“I’ll get it,” Luke says, and heads over to his desk. “Hello? Oh, hi there. How are you?”

I am so going to win this! I’ll pick loads of brilliant investments and make the baby an absolute mint. Maybe I’ll invest in futures. Or gold. Or…art! I just need to find the next Damien Hirst and buy a pickled cow or whatever, and then auction it for a huge profit at Sotheby’s, and everyone will say how farsighted and genius I was….

“Really?” Luke is saying. “No, she never mentioned it. Well, thanks.” He puts down the phone and turns to face me with a quizzical expression. “Becky, that was Giles from the real estate agents. Apparently you had a long talk earlier this week. What exactly did you say to him?”

Shit. I knew there was another tricky subject I had to broach. I should really start a list.

“Oh yes, that.” I clear my throat. “I just told Giles we were willing to be more flexible in our requirements.” I straighten some papers on my desk, not looking up. “Like you said. Expand our search area a bit.”

“A bit?” echoes Luke incredulously. “To the Caribbean? He’s sending us the details of eight bloody beach villas and wants to know if we’d like to arrange flights!”

“You’re the one who said we had to look further afield, Luke!” I say defensively. “It was your idea!”

“I meant Kensington! Not Barbados!”

“Have you seen what we can get in Barbados?” I counter eagerly. “Look at this!” I push my office chair across the floor to his computer, click on a browser, and find my way onto a Caribbean realty page.

Property Web sites are the best thing ever. Especially the ones with virtual tours.

“See this one?” I point at the screen. “Five bedroom villa with infinity pool, sunken garden, and guest cottage!”

“Becky…” Luke pauses, as though thinking how to explain the situation to me. “It’s in Barbados.”

He is so hung up on that one detail.

“So what?” I say. “It’d be fab! The baby would learn to swim, and you could send all your e-mails from the guest cottage…and I could go running on the beach every day….”

I have an alluring image of myself in a string bikini, pushing one of those jogger prams along a glistening white Caribbean beach. And Luke would be all tanned in a polo shirt, drinking a rum punch. He could get into surfing, and put beads in his hair again—

“I’m not putting beads in my hair again.” Luke interrupts my thoughts.

That’s so spooky! How on earth did he…

Oh, OK. I possibly may have shared my Caribbean fantasy with him before.

“Look, sweetheart,” he says, sitting down. “Maybe in five, ten years’ time we can think about something like this. If things go to plan, we’ll have a lot of options by then. But for now it has to be central London.”

“Well, what are we going to do, then?” I close the Barbados Web page crossly. “There’s nothing on the market. It’ll be Christmas and we’ll be out on the streets, and we’ll have to go to a homeless shelter with the baby, and eat soup….”

“Becky.” Luke lifts a hand to stop me. “We won’t have to eat soup.” He clicks one of his e-mails, opens an attachment, and presses Print. A moment later the printer springs into action.

“What?” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Here.” He collects the pages and hands them to me. “This is why Giles rang. In case we were ‘still considering London,’ as he put it. It’s just come on the market, round the corner from here. Delamain Road. But we need to be quick.”

I scan the first page, taking in the words as fast as I can.

Elegant family house…ideal for entertaining…grand entrance hall…magnificent luxury kitchen…

Wow. I have to admit, this looks amazing.

Garden with architect-designed play area…six bedrooms…dressing room with walk-in shoe cupboard…

I catch my breath. A walk-in shoe cupboard! But surely that’s just another way of saying—

“It’s even got a Shoe Room.” Luke is watching me with a grin. “Giles was pretty pleased about that. Shall we go and see it?”



I am so excited about this house! And not just because of the Shoe Room. I’ve read the details over and over, and I can just see Luke and me living there. Taking a shower in the frameless limestone RainJet cubicle…making coffee in the Bulthaup kitchen with its state-of-the-art appliances…and then maybe strolling out into the secluded west-facing garden with its range of mature specimen shrubs. Whatever they are.

It’s later that day and we’re walking along the leafy Maida Vale road on the way to our appointment to view it. I’m clutching the printout of the details in my hand, but I barely need to; I practically know them by heart.

“Twenty-four…twenty-six…” Luke is squinting at the numbers as we pass. “It’ll be on the other side of the road….”

“There it is!” I stop dead and point across the street. “Look, there’s the impressive pillared entrance and double doors with attractive fanlight! It looks fab! Let’s go!”

Luke’s hand holds me back as I’m about to hurry across the road. “Becky, before we go in, just a word.”

“What?” I’m tugging at his hand like a dog trying to get off the leash. “What is it?”

“Try to play it cool, OK? We don’t want to look too keen. First rule of business dealing, you should always look as though you could walk away.”

“Oh.” I stop yanking his hand. “All right.”

Cool. I can play it cool.

But as we head across the road and up to the front door, my heart’s hammering. This is our house, I just know it is!

“I love the front door!” I exclaim, ringing the bell. “It’s so shiny!”

“Becky…cool, remember,” says Luke. “Try not to look so impressed.”

“Oh, right, yes.” I adopt the best unimpressed expression I can muster, just as the door swings open.

A very slim woman in her forties is standing on black-and-white marble tiles. She’s wearing white D&G jeans, a casual top which I know cost her £500, and a diamond ring so huge, I’m amazed she can lift her arm.

“Hi.” Her voice is a husky mockney drawl. “Are you here to see the house?”

“Yes!” At once I realize I sound too excited. “I mean…yeah.” I affect a similar nonchalance. “We thought we’d have a look.”

“Fabia Paschali.” Her handshake is like wet cotton wool.

“Becky Brandon. And this is my husband, Luke.”

“Well, come on through.”

We follow her in, our feet echoing on the tiles, and as I look around I have to suppress a loud intake of breath. This hall is huge. And the sweeping staircase is like something out of Hollywood! I immediately have an image of myself trailing down it in a fantastic evening dress while Luke waits admiringly at the bottom.

“We’ve had fashion shoots here,” says Fabia, gesturing at the staircase. “The marble is imported from Italy and the chandelier is antique Murano. It’s included.”

I can see she’s waiting for a reaction.

“Very nice,” says Luke. “Becky?”

Cool. I must be cool.

“It’s all right.” I give a little yawn. “Can we see the kitchen?”

The kitchen is just as amazing. It has a vast breakfast bar, a glass roof, and about every gadget known to mankind. I’m trying as hard as I can not to look overawed as Fabia runs through the appliances. “Triple oven…chef’s hob…This is a rotating multisurface chopping area….”

“Not bad.” I run a hand over the granite with a jaded air. “Do you have a built-in electric sushi maker?”

“Yes,” she says as though I’ve asked something really obvious.

It has a built-in electric sushi maker!

Oh God, it’s just spectacular. And so is the terrace with built-in summer kitchen and barbecue. And the drawing room fitted out with David Linley shelves. As we follow Fabia upstairs to the main bedroom I’m practically expiring, trying not to exclaim at everything.

“Here’s the dressing room….” Fabia shows us into a smallroom lined with paneled walnut wardrobes. “This is my customized shoe cupboard….” She opens the door and we walk in.

I feel faint. Either side of us are rows and rows of shoes, lined up immaculately on suede-lined shelves. Louboutins…Blahniks…

“It’s amazing!” I blurt out. “And look, we’re the same size and everything. This is so meant to be—” Luke casts me a warning glance. “I mean…yeah.” I give an offhand shrug. “It’s OK, I guess.”

“Have you got kids?” Fabia glances at my stomach as we move away.

“We’re expecting one in December.”

“We’ve got two at boarding school.” She rips a Nicorette patch off her arm, frowns at it, and drops it in a bin. Then she reaches in her jeans pocket and produces a packet of Marlboro Lights. “They’re on the top floor now but their nurseries are still done up if you’re interested.” She flicks a lighter and takes a puff.

“Nurseries?” echoes Luke, glancing at me. “More than one?”

“His and hers. We had one of each. Never got round to redecorating. This is my son’s….” She pushes open a white-paneled door.

I stand there, open-mouthed. It’s like fairyland. The walls are painted with a mural of green hills and blue sky and woods and teddy bears having a picnic. In one corner is a painted crib in the shape of a castle; in the other is a real little red wooden train on tracks, big enough to sit on, with a toy in each carriage.

I feel an overwhelming stab of desire. I want a boy. I so want a little boy.

“And my daughter’s is over here,” Fabia continues.

I can barely tear myself away from the boy’s nursery, but I follow her across the landing as she opens the door — and can’t help gasping.

I have never seen anything so beautiful. It’s a little girl’s dream. The walls are decorated with hand-painted fairies, the white curtains are looped back with huge lilac taffeta bows, and the little cradle is festooned with broderie anglaise frills like a princess’s bed.