In our vows, you promised to love me forever. I know you think you don’t anymore. I know there are other women in this world, who are maybe cleverer and maybe can speak Latin. I know you’ve had an…

I can’t bring myself to write the word affair — I just can’t.

I’ll just put a dash, like they used to in old-fashioned books.

I know you’ve had an——. But it doesn’t have to ruin everything. I’m prepared to put the past behind us, Luke, because I believe above anything else that we belong together. You, me, and the baby.

We can be a happy family. I know we can. Please don’t give up on us. Maybe you’re secretly scared of parenthood, but we can do it together! Like you said, it’s the biggest adventure we’ll ever have.

I break off from writing to wipe my eyes. I need to finish this now. I need some way for him to show me…to answer…to let me know…

Suddenly it comes to me. We need a great big tall tower, just like in romantic movies. And we’ll meet at the top at midnight….

No. I get too tired by midnight. We’ll meet at the top at…six o’clock. The wind will be blowing and Gershwin will be playing and I’ll see from his eyes that he’s put Venetia behind him forever. And I’ll say simply, “Are you coming home?” And he’ll say—

“Are you OK, Becky?” The nurse pops her head round the door. “How’s it going?”

“Nearly finished.” I blow my nose. “Where’s a tall tower in London? If I wanted to meet someone.”

“Dunno.” The nurse wrinkles her nose. “The Oxo Tower’s pretty tall. I went there the other day. They’ve got a viewing platform and a restaurant….”

“Thanks!”

Luke, if you love me and want to save our marriage, meet me at the top of the Oxo Tower at six o’clock on Friday. I will be waiting at the viewing platform.

Your loving wife,

Becky.

I put my pen down, feeling totally drained, as though I’ve just composed a Beethoven symphony. All I have to do now is FedEx the letter to his Geneva office…and then just wait till Friday night.

I fold the seventeen pages in half, and am trying unsuccessfully to cram them into the matching Basildon Bond envelope, when my mobile rings on the cabinet.

Luke! Oh my God. But he hasn’t read the letter yet!

With trembling hands I grab the phone, but it’s not Luke after all. It’s a number I don’t recognize. It isn’t Elinor calling to lecture me, is it?

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Hello, Becky? It’s Martha here.”

“Oh.” I push my hair back off my face, trying to place the name. “Er…hi.”

“Just checking you’re still all set for the shoot on Friday?” she says chattily. “I can’t wait to see your house!”

Vogue. Shit. I’d totally forgotten about it.

How could I forget about a Vogue photo shoot? God, my life must really be in pieces.

“So, is everything OK?” Martha’s voice is trilling gaily down the phone. “You haven’t had the baby yet, or anything?”

“Well, no…” I hesitate. “But I am in hospital.” As I say the words I realize I shouldn’t really have my mobile on in a hospital. But this is Vogue on the phone. There must be an exemption for Vogue, surely.

“Oh no!” Her voice falls in dismay. “You know, we’re having such bad luck with this piece! One of the yummy mummies had her twins early, which was really annoying, and the other has had pre-eclampy-something and is on bed rest! We can’t do the interview or anything! Are you on bed rest?”

“I…hang on a minute….”

I put the phone down on the bed, trying to galvanize my spirits. I have never felt less like having my picture taken in my life. I’m fat, I’m tear-stained, my hair is terrible, my marriage is crumbling away…. I give a deep, shuddery sigh, and then catch sight of my blurry reflection in a nearby glass-fronted cupboard. Hunched over, head drooping. I look defeated. I look awful.

In an immediate reflex action I sit up straighter. What am I saying? Is my life over too? Just because my husband had an affair?

No way. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I’m not going to give up. Maybe my life is in pieces. But I can still be yummy. I’ll be the yummiest bloody mummy-to-be they’ve ever seen.

I lift the phone to my ear again. “Hi, Martha?” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Sorry about that. It’s all fine for the shoot on Friday. I’m coming out of hospital today, so I’ll be there!”

“Great!” I can hear the relief in Martha’s voice. “Can’t wait! It’ll only take two or three hours, and I promise we won’t exhaust you! I’m sure you have lots of lovely clothes, but our stylist will bring along some pieces too…. Now let me just check your address. You live at thirty-three Delamain Road?”

I never got that stuff for Fabia, it suddenly occurs to me. But I’ve still got time. It’ll be fine.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Lucky thing, those houses are amazing! We’ll see you there then, eleven o’clock.”

“See you then!”

I switch off the phone and breathe out hard. I’m going to be in Vogue. I’m going to be yummy. And I’m going to save my marriage.



FROM: Becky Brandon

TO: Fabia Paschali

SUBJECT: Tomorrow


Hello, Fabia!

Just to confirm, I will be coming tomorrow with a Vogue crew and the shoot will last from around 11am till 3pm.

I have got the purple top and the Chloe bag, but unfortunately, although I’ve tried everywhere, I can’t locate the Olly Bricknell shoes you want. Is there anything else that you’d like?

Again, thanks so much and look forward to seeing you tomorrow!


Becky



FROM: Fabia Paschali

TO: Becky Brandon

SUBJECT: Re: Tomorrow


Becky,

No shoes, no house.

Fabia



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


26 November 2003


Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

I have noted your new shareholdings in Sweet Confectionary, Inc., Estelle Rodin Cosmetics, and The Urban Spa plc. I cannot, however, agree that these are the “best investments in the world.”

Please let me reiterate. Free chocolates, samples of perfume, and discount spa treatments — while pleasant — are no sound basis for investment. I urge you to reconsider your current investment strategy and would be pleased to advise you further.

Yours sincerely,


Kenneth Prendergast

Family Investment Specialist


SEVENTEEN


THESE BLOODY, BLOODY SHOES. There is not a single pair of them left in London. Especially not in green. No wonder Fabia wants them, they’re like the Holy Grail or something, except there aren’t even any clues in paintings. I spent yesterday trying all my contacts, every supplier I know, every shop, everywhere. I even called my old colleague Erin at Barneys in New York and she just laughed pityingly.

In the end, Danny stepped in to help. He made some calls around and finally tracked down a pair to a model he knows who is on a shoot in Paris. In return for a sample jacket, she gave them to a friend who was coming over to London last night. He met up with Danny and now he’s going to deliver them to me.

That’s the plan. But he isn’t here yet. And it’s already five past ten and I’m starting to panic. I’m standing on the corner of Delamain Road, dressed in my yummiest outfit of red print wrap dress, Prada heels, and a vintage-style fake fur stole, and all the cars keep slowing down to look. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best place to meet. I must look like some eight months’ pregnant hooker for pervy people.

I take out my phone and, yet again, redial Danny’s number. “Danny?”

“We’re here! We’re coming. We’re just driving over a bridge…whoa!”

Danny was supposed to be dropping the shoes round last night — only he went off clubbing instead, with some photographer he met on holiday. (Don’t ask. He started to tell me about the night they spent together in Marrakech, and honestly, I had to put my hands over the baby’s ears.) He’s shrieking with laughter, and I can hear the roar of his friend’s Harley-Davidson. How can he be having fun? Doesn’t he know how stressed out I am?

I’ve barely slept since Luke has been gone. And when I did get to sleep last night, I had the most awful dream. I dreamed I went to the top of the Oxo Tower, but Luke didn’t show up. I stood for hours in the wind and gale and rain pouring down on me and then at last Luke appeared, but he’d somehow turned into Elinor and she started yelling at me. And then all my hair fell off….

“Excuse me!”

A woman holding two small children by the hand is approaching, and giving me an odd look.

“Oh. Sorry.” I come to, and move out of the way.

In real life, I haven’t spoken to Luke since he left. He’s tried to call several times, but I just sent short texts back saying sorry I missed him and everything’s OK. I didn’t want to talk to him until he’d read my letter — which only happened last night, according to the tracking system. Somebody at the Geneva office signed for it at 6:11 p.m., so he must have read it by now.

The die is cast. By six o’clock tonight I’ll know, one way or another. Either he’ll be there, waiting for me, or…

Nausea rises through me and I shake my head briskly. I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to get through this shoot first. I take a bite of a Kit Kat for energy, and glance down again at the printed page that Martha e-mailed me. It’s an interview with one of the other yummy mummies-to-be from the article, which Martha said would “give me an idea.” The other yummy is called Amelia Gordon-Barraclough. She’s posing in a vast Kensington nursery wearing a beaded kaftan and about fifty-nine bracelets, and all her quotes sound totally smug.