Which is true. I’ll wait till Luke’s gone, then pinch a pair of his boxer shorts.

“So — what’s your deal about?” I ask hurriedly, to change the subject. “Something exciting?”

“It’s… pretty big,” says Luke after a pause. He holds up a pair of silk ties. “Which one will bring me luck?”

“The red one,” I say after a little consideration. “It matches your eyes.”

“It matches my eyes?” Luke starts to laugh. “Do I look that rough?”

“It goes with your eyes. You know what I mean.”

“No, you were right first time,” says Luke, peering into the mirror. “It matches my eyes perfectly.” He glances at me. “You’d almost think I’d had no sleep last night.”

“No sleep?” I raise my eyebrows. “Before an important meeting? Surely that’s not the way Luke Brandon behaves.”

“Very irresponsible,” agrees Luke, putting the tie round his neck. “Must be thinking of someone else.”

I watch as he knots the tie with brisk, efficient movements. “So come on — tell me about this deal. Is it a big new client?”

But Luke smiles and shakes his head.

“Is it Nat West? I know, Lloyds Bank!”

“Let’s just say… it’s something I want very much,” Luke says eventually. “Something I’ve always wanted. But this is all very boring,” he adds in a different tone.

“No, it’s not!”

“Very dull indeed. Now — what are you going to do today? Will you be all right?” And now he sounds like he’s changing the subject.

Actually, I think Luke’s a bit sensitive about boring me with his work. Don’t get me wrong, I think his business is really fascinating. But there was this one occasion when it was really late at night, and he was telling me about a new range of technical products he was going to represent and I kind of… fell asleep.

I think he took it to heart, because recently he’s hardly talked about work at all.

“Have you heard the pool is closed this morning?” he says.

“I know,” I say, reaching for my blusher. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ll easily amuse myself.”

There’s silence and I look up to see Luke surveying me doubtfully.

“Would you like me to order you a taxi to take you to the shops? Bath is quite near here—”

“No,” I say indignantly. “I don’t want to go shopping!”

Which is true. When Suze found out how much those clementine sandals were, she got all worried that she hadn’t been strict enough with me, so I promised not to do any shopping this weekend. She made me cross my heart and swear on — well, on my clementine sandals, actually. And I’m going to make a real effort to keep to it.

I mean, I should be able to last forty-eight hours.

“I’m going to do all lovely rural things,” I say, snapping my blusher closed.

“Like…”

“Like look at the scenery… and maybe go to a farm and watch them milking the cows, or something…”

“I see.”

“What?” I say suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re just going to pitch up at a farm, are you, and ask if you can milk the cows?”

“I didn’t say I was going to milk the cows,” I say with dignity. “I said I was going to watch the cows. And anyway, I might not go to a farm, I might go and look at some local attractions.” I reach for a pile of leaflets on the dressing table. “Like… this tractor exhibition. Or… St. Winifred’s Convent with its famous Bevington Triptych.”

“A convent,” echoes Luke after a pause.

“Yes, a convent!” I give him an indignant look. “Why shouldn’t I visit a convent? I’m actually a very spiritual person.”

“I’m sure you are, my darling,” says Luke, giving me a quizzical look. “You might want to put on more than a T-shirt before you go…”

“It’s a dress!” I say indignantly, pulling the T-shirt down over my bum. “And anyway, spirituality has nothing to do with clothes. ‘Consider the lilies of the field.’ ” I shoot him a satisfied glance.

“Fair enough.” Luke grins. “Well, enjoy yourself.” He gives me a kiss. “And Becky, I really am sorry about all this. This wasn’t the way I wanted our first weekend away to be.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, and give him a little poke in the chest. “You just make sure this mysterious deal is worth it.”

And I’m expecting Luke to laugh, or at least smile — but he just gives me a tiny nod, picks up his briefcase, and heads for the door.


I don’t actually mind having this morning to myself, because I’ve always secretly wanted to see what it’s like inside a convent. I mean, I know I don’t exactly make it to church every week, but I do have a very spiritual side to me. It seems obvious to me that there’s a greater force out there at work than us mere mortals — which is why I always read my horoscope in The Daily World. Plus I love that plainchant they play in yoga classes, and all the lovely candles and incense. And Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story.

In fact, to tell you the truth, a part of me has always been attracted to the simplicity of a nun’s life. No worries, no decisions, no having to work. Just lovely singing and walking around all day. I mean, wouldn’t that be great?

So when I’ve done my makeup and watched a bit of telly, I go down to reception — and after asking fruitlessly again about my package (honestly, I’m going to sue), I order a taxi to St. Winifred’s. As we trundle along the country lanes, I look out at all the lovely scenery, and find myself wondering what Luke’s deal can be about. What on earth is this mysterious “something he’s always wanted”? I mean, I would have thought he’s already got everything he wants. He’s the most successful publicist in the financial field, he’s got a thriving company, he’s won loads of prizes… So what could it be? Big new client? New offices? Expanding the company, maybe?

I screw up my face, trying to remember if I’ve overheard anything recently — then, with a jolt, I remember hearing him on the phone a few weeks ago. He was talking about an advertising agency, and even at the time, I wondered why.

Yes. It’s obvious, now that I think about it. He’s always secretly wanted to be an ad director. That’s what this deal is all about. He’s going to branch out from PR and start making adverts.

And I could be in them! Yes!

I’m so excited at this thought, I almost swallow my chewing gum. I can be in an ad! Oh, this is going to be so cool. Maybe I’ll be in one of those Bacardi ads where they’re all on a boat, laughing and water-skiing and having a great time. I mean, I know it’s usually fashion models, but I could easily be somewhere in the background. Or I could be the one driving the boat. It’ll be so fantastic. We’ll fly out to Barbados or somewhere, and it’ll be all hot and sunny and glamorous, with loads of free Bacardi, and we’ll stay in a really amazing hotel… I’ll have to buy a new bikini, of course… or maybe two… and some new flip-flops…

“St. Winifred’s,” says the taxi driver — and with a start I come to. I’m not in Barbados, am I? I’m in the middle of bloody nowhere, in Somerset.

We’ve stopped outside an old honey-colored building, and I peer through the window curiously. So this is a convent. It doesn’t look that special, actually — just like a school, or a big country house. And I’m wondering whether I should even bother getting out, when I see a nun. Walking past, in black robes, and a wimple, and everything! A real live nun, in her real habitat. And she’s completely natural. She hasn’t even looked at the taxi. This is like being on safari!

I get out and pay the driver — and as I walk toward the heavy front door, I feel prickles of intrigue. There’s an elderly woman going in at the same time who seems to know the way, so I follow her along a corridor toward the chapel. And as we walk in, I feel this amazing, holy, almost euphoric sensation coming over me. Maybe it’s the lovely smell in the air or the organ music, but I’m definitely getting something.

“Thank you, Sister,” says the elderly woman to the nun. And she starts walking off to the front of the chapel — but I stand still, slightly transfixed.

Sister. Wow.

Sister Rebecca.

And one of those lovely flowing black habits, and a fantastic clear nun complexion all the time.

Sister Rebecca of the Holy…

“You look a little lost, my dear,” a nun says behind me, and I jump. “Were you interested in seeing the Bevington Triptych?”

“Oh,” I say. “Erm… yes. Absolutely.”

“Up there,” she points, and I walk tentatively toward the front of the chapel, hoping it will become obvious what the Bevington Triptych is. A statue, maybe? Or a… a piece of tapestry?

But as I reach the elderly lady, I see that she’s staring up at a whole wall of stained-glass windows. And I have to admit, they’re pretty amazing. I mean, look at that huge blue one in the middle. It’s fantastic!

“The Bevington Triptych,” says the elderly woman. “It simply has no parallel, does it?”

“Wow,” I breathe reverentially, staring up with her. “It’s beautiful.”

And it really is stunning. It just shows, there’s no mistaking a real work of art, is there? Real genius just leaps out at you. And I’m not even an expert.

“Wonderful colors,” I murmur.

“The detail,” says the woman, clasping her hands, “is absolutely incomparable.”

“Incomparable,” I echo.

And I’m just about to point out the rainbow, which I think is a really nice touch — when I suddenly notice that the elderly woman and I aren’t looking at the same window. She’s looking at a much smaller, dingier one which I hadn’t even noticed.

As inconspicuously as possible, I shift my gaze to the right one — and feel a pang of disappointment. Is this the Bevington Triptych? But it isn’t even pretty!