He switches off his mobile, puts it away, and looks at me as though he’s almost forgotten who I am. But then his brow softens and he smiles.

“Hi!” he says, and drops his briefcase onto a chair.

“Hi!” I say brightly, moving away from the wardrobe door. “Stranger.”

“I know,” says Luke, rubbing his face wearily. “I’m sorry. Things have been… a bit of a nightmare, to be frank. I heard about your screen test, though. Fantastic news.”

He goes to the minibar, pours himself a scotch, and downs it. Then he pours himself another one and takes a slug while I watch anxiously. His face is pale and tense, I notice, and there are shadows under his eyes.

“Is it all… going OK?” I ask gingerly.

“It’s going,” he replies. “That’s about as much as I can say.” He walks over to the window and stares out over the glittering Manhattan skyline, and I bite my lip nervously.

“Luke — couldn’t someone else go to all these meetings? Couldn’t someone else fly out and take some of the load? Like… Alicia?”

It nearly kills me even to mention her name — but I honestly am getting a bit worried. Slightly to my relief, though, Luke shakes his head.

“I can’t bring in somebody new at this stage. I’ve been managing it all until now; I’ll just have to see it through. I just had no idea they’d be so pedantic. I had no idea they’d be so…” He sits down in an armchair and takes a slug of his drink. “I mean, Jesus, they ask a lot of questions. I know Americans are thorough but—” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “They have to know everything. About every single client, every single potential client, everybody who’s ever worked for the company, every single bloody memo I’ve ever sent… Is there any possibility of litigation here? Who was your receptionist in 1993? What car do you drive? What fucking… toothpaste do you use? And now, with these rumors… they’re picking everything apart all over again.”

He breaks off and drains his glass, and I stare at him in dismay.

“They sound awful!” I say, and the flicker of a smile passes across Luke’s face.

“They’re not awful. They’re just very conservative, old-school investors — and something’s rattling them. I don’t know what.” He exhales sharply. “I just need to keep them steady.”

His voice is trembling slightly — and as I glance at his hand I see that it’s clenched tightly around his glass. I’ve never seen Luke like this, to be honest. He usually looks so utterly in control, so completely smooth…

“Luke, I think you should have an evening off. You haven’t got a meeting tonight, have you?”

“No,” says Luke, looking up. “But I need to go through some of these forecasts again. Big meeting tomorrow, with all the investors. I need to be prepared.”

“You are prepared!” I reply. “What you need is to be relaxed. If you work all night, you’ll just be tired and tense and ratty.” I go over to him, take his glass out of his hand, and start to massage his shoulders. “Come on, Luke. You really need a night off. I bet Michael would agree. Wouldn’t he?”

“He’s been telling me to lighten up,” admits Luke after a long pause.

“Well, then, lighten up! Come on, a few hours of fun never did anybody any harm. Let’s both dress up and go somewhere really nice, and dance, and drink cocktails…” I kiss him gently on the back of his neck. “I mean, why on earth come to New York and not enjoy it?”

There’s silence — and for an awful moment I think Luke’s going to say he hasn’t got time. But then suddenly he turns round — and thank God, I can see the faint glimmer of a smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “Come on. Let’s do it.”


It turns into the most magical, glamorous, glossy evening of my life. I put on my Vera Wang dress and Luke puts on his smartest suit, and we go to a fabulous restaurant all done like an Art Deco cruise ship, where beautiful people are eating lobster and there’s an old-fashioned jazz band, just like in the movies. Luke orders Bellinis, and we toast each other, and as he relaxes, he tells me more about his deal. In fact, he confides in me more than he ever has before.

“This city,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a demanding place. Like… skiing down the edge of a precipice. If you make one mistake — that’s it. You fall.”

“But if you don’t make any mistakes?”

“You win,” says Luke. “You win it all.”

“You’re going to win,” I say confidently. “You’re going to wow them all tomorrow.”

“And you’re going to wow them at your screen test,” says Luke, as a waiter appears at our table with our first course — the most amazing sculptures made out of seafood, presented on hexagonal plates. He pours our wine, and Luke lifts his glass in a toast.

“To you, Becky. You’re going to be a huge success.”

“No, you’re going to be a huge success,” I reply, feeling a glow of pleasure all around me. “We’re both going to be huge successes!”

Maybe it’s the Bellini, going to my head — but suddenly I feel again exactly as I did in Barneys. I’m not the old Becky — I’m someone new and sparkling. Surreptitiously I glance at myself in a nearby mirror, and feel a twinge of delight. I mean, just look at me! All poised and groomed, in a New York restaurant, wearing a thousands-of-dollars dress, with my wonderful, successful boyfriend — and a screen test tomorrow for American television!

I feel completely intoxicated with happiness. This expensive, glossy world is where I’ve been heading all along. Limos and flowers; waxed eyebrows and designer clothes from Barneys; a purse stuffed with business cards of TV executives. These are my people; this is where I’m meant to be. My old life seems a million, zillion miles away, like a tiny dot on the horizon. Mum and Dad and Suze… my untidy room in Fulham… EastEnders with a pizza… I mean, let’s face it. That was never really me, was it?


We end up staying out for hours. We dance to the jazz band, eat passion fruit sorbet, and talk about everything in the world but work. Luke asks the band to play “These Foolish Things,” which is a song I completely love — and then sings along as we dance (very out of tune, but I don’t say anything). When we get back to the hotel we’re both laughing, and tripping slightly as we walk, and Luke’s hand is making its way deftly inside my dress.

“Miss Bloomwood?” says the concierge as we pass the desk. “There’s a message for you to call a Susan Cleath-Stuart, in London. Whatever time you get in. Apparently it’s urgent.”

“Oh God,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She’ll just be calling to lecture me about how much I spent on my new dress. ‘How much? Oh Bex, you shouldn’t have…’ ”

“It’s a fantastic dress,” says Luke, running his hands appreciatively up and down it. “Although there’s far too much of it. You could lose this bit here… and this bit…”

“Would you like the number?” says the concierge, holding out a piece of paper.

“No, thanks,” I say, waving my hand. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“And please,” adds Luke, “hold all calls to our room, until further notice.”

“Very well,” says the concierge with a twinkle. “Good night, sir. Good night, ma’am.”

We travel up in the lift, grinning stupidly at each other in the mirrors — and as we arrive at our room, I realize that I’m really feeling quite drunk. My only consolation is, Luke looks completely plastered, too.

“That,” I say, as the door closes behind us, “was the best night of my life. The very best.”

“It isn’t over yet,” says Luke, coming toward me with a meaningful gleam in his eye. “I feel I need to reward you for your most insightful comments, Miss Bloomwood. You were right. All work and no play…” He starts to pull my Vera Wang straps gently down off my shoulders. “Makes Jack…” he murmurs against my skin. “A very…”

And suddenly we’re tumbling down onto the bed together, and his mouth is on mine, and my mind is wheeling with alcohol and delight. As he’s pulling off his shirt, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I stare at my intoxicated, happy self for an instant, and hear a voice inside saying: remember this moment forever. Remember this moment, Becky, because right now, life is perfect.

The rest is a haze of drunken, blurry pleasure, drifting into oblivion. The last thing I remember is Luke kissing me on the eyelids and telling me to sleep well and that he loves me. That’s the last thing.


And then, like a car crash, it happens.

Twelve


AT FIRST, I don’t realize anything is wrong. I wake up feeling extremely bleary — to see Luke handing me a cup of tea.

“Why don’t you check the messages?” he says, giving me a kiss, and heads toward the shower. After a few sips of tea, I lift the telephone receiver and press the star button.

“You have twenty-three messages,” says the telephone voice — and I gape at it in astonishment. Twenty-three?

Perhaps they’re all job offers! is my first thought. Perhaps it’s people calling from Hollywood! In great excitement I press the button to hear the first one. But it’s not a job offer — it’s Suze — and she’s sounding really hassled.

“Bex, please ring me. As soon as you get this. It’s… it’s really urgent. Bye.”

The voice asks me if I’d like to hear my remaining messages — and for a moment I hesitate. But Suze did sound pretty desperate — and I remember with a twinge of guilt that she called last night, too. I dial the number — and to my surprise, it clicks onto her answer machine.

“Hi! It’s me!” I say as soon as Suze’s voice has finished speaking. “Well, you’re not in, so I hope whatever it is has sorted itself—”

“Bex!” Suze’s voice practically bursts my eardrum. “Oh my God, Bex, where have you been?”