“Now,” she’s saying. “There’s a bit of fuss here over a silly article in the paper. Don’t take any notice of it, Becky. Just remember, that picture will be going in a million dog baskets tomorrow.”

For some reason that makes me laugh each time I hear it. So I sit there, half-crying, half-laughing, letting a pool of wet tears gather on my skirt and not even bothering to wipe it away.

I want to go home. For what seems like an eternity I sit on the floor, rocking backward and forward, letting my thoughts circle round and round. Going over the same ground over and over again. How could I have been so stupid? What am I going to do now? How can I face anyone, ever again?

I feel as though I’ve been on a crazy roller coaster ever since I got to New York. Like some sort of magical Disney ride — except instead of whizzing through space, I’ve been whizzing through shops and hotels and interviews and lunches, surrounded by light and glitter and voices telling me I’m the next big thing.

And I believed every moment of it. I had no idea it wasn’t real.

When, at long last, I hear the door opening, I feel almost sick with relief. I have a desperate urge to go and throw myself into Luke’s arms, burst into tears, and listen to him tell me it’s all right. But as he comes in, I feel my whole body contract in fear. His expression is taut and set; he looks as though his face is carved out of stone.

“Hi,” I say at last. “I… I wondered where you were.”

“I had lunch with Michael,” says Luke shortly. “After the meeting.” He takes off his coat and puts it carefully onto a hanger while I watch fearfully.

“So…” I hardly dare ask the question. “Did it go well?”

“Not particularly well, no.”

My stomach gives a nervous flip. What does that mean? Surely… surely it can’t be…

“Is it… off?” I manage at last.

“Good question,” says Luke. “The people from JD Slade say they need more time.”

“Why do they need time?” I say, licking my dry lips.

“They have a few reservations,” says Luke evenly. “They didn’t specify exactly what those reservations were.”

He pulls off his tie roughly and starts to unbutton his shirt. He’s not even looking at me. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to see my face.

“Do you…” I swallow. “Do you think they’d seen the piece?”

“Oh, I think so,” says Luke. There’s an edge to his voice which makes me flinch. “Yes, I’m pretty sure they’d seen it.”

He’s fumbling over the last shirt button. Suddenly, in irritation, he rips it off.

“Luke,” I say helplessly. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I… I don’t know what I can do.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll do anything I can.”

“There’s nothing,” says Luke flatly.

He heads into the bathroom and after a few moments I hear the sound of the shower. I don’t move. I can’t even think. I feel paralyzed, as though I’m crouching on a ledge, trying not to slip.

Eventually Luke comes out and, without even acknowledging me, pulls on a pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck. He pours himself a drink and there’s silence. Outside the window I can see right across Manhattan. The air is turning dusky and lights are coming on in windows everywhere, right into the distance. But I feel as though the world has shrunk to this room, these four walls. I haven’t been out all day, I abruptly realize.

“I didn’t have my screen test, either,” I say at last.

“Really.” Luke’s voice is flat and uninterested, and in spite of myself, I feel a faint spark of resentment.

“Don’t you even want to know why?” I say, tugging at the fringe of a cushion.

There’s a pause — then Luke says, as though with tremendous effort, “Why?”

“Because no one’s interested in me anymore.” I push my hair back off my head. “You’re not the only one who’s had a bad day, Luke. I’ve wrecked all my chances. No one wants to know me anymore.”

Humiliation creeps over me as I remember all the telephone messages I had to listen to this morning, politely canceling meetings and calling off lunches.

“And I know it’s all my own fault,” I continue. “I know that. But even so…” My voice starts to wobble treacherously, and I take a deep breath. “Things really aren’t great for me either.” I look up — but Luke hasn’t moved an inch. “You could… you could show a little sympathy.”

“Show a little sympathy,” echoes Luke evenly.

“I know I brought it on myself…”

“That’s right! You did!” Luke’s voice explodes in pent-up frustration, and at last he turns to face me. “Becky, no one forced you to go and spend that money! I mean, I know you like shopping. But for Christ’s sake. To spend like this… It’s bloody irresponsible. Couldn’t you have stopped yourself?”

“I don’t know!” I retort shakily. “Probably. But I didn’t know it was going to become such a… a bloody life-and-death issue, did I? I didn’t know I was being followed, Luke. I didn’t do this on purpose.” To my horror, I feel a tear making its way down my cheek. “You know, I didn’t hurt anybody. I didn’t kill anybody. Maybe I was a bit naive…”

“A bit naive. That’s the understatement of the year.”

“OK, so I was naive! But I didn’t commit any crime—”

“You don’t think throwing away opportunity is a crime?” says Luke furiously. “Because as far as I’m concerned…” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Becky! We both had it all. We had New York.” His hand clenches into a fist. “And now, look at us both. All because you’re so bloody obsessed by shopping—”

“Obsessed?” I cry. Suddenly I can’t stand his accusing gaze anymore. “I’m obsessed? What about you?”

“What do you mean?” he says dismissively.

“You’re obsessed by work! By making it in New York! The first thing you thought of when you saw that piece wasn’t me or… or how I was feeling, was it? It was how it affected you and your deal.” My voice rises tremulously. “All you care about is your own success, and I always come second. I mean, you didn’t even bother to tell me about New York until it was all decided! You just expected me to… to fall in line and do exactly what you wanted. No wonder Alicia said I was tagging along!”

“You’re not tagging along,” he says impatiently.

“Yes, I am! That’s the way you see me, isn’t it? As some little nobody, who has to be… to be slotted into your grand magnificent plan. And I was so stupid, I just went along with it…”

“I haven’t got time for this,” says Luke, standing up.

“You’ve never got time!” I say tearfully. “Suze has got more time for me than you have! You didn’t have time to come to Tom’s wedding; our holiday turned into a meeting; you didn’t have time to visit my parents…”

“So I don’t have a lot of time!” yells Luke suddenly, shocking me into silence. “So I can’t sit around making mindless tittle-tattle with you and Suze.” He shakes his head in frustration. “Do you realize how fucking hard I work? Do you have any idea how important this deal is?”

“Why is it important?” I hear myself shrieking. “Why is it so bloody important to make it in America? So you can impress your complete cow of a mother? Because if you’re trying to impress her, Luke, then I’d give up now! She’ll never be impressed. Never! I mean, she hasn’t even bothered to see you! God, you buy her an Herm`es scarf — and she can’t even rearrange her schedule to find five minutes for you!”

I break off, panting, into complete silence.

Oh fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.

I dart a look at Luke, and he’s staring at me, his face ashen with anger.

“What did you call my mother?” he says slowly.

“Look, I… I didn’t mean it.” I swallow, trying to keep control of my voice. “I just think… there’s got to be a sense of proportion in all this. All I did was a bit of shopping…”

“A bit of shopping,” echoes Luke scathingly. “A bit of shopping.” He gives me a long look — then, to my horror, heads to the huge cedar-wood wardrobe where I’ve been stashing all my stuff. He opens it silently and we both stare at the bags crammed to the ceiling.

And as I see it all, I feel a slight nausea overcoming me. All those things which seemed so vital when I bought them, all those things which I got so excited about… now just look like a great big pile of rubbish bags. I could barely even tell you what’s in any of the packages. It’s just… stuff. Piles and piles of stuff.

Without saying anything, Luke closes the door again, and I feel shame drenching over me like hot water.

“I know,” I say, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know. But I’m paying for it. I really am.”

I turn away, unable to meet his eye, and suddenly I just have to get out of this room. I have to get away from Luke, from myself in the mirror, from the whole horrendous day.

“I’ll… I’ll see you later,” I mutter and without looking back, head for the door.


The bar downstairs is dimly lit, soothing, and anonymous. I sink into a sumptuous leather chair, feeling weak and achy, as though I’ve got the flu. When a waiter comes up, I order an orange juice, then, as he’s walking away, change my order to a brandy. It arrives in a huge glass, warm and reviving, and I take a few sips — then look up as a shadow appears on the table in front of me. It’s Michael Ellis. I feel my heart sink. I really don’t feel up to talking.

“Hello,” he says. “May I?” He gestures to the chair opposite and I nod weakly. He sits down and gives me a kind look as I drain my glass. For a while, we’re both silent.

“I could be polite, and not mention it,” he says at last. “Or I could tell you the truth — which is that I was very sorry for you this morning. Your British papers are vicious. No one deserves that kind of treatment.”