The glitzy light and noise of the awards ceremony is jarring my nerves, and I jab the TV off. For a moment I just stare blankly, in silence — then, in a daze, I reach for the phone and find myself dialing Mum’s number. I need to talk to someone.

“Hello?” As soon as I hear her safe, familiar voice, I want to burst into tears.

“Mum, it’s Becky.”

“Becky! How are you, love? How’s the baby? Kicking away?”

“The baby’s fine.” I touch my bump automatically. “But I’ve got…a…a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Mum sounds perturbed. “Becky, it’s not those people from MasterCard again?”

“No! It’s…personal.”

“Personal?”

“I…it’s…” I bite my lip, suddenly wishing I’d thought before phoning. I can’t tell Mum what’s wrong. I can’t get her all worried. Not after she warned me about exactly this happening.

Maybe I can ask her advice without giving away the truth. Like when people write to advice columnists about their “friend” and it was really them who got caught wearing their wife’s swimwear.

“It’s a…a colleague at work,” I begin, my voice faltering. “I think she’s planning to…to move to a different department. She’s been talking to them behind my back and having lunches with them, and I’ve just found out she’s lied to me….” A teartrickles down my cheek. “Do you have any advice?”

“Of course I’ve got some advice!” says Mum cheerfully. “Love, she’s only a colleague! They come and go. You’ll have forgotten all about her in a few weeks’ time and moved on to someone else!”

“Right,” I say after a pause.

To be honest, that wasn’t the hugest help.

“Now,” Mum is saying. “Have you got a diaper holder yet? Because I saw a super one in John Lewis—”

“The thing is, Mum…” I make another attempt. “The thing is, I really like this colleague. And I can’t tell if she’s seeing these other people behind my back….”

“Darling, who is this friend?” Mum sounds perplexed. “Have you ever mentioned her before?”

“She’s just…someone I click with. We have fun, and we’re having a…a joint project…and, you know, it felt like it was really working. I thought we were so happy together….” There’s a huge lump in my throat. “I can’t bear to lose her.”

“You won’t lose her!” says Mum, laughing. “Even if she leaves you for another department, you can still have the odd coffee together—”

“The odd coffee together?” My voice shoots out in distress. “What good is the odd coffee together?”

Tears start running down my face at the thought of me and Luke stiffly meeting for the odd coffee, while Venetia sits drumming her nails in the corner.

“Becky?” exclaims Mum in alarm. “Sweetheart? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I snuffle, rubbing my face. “It’s just a bit…upsetting.”

“Is this girl really that important to you?” Mum is clearly baffled. I can hear Dad in the background, saying “What’s wrong?” and there’s a rustling as Mum turns away from the phone.

“It’s Becky,” I can hear her saying, sotto voce. “I think she’s a bit hormonal, poor love….”

Honestly, I am not hormonal. My husband is having an affair.

“Becky, now listen.” Mum is back on the line. “Have you talked to your friend about this? Have you asked her straight-out whether she’s planning to move departments? Are you even sure you’ve got your facts straight?”

There’s silence as I try to imagine confronting Luke when he comes home tonight. Calling him on his lie. What if he blusters and tries to pretend he was at the awards ceremony? What if he says he loves Venetia and he’s leaving me for her?

Either way, I feel totally sick at the prospect.

“It isn’t easy,” I say at last.

“Oh, Becky.” Mum sighs. “You’ve never been the best at facing up to things, have you?”

“No.” I scuff my foot on the carpet. “I suppose I haven’t.”

“You’re grown-up now, love,” says Mum gently. “You have to confront your problems. You know what you have to do.”

“You’re right.” I give a huge sigh, feeling some of the tension leave my body. “Thanks, Mum.”

“You take care, darling. Don’t let yourself get upset. Dad sends his love too.”

“See you soon, Mum. Bye. And thanks.”

I switch off the phone with a new resolve. It just shows, mothers do know best. Mum’s made me see this whole thing clearly for the first time. I’ve decided exactly what I’m going to do.

I’m going to hire a private detective.



FACULTY OF CLASSICS

OXFORD UNIVERSITY

OXFORD OX1 6TH


Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF


3 November 2003


Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your telephone message, which my secretary relayed to me as best she could.

I am very sorry to hear your husband may be “having an affair in Latin,” as you put it. I can understand how anxious you must feel and will be pleased to translate any text messages you send me. I do hope this will prove illuminating.

Yours sincerely,


Edmund Fortescue

Professor of Classics


P.S. Incidentally, “Latin lover” is not generally taken to mean someone who talks to their lover in Latin; I do hope this is of some reassurance to you.



Denny and George

44 FLORAL STREET COVENT GARDEN LONDON W1


Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF


4 November 2003


Dear Rebecca,

Thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear you have fallen out with your obstetrician.

We are touched that you have had so many happy times in here and feel it is “the perfect place to bring a baby into the world.” However, I’m afraid we cannot convert our shop into a temporary birthing suite, even for an old and valued customer.

We appreciate your offer to name the baby “Denny George Brandon”; however, I’m afraid this does not alter our decision.


Good luck with the birth.

Very best wishes,


Francesca Goodman

Store Manager



REGAL AIRLINES

HEAD OFFICE PRESTON HOUSE • 354 KINGSWAY • LONDON WC2

4TH


Mrs Rebecca Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF


4 November 2003


Dear Mrs. Brandon,


Thank you for your letter.

You appear to be under a severe misapprehension. If you gave birth midair on a Regal flight, your child would not “get free club-class travel for life.” Nor would you be entitled to join your child “as its guardian.”

Our flight attendants have not “all delivered zillions of babies before,” and I would point out that company policy forbids us from letting any woman more than thirty-seven weeks pregnant board a Regal flight.

I hope you choose Regal Airlines again soon.

Yours sincerely,


Margaret McNair

Customer Service Manager



KENNETH PRENDERGAST

Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers

Forward House 394 High Holborn

London WC1V 7EX


Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF


5 November 2003


Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

I was perturbed to hear of your “new genius plan.” I strongly advise that you do not invest the remainder of your child’s fund in so-called “Antiques of the Future.” I am returning the Polaroid of the Topshop limited edition bikini, which I cannot comment on. Such purchases are not a “sure-fire win,” nor can anyone make a profit “if they just buy enough stuff.”

May I guide you towards more conventional investments, such as bonds and company shares?

Yours sincerely,


Kenneth Prendergast

Family Investment Specialist


TWELVE



I DON’T KNOW WHY I didn’t do this before. It’s like Mum says, I need to get my facts straight. All I need is to find out the answer to one simple question: Is Luke having an affair with Venetia? Yes or no.

And if he is—

My stomach spasms at the thought and I do a few quick shallow breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Ignore the pain. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I’m standing in West Ruislip tube station, right at the end of the Central Line, consulting my little A — Z. I’ve never been to this bit of northwest London before and I wouldn’t really have thought of it being the kind of place where private detectives hang out. (But then, I suppose I was really picturing downtown Chicago in the 1940s.)

I head off down the main road, glancing at my reflection in a shop window as I pass. It took me ages to decide what to wear this morning, but in the end I went for a simple black print dress, vintage shoes, and oversize opaque sunglasses. Although it turns out that sunglasses are a crap disguise. If anyone I knew spotted me, they wouldn’t think, “There’s a mysterious woman in black,” they’d think, “There’s Becky, wearing sunglasses and visiting a private detective.”

Feeling nervous, I start walking faster. I can’t quite believe I’m actually doing this. It was all so easy. Like booking a pedicure. I phoned the number on the card that the taxi driver gave me, but unfortunately that particular detective was about to go off to the Costa del Sol. (For a golfing holiday, not to follow a crook.) So I looked up private detectives on the Internet — and it turns out there are zillions of them! In the end I chose one called Dave Sharpness, Private Eye (Matrimonial a Specialty), and we arranged an appointment and now here I am. In West Ruislip.