At least, this is what I tell myself. But I suppose if I’m really honest, the reason is that I just can’t bear the idea of Luke turning to me and giving me a kind look and saying, “Rebecca, we’ve had a lot of fun, but…”

So I end up saying nothing and smiling a lot — even though inside, I feel more and more miserable. As we arrive back outside my flat, I want to turn to him and wail, “Are you going to New York? Are you?”

But instead, I give him a kiss, and say lightly, “You will be OK for Saturday, won’t you?”

It turns out Luke’s got to fly off to Zurich tomorrow and have lots of meetings with finance people. Which of course is very important and I completely understand that. But Saturday is Tom and Lucy’s wedding at home, and that’s even more important. He just has to be there.

“I’ll make it,” he says. “I promise.” He squeezes my hand and I get out of the car and he says he has to shoot off. And then he’s gone.

Disconsolately, I open the door to our flat, and a moment later Suze comes out of the door of her room, dragging a full black bin liner along the ground.

“Hi!” she says. “You’re back!”

“Yes!” I reply, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m back!”

Suze disappears out of our door, and I hear her lugging her black bag down the stairs and out of the main front door — then bounding up to our flat again.

“So, how was it?” she says breathlessly, closing the door behind her.

“It was fine,” I say, walking into my bedroom. “It was… nice.”

“Nice?” Suze’s eyes narrow and she follows me in. “Only nice?”

“It was… good.”

“Good? Bex, what’s wrong? Didn’t you have a lovely time?”

I wasn’t really planning to say anything to Suze, because after all, I don’t know the facts yet. Plus I read in a magazine recently that couples should try to sort their problems out alone, without recourse to others. But as I look at her warm, friendly face, I just can’t help it, I hear myself blurting out, “Luke’s moving to New York.”

“Really?” says Suze, missing the point. “Fantastic! God, I love New York. I went there three years ago, and—”

“Suze, he’s moving to New York — but he hasn’t told me.”

“Oh,” says Suze, looking taken aback. “Oh, right.”

“And I don’t want to bring it up, because I’m not supposed to know, but I keep thinking, why hasn’t he told me? Is he just going to… go?” My voice is rising in distress. “Will I just get a postcard from the Empire State Building saying, ‘Hi, I live in New York now, love Luke’?”

“No!” says Suze at once. “Of course not! He wouldn’t do that!”

“Wouldn’t he?”

“No. Definitely not.” Suze folds her arms and thinks for a few moments — then looks up. “Are you absolutely sure he hasn’t told you? Like, maybe when you were half asleep or daydreaming or something?”

She looks at me expectantly and for a few moments I think hard, wondering if she could be right. Maybe he told me in the car and I just wasn’t listening. Or last night, while I was eyeing up that girl’s Lulu Guinness handbag in the bar… But then I shake my head.

“No. I’m sure I’d remember if he’d mentioned New York.” I sink down miserably onto the bed. “He’s just not telling me because he’s going to chuck me.”

“No, he’s not!” retorts Suze. “Honestly, Bex, men never mention things. That’s just what they’re like.” She picks her way over a pile of CDs and sits cross-legged on the bed beside me. “My brother never mentioned when he got done for drugs. We had to find it out from the paper! And my father once bought a whole island without telling my mother.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes! And then he forgot about it, too. And he only remembered when he got this letter out of the blue inviting him to roll the pig in the barrel.”

“To do what?”

“Oh, this ancient ceremony thing,” says Suze vaguely. “My dad gets to roll the first pig, because he owns the island.” Her eyes suddenly brighten. “In fact, he’s always looking for people to do it instead of him. I don’t suppose you fancy doing it this year, do you? You get to wear this funny hat, and you have to learn a poem in Gaelic, but it’s quite easy…”

“Suze—”

“Maybe not,” says Suze hurriedly. “Sorry.” She leans back on my pillow and chews a fingernail thoughtfully. Then suddenly she looks up. “Hang on a minute. Who told you about New York? If it wasn’t Luke?”

“Alicia,” I say gloomily. “She knew all about it.”

“Alicia?” Suze stares at me. “Alicia Bitch Longlegs? Oh, for goodness’ sake. She’s probably making it up. Honestly, Bex, I’m surprised you even listened!”

And she sounds so sure that I feel my heart giving a joyful leap. Of course. That must be the answer. Didn’t I suspect it myself? Didn’t I tell you what Alicia was like?

The only thing — tiny niggle — is I’m not sure Suze is completely 100 percent unbiased here. There’s a bit of history between Suze and Alicia, which is that they both started working at Brandon Communications at the same time — but Suze got the sack after three weeks and Alicia went on to have a high-flying career. Not that Suze really wanted to be a PR girl, but still.

“I don’t know,” I say doubtfully. “Would Alicia really do that?”

“Of course she would!” says Suze. “She’s just trying to wind you up. Come on, Bex, who do you trust more? Alicia or Luke?”

“Luke,” I say after a pause. “Luke, of course.”

“Well, then!”

“You’re right,” I say, suddenly feeling more cheerful. “You’re right! I should just trust him, shouldn’t I? I shouldn’t listen to gossip and rumors!”

“Exactly. Here are your letters. And your messages.”

“Ooh, thanks!” I say, and take the bundle with a little pang of excited hope. Because you never know, do you, what might have happened while you’re away? Maybe one of these envelopes is a letter from a long-lost friend, or an exciting job offer, or news that I’ve won a holiday!


But of course, they aren’t. It’s just one boring old bill after another, which I leaf through dismissively before dropping the whole lot to the floor without even opening them.

You know, this always happens. Whenever I go away, I always think I’ll come back to mountains of exciting post, with parcels and telegrams and letters full of scintillating news — and I’m always disappointed. In fact, I really think someone should set up a company called holidaypost.com which you would pay to write you loads of exciting letters, just so you had something to look forward to when you got home.

I turn to my phone messages — and Suze has written them down really conscientiously:


Your mum — what are you wearing to Tom and Lucy’s wedding?Your mum — don’t wear violet as it will clash with her hat.Your mum — Luke does know it’s morning dress?Your mum — Luke is definitely coming, isn’t he?David Barrow — please could you ring him.Your mum—


Hang on. David Barrow. Who’s that?

“Hey, Suze!” I yell. “Did David Barrow say who he was?”

“No,” says Suze, appearing in the hall. “He just said could you ring him.”

“Oh right.” I look at the message, feeling faintly intrigued. “What did he sound like?” Suze screws up her nose.

“Oh, you know. Quite posh. Quite… smooth.”

I’m a little excited as I dial the number. David Barrow. It sounds almost familiar. Maybe he’s a film producer or something!

“David Barrow,” comes his voice — and Suze is right, he is quite posh.

“Hello!” I say. “This is Rebecca Bloomwood. I had a message to call you.”

“Ah, Miss Bloomwood! I’m the special customer manager of La Rosa.”

“Oh.” I screw up my face puzzledly. La Rosa? What on earth’s—

Oh yes. That trendy boutique in Hampstead. But I’ve only been in there about once, and that was ages ago. So why is he calling me?

“May I say, first, what an honor it is to have a television personality of your caliber as one of our customers.”

“Oh! Well — thank you!” I say, beaming at the phone. “It’s a pleasure, actually.”

This is great. I know exactly why he’s calling. They’re going to give me some free clothes, aren’t they? Or maybe… yes! They want me to design a new line for them! God, yes. I’ll be a designer. They’ll call it the Becky Bloomwood collection. Simple, stylish, wearable garments, with maybe one or two evening dresses…

“This is simply a courtesy call,” says David Barrow, interrupting my thoughts. “I just want to ensure that you are completely happy with our service and ask if you have any other needs we can help you with.”

“Well — thanks!” I say. “I’m very happy, thanks! I mean, I’m not exactly a regular customer but—”

“Also to mention the small matter of your outstanding La Rosa Card account,” adds David Barrow as though I haven’t spoken. “And to inform you that if payment is not received within seven days, further action will have to be taken.”

I stare at the phone, feeling my smile fade. This isn’t a courtesy call at all, is it? He doesn’t want me to design a collection of clothes. He’s phoning about money!

I feel slightly outraged. Surely people aren’t just allowed to telephone you in your own home and demand money with no warning? I mean, obviously I’m going to pay them. Just because I don’t send a check off the moment the bill comes through the letter box…

“It has been three months now since your first bill,” David Barrow is saying. “And I must inform you that our policy after the three-month period is to hand over all outstanding accounts to—”

“Yes, well,” I interrupt coolly. “My… accountants are dealing with all my bills at the moment. I’ll speak to them.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. And of course, we look forward to seeing you again in La Rosa very soon!”