table.

Luke lied to me. He’s somewhere else. With someone else.