“A Mrs. Sherman?”

I nearly drop the compact in dismay. Elinor? Elinor’s here? I thought Luke told her to leave me alone.

I haven’t seen Elinor since our wedding in New York. Or at least…our “wedding” in New York.(It was all a bit complicated in the end.) We’ve never really got on, mainly on account of her being a snobby, ice-cold bitch, who abandoned Luke when he was tiny and totally screwed him up. And the way she was rude to Mum. And the way she didn’t let me into my own bloody engagement party! And—

“Are you OK, Rebecca?” The nurse looks at me in slight alarm, and I realize I’m breathing harder and harder. “I can tell her you’re asleep if you like.”

“Yes, please. Tell her to go away.”

I’m in no state to see anyone right now. Not with my face all pink and my eyes still teary. And why should I make any effort to see Elinor? Surely the only advantage of splitting up with your husband is that you don’t need to see your mother-in-law anymore. I won’t miss her, and she won’t miss me.

“Fine.” The nurse comes over and squints at my drip. “A doctor will be along soon to check you over, then I should think you’ll be going home. Should I tell Mrs. Sherman that you’ll be leaving?”

“Actually…”

A new thought has just struck me. There’s an even bigger advantage to splitting up with your husband. You don’t have to be polite to your mother-in-law anymore.

I can say what I like to Elinor. I can be as rude as I like. For the first time in days, I feel a streak of cheer.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see her after all. Just let me get ready….” I reach for my makeup bag and clumsily knock it to the floor. The nurse picks it up and gives me an anxious look.

“Are you OK? You seem very on edge.”

“I’m fine. I was just a bit…upset earlier. I’ll be fine.”

The nurse disappears, and I open my makeup bag. I dab on some eye gel and brush myself with bronzer. I am not going to look like a victim here. I’m not going to look like some poor pathetic wronged wife. I have no idea what Elinor knows, but if she even mentions Luke and me splitting up, or dares to look pleased about it, I’ll…I’ll tell her the baby isn’t Luke’s, that it was fathered by my prison penpal Wayne and the whole scandal’s going to hit the papers tomorrow. That’ll freak her out.

I spray myself with perfume and quickly slick on some lip gloss as I hear footsteps approaching. There’s a knock at the door and I call, “Come in.” A moment later it swings open — and there she is.

She’s wearing a mint-green suit and the same Ferragamo pumps she buys every season, and she’s carrying a crocodile Kelly bag. She’s thinner than ever, her hair a lacquered helmet, her face pale and stretched-looking. Which figures. When I worked in Barneys in New York, I saw women like Elinor every single day. But over here she looks…Well, there’s no other word for it: weird.

Her mouth moves a millimeter, and I realize this is her greeting. “Hi, Elinor.” I don’t bother trying to smile. She’ll just assume I’ve had Botox too. “Welcome to London.”

“London is so tawdry these days,” she says with disapproval. “So tasteless.”

She’s just unbelievable. The whole of London is tasteless?

“Yeah, especially the Queen,” I say. “She has no idea.”

Ignoring me, Elinor stalks to a chair and sits down on the edge of it. She surveys me stonily for a few moments. “I gather you left the doctor I recommended, Rebecca. Who are you seeing now?”

“Her name’s…Venetia Carter.” I feel a knife of pain as I say the name. But Elinor doesn’t react a smidgen. She can’t know.

“Have you seen Luke?” I venture.

“Not yet.” She pulls off a pair of calfskin gloves and runs her eyes over my hospital-gowned frame. “You’ve put on a lot of weight, Rebecca. Does this new doctor approve?”

You see? This is what she’s like. Not “How are you?” or “Don’t you look blooming?”

“I’m pregnant,” I snap. “And I’m having a big baby.”

Elinor’s expression doesn’t soften. “Not too large, I hope. Oversize babies are vulgar.”

Vulgar? How dare she call my lovely baby vulgar?

“Yes, well, I’m glad it’s going to be big,” I say in defiance. “That way there’ll be more room for…the tattoos.”

I can just about see a jolt of shock pass across her practically immobile face. That’ll bust her stitches. Or staples. Whatever’s holding her together.

“Didn’t Luke tell you about our tattoo plans?” I adopt a surprised tone. “We’ve found a special newborn-baby tattooist who comes right into the delivery room. We thought we’d have an eagle on its back, with our names in Sanskrit….”

“You are not tattooing my grandchild.” Her voice is like gunfire.

“Oh yes, we are. Luke really got the tattoo bug while we were on honeymoon. He has fifteen of them!” I smile blandly at her. “And as soon as the baby’s born he’s going to get its name tattooed on his arm. Isn’t that sweet?”

Elinor’s gripping her Kelly bag so hard, the veins are standing up. I can tell she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not.

“Have you decided on a name?” she says at last.

“Uh-huh.” I nod. “Armageddon for a boy, Pomegranate for a girl.”

For a moment she seems unable to reply. I can tell she’s desperate to raise her eyebrows, or frown, or something. I almost feel sorry for her real face, trapped under the Botox like a caged animal.

“Armageddon?” she manages at last.

“Isn’t it great?” I nod again. “Macho, but kind of elegant. And unusual!”

Elinor looks like she’s going to explode. Or implode.

“I will not have this!” she suddenly erupts, rising to her feet. “Tattooing! These names! You’re…irresponsible beyond—”

“‘Irresponsible’?” I interrupt in disbelief. “Are you serious? Well, at least we’re not planning to abandon—” I stop abruptly, feeling like the words are too hot for my mouth. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to launch a full-blown attack on Elinor. I haven’t got the energy, for a start. And anyway…I feel distracted. All of a sudden my head is buzzing with thoughts.

“Rebecca.” Elinor approaches the bed, her eyes snapping. “I have no idea if you’re being frank with me—”

“Shut up!” I lift a hand, not caring if I’m rude. I have to concentrate. I have to think this through. I’m suddenly starting to see things clearly, like a tune falling into place.

Elinor walked out on Luke. Now Luke’s walking out on our baby. It’s history repeating itself. Does Luke realize this? If he just saw it…if he just understood what he was doing…

“Rebecca!”

I look up, as though out of a daze. Elinor looks like she wants to pop with exasperation.

“Oh, Elinor…I’m sorry,” I say, all rancor gone. “It was lovely of you to come by, but I’m a bit tired now. Please drop round for tea sometime.”

Elinor looks like the wind has been taken out of her sails. I think she was probably squaring up for a fight too.

“Very well,” she says frostily. “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Here are the details of my exhibition.”

She hands me an invitation for a private viewing, along with a glossy brochure entitled “The Elinor Sherman Collection.” It’s illustrated with a photograph of an elegant white plinth, on top of which is resting another, smaller white plinth.

God, I don’t understand modern art.

“Thanks,” I say, eyeing it dubiously. “We’ll be sure to make it. Thanks for coming. Have a nice day!”

Elinor gives me one last, narrowed look, then picks up her gloves and Kelly bag and strides out of the room. As soon as she’s gone, I bury my head in my hands, trying to think. Somehow I have to get through to Luke. He doesn’t want to do this. Deep in his heart, I know he doesn’t. I feel like he’s been lured away by the evil fairies and I just need to break the spell.

But how? What do I do? If I call him, he’ll brush me off and promise to call back later and never will. His e-mails are read by his secretaries…. It’s not exactly a subject for a text….

I have to write a letter.

It hits me like a thunderbolt. I have to write a letter, like in the old days before phone calls and e-mail. God, yes. I’ll compose the best letter I’ve ever written in my life. I’ll explain all my feelings, and his. (He sometimes needs them explained to him.) I’ll put the case before him plainly.

I’m going to save our marriage. He doesn’t want a broken family — I know he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t.

A nurse is passing by the door, and I call out, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” She looks in with a smile.

“Would it be possible to get some writing paper?”

“There’s some in the hospital shop, or…” She frowns in thought. “One of my colleagues has some, I think. Just hang on a moment….”

A moment later she’s back, with a pad of Basildon Bond. “One sheet enough?”

“I may need more than that,” I say momentously. “Could I have…three?”



I cannot believe how much I’ve written to Luke. Once I started, I just couldn’t stop. I had no idea there was so much pent up inside me.

I started off talking about our wedding and how happy we were then. Then I talked about all the things we love to do together, and how much fun we’ve had and how excited we were when we discovered we were having a baby. Then I moved on to Venetia. I didn’t call her by name. I called her the Threat to Our Marriage. He’ll know what I’m talking about.

And now I’m on page seventeen (one of the nurses ran down and bought me my own pad of Basildon Bond) and I’m getting to the main bit. The plea to him to give our marriage another shot. Tears are running down my face, and I keep having to break off to snuffle into a tissue.