I never got that stuff for Fabia, it suddenly occurs to me. But I’ve still got time. It’ll be fine.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Lucky thing, those houses are amazing! We’ll see you there then, eleven o’clock.”
“See you then!”
I switch off the phone and breathe out hard. I’m going to be in Vogue. I’m going to be yummy. And I’m going to save my marriage.
FROM: Becky Brandon
TO: Fabia Paschali
SUBJECT: Tomorrow
Hello, Fabia!
Just to confirm, I will be coming tomorrow with a Vogue crew and the shoot will last from around 11am till 3pm.
I have got the purple top and the Chloe bag, but unfortunately, although I’ve tried everywhere, I can’t locate the Olly Bricknell shoes you want. Is there anything else that you’d like?
Again, thanks so much and look forward to seeing you tomorrow!
Becky
FROM: Fabia Paschali
TO: Becky Brandon
SUBJECT: Re: Tomorrow
Becky,
No shoes, no house.
Fabia
KENNETH PRENDERGAST
Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers
Forward House 394 High Holborn
London WC1V 7EX
Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
26 November 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
Thank you for your letter.
I have noted your new shareholdings in Sweet Confectionary, Inc., Estelle Rodin Cosmetics, and The Urban Spa plc. I cannot, however, agree that these are the “best investments in the world.”
Please let me reiterate. Free chocolates, samples of perfume, and discount spa treatments — while pleasant — are no sound basis for investment. I urge you to reconsider your current investment strategy and would be pleased to advise you further.
Yours sincerely,
Kenneth Prendergast
Family Investment Specialist
SEVENTEEN
THESE BLOODY, BLOODY SHOES. There is not a single pair of them left in London. Especially not in green. No wonder Fabia wants them, they’re like the Holy Grail or something, except there aren’t even any clues in paintings. I spent yesterday trying all my contacts, every supplier I know, every shop, everywhere. I even called my old colleague Erin at Barneys in New York and she just laughed pityingly.
In the end, Danny stepped in to help. He made some calls around and finally tracked down a pair to a model he knows who is on a shoot in Paris. In return for a sample jacket, she gave them to a friend who was coming over to London last night. He met up with Danny and now he’s going to deliver them to me.
That’s the plan. But he isn’t here yet. And it’s already five past ten and I’m starting to panic. I’m standing on the corner of Delamain Road, dressed in my yummiest outfit of red print wrap dress, Prada heels, and a vintage-style fake fur stole, and all the cars keep slowing down to look. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best place to meet. I must look like some eight months’ pregnant hooker for pervy people.
I take out my phone and, yet again, redial Danny’s number. “Danny?”
“We’re here! We’re coming. We’re just driving over a bridge…whoa!”
Danny was supposed to be dropping the shoes round last night — only he went off clubbing instead, with some photographer he met on holiday. (Don’t ask. He started to tell me about the night they spent together in Marrakech, and honestly, I had to put my hands over the baby’s ears.) He’s shrieking with laughter, and I can hear the roar of his friend’s Harley-Davidson. How can he be having fun? Doesn’t he know how stressed out I am?
I’ve barely slept since Luke has been gone. And when I did get to sleep last night, I had the most awful dream. I dreamed I went to the top of the Oxo Tower, but Luke didn’t show up. I stood for hours in the wind and gale and rain pouring down on me and then at last Luke appeared, but he’d somehow turned into Elinor and she started yelling at me. And then all my hair fell off….
“Excuse me!”
A woman holding two small children by the hand is approaching, and giving me an odd look.
“Oh. Sorry.” I come to, and move out of the way.
In real life, I haven’t spoken to Luke since he left. He’s tried to call several times, but I just sent short texts back saying sorry I missed him and everything’s OK. I didn’t want to talk to him until he’d read my letter — which only happened last night, according to the tracking system. Somebody at the Geneva office signed for it at 6:11 p.m., so he must have read it by now.
The die is cast. By six o’clock tonight I’ll know, one way or another. Either he’ll be there, waiting for me, or…
Nausea rises through me and I shake my head briskly. I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to get through this shoot first. I take a bite of a Kit Kat for energy, and glance down again at the printed page that Martha e-mailed me. It’s an interview with one of the other yummy mummies-to-be from the article, which Martha said would “give me an idea.” The other yummy is called Amelia Gordon-Barraclough. She’s posing in a vast Kensington nursery wearing a beaded kaftan and about fifty-nine bracelets, and all her quotes sound totally smug.