Suddenly I feel a little hollow.

“But… there has to be a package. I sent it by Special Express, yesterday. To Blakeley Hall.”

The concierge frowns.

“Charlotte?” he says, calling into a back room. “Has a parcel arrived for Rebecca Bloomwood?”

“No,” says Charlotte, coming out. “When was it supposed to arrive?”

“This morning!” I say, trying to hide my agitation. “ ‘Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning’! I mean, this is anywhere, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” says Charlotte, “but nothing’s come. Was it very important?”

“Rebecca?” comes a voice from the stairs, and I turn to see Luke peering down at me. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” I say brightly. “Of course not! What on earth could be wrong?” Quickly I swivel away from the desk and, before Charlotte or the concierge can say anything, hurry toward the stairs.

“Everything all right?” he says as I reach him, and smiles at me.

“Absolutely!” I say, my voice two notches higher than usual. “Everything’s absolutely fine!”


I have no clothes. This cannot be happening.

I’m on holiday with Luke, in a smart hotel — and I have no clothes. What am I going to do?

I can’t tell him the truth. I just can’t admit that my dinky suitcase was only the tip of the clothes-berg. Not after having been so smug about it. I’ll just have to… improvise, I think wildly, as we turn a corner and start walking down another plushy corridor. Wear his clothes, like Annie Hall or… or rip down the curtains and find some sewing stuff… and quickly learn how to sew…

Calm down, I tell myself firmly. Just… calm down. The parcel is bound to arrive tomorrow morning, so I’ve only got to last one night. And at least I’ve got my makeup with me…

“Here we are,” says Luke, stopping at a door and opening it. “What do you think?”

Oh wow. For a moment all my worries are swept away as I gaze around the enormous airy room. Now I can see why Luke likes this hotel so much. It’s gorgeous — exactly like his flat, all huge white bed with an enormous waffle duvet, and a state-of-the-art music system and two suede sofas.

“Take a look at the bathroom,” says Luke, and I follow him through — and it’s stunning. A great sunken mosaic Jacuzzi, with the hugest shower I’ve ever seen above, and a whole rack of gorgeous-looking aromatherapy oils.

Maybe I could just spend the whole weekend in the bath.

“So,” he says, turning back into the room. “I don’t know what you’d like to do…” He walks over to his suitcase and clicks it open — and I can see serried rows of shirts, all ironed by his housekeeper. “I suppose we should unpack first…”

“Unpack! Absolutely!” I say brightly. I walk over to my own little suitcase and finger the clasp, without opening it. “Or else…” I say, as though the idea’s just occurring to me, “why don’t we go and have a drink — and unpack later!”

Genius. We’ll go downstairs and get really pissed, and then tomorrow morning I’ll just pretend to be really sleepy and stay in bed until my package comes. Thank God. For a moment there I was starting to—

“Excellent idea,” says Luke. “I’ll just get changed.” And he reaches into his case and pulls out a pair of trousers and a crisp blue shirt.

“Changed?” I say after a pause. “Is there… a strict dress code?”

“Oh no, not strict,” says Luke. “You just wouldn’t go down in… say, in what you’re wearing at the moment.” He gestures to my denim cutoffs with a grin.

“Of course not!” I say, laughing as though the idea’s ridiculous. “Right. Well. I’ll just… choose an outfit, then.”

I turn to my case again, snap it open, lift the lid, and look at my makeup bag.

What am I going to do? Luke’s unbuttoning his shirt. He’s calmly reaching for the blue one. In a minute he’s going to look up and say, “Are you ready?”

I need a radical plan of action here.

“Luke — I’ve changed my mind,” I say, and close the lid of my case. “Let’s not go down to the bar.” Luke looks up in surprise, and I give him the most seductive smile I can muster. “Let’s stay up here, and order room service, and…” I take a few steps toward him, loosening my wrap top, “… and see where the night leads us.”

Luke stares at me, his hands still halfway up the buttons of his blue shirt.

“Take that off,” I say huskily. “What’s the point of dressing up when all we want to do is undress each other?”

A slow smile spreads across Luke’s face, and his eyes begin to gleam.

“You’re so right,” he says, and walks toward me, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “I don’t know what I was thinking of.”

Thank God! I think in relief, as he reaches for my wrap top and gently starts to untie it. This is perfect. This is exactly what I—

Ooh. Mmm.

Actually, this is pretty bloody perfect.

Four


BY EIGHT THIRTY the next morning, I still haven’t got up. I don’t want to move an inch. I want to stay in this lovely comfortable bed, wrapped up in this gorgeous white waffle duvet.

“Are you staying there all day?” says Luke, smiling at me. “Not that I don’t want to join you.” He kisses me on the forehead and I snuggle down in the pillows without replying. I just don’t want to get up. I’m so cozy and warm and happy here.

Plus — just a very small point — I still don’t have any clothes.

I’ve already secretly rung down to reception three times about my Special Express. (Once while Luke was in the shower, once while I was in the shower — from the posh bathroom phone — and once very quickly when I sent Luke into the corridor because I said I heard a cat meowing.)

And it hasn’t arrived. I have nil clothes. Nada.

Which hasn’t mattered up until now, because I’ve just been lounging around in bed. But I can’t possibly eat any more croissants or drink any more coffee, nor can I have another shower, and Luke’s half-dressed already.

I’m just going to have to put on yesterday’s clothes again. Which is really hideous, but what else can I do? I’ll just pretend I’m sentimental about them, or maybe hope I can slip them on and Luke won’t even realize. I mean, do men really notice what you…

Hang on.

Hang on a minute. Where are yesterday’s clothes? I’m sure I dropped them just there on the floor…

“Luke?” I say, as casually as possible. “Have you seen the clothes I was wearing yesterday?”

“Oh yes,” he says, glancing up from his suitcase. “I sent them to the laundry this morning, along with my stuff.”

I stare at him, unable to breathe.

My only clothes in the whole world have gone to the laundry?

“When… when will they be back?” I say at last.

“Tomorrow morning.” Luke turns to look at me. “Sorry, I should have said. But it’s not a problem, is it? I mean, I don’t think you have to worry. They do an excellent job.”

“Oh no!” I say in a high, brittle voice. “No, I’m not worried!”

“Good,” he says, and smiles.

“Good,” I say, and smile back.

What am I going to do?

“Oh, and there’s plenty of room in the wardrobe,” says Luke, “if you want me to hang anything up.” He reaches toward my little case and in a panic, I hear myself crying “Nooo!” before I can stop myself. “It’s all right,” I add, as he looks at me in surprise. “My clothes are mostly… knitwear.”

Oh God. Oh God. Now he’s putting on his shoes. What am I going to do?

OK, come on, Becky, I think frantically. Clothes. Something to wear. Doesn’t matter what.

One of Luke’s suits?

No. He’ll just think it’s too weird, and anyway, his suits all cost about £1,000 so I won’t be able to roll the sleeves up.

My hotel robe? Pretend robes and waffle slippers are the latest fashion? Oh, but I can’t walk around in a dressing gown as if I think I’m in a spa. Everyone will laugh at me.

Come on, there must be clothes in a hotel. What about… the chambermaids’ uniforms! Yes, that’s more like it! They must keep a rack of them somewhere, mustn’t they? Neat little dresses with matching hats. I could tell Luke they’re the latest thing from Prada — and just hope no one asks me to clear out their room…

“By the way,” says Luke, reaching into his case, “you left this behind at my flat.”

And as I look up, startled, he chucks something across the room at me. It’s soft, it’s fabric… as I catch it, I want to weep with relief. It’s clothes! A single oversized Calvin Klein T-shirt, to be precise. I have never been so glad to see a plain washed-out gray T-shirt in my life.

“Thanks!” I say. And I force myself to count to ten before I add casually, “Actually, maybe I’ll wear this today.”

“That?” says Luke, giving me a strange look. “I thought it was a nightshirt.”

“It is! It’s a nightshirt-slash-dress,” I say, popping it over my head — and thank God, it comes to halfway down my thighs. It could easily be a dress. And ha! I’ve got a stretchy black headband in my makeup bag, which just about fits me as a belt.

“Very nice,” says Luke quizzically, watching me wriggle into it. “A little on the short side…”

“It’s a minidress,” I say firmly, and turn to look at my reflection. And… oh God, it is a bit short. But it’s too late to do anything about that now. I step into my clementine sandals and shake back my hair, not allowing myself to think about all the great outfits I had planned for this morning.

“Here,” says Luke. He reaches for my Denny and George scarf and winds it slowly round my neck. “Denny and George scarf, no knickers. Just the way I like it.”

“I’m going to wear knickers!” I say indignantly.