Shopaholic & Baby

“If I had a pound for every lady who’s said that to me…” Dave Sharpness gives a hoarse chuckle. “You fill in the details. We’ll do the rest.”

He holds out a fresh pad of paper. I take it from him and flip the pages, feeling uneasy.

“Do I need to…give you a photograph?”

“We’ll take care of that. You just tell us about the women. Don’t leave anyone out. Friends…colleagues…Do you have a sister?”

“Well…yes,” I say, taken aback. “But he’d never…I mean, not in a million years…”

Dave Sharpness is shaking his head in ponderous amusement. “You’d be surprised, Mrs. Brandon. In my experience, if they’ve got one little secret, they’ve got a whole host of them.” He hands me a pen. “Don’t you worry. We’ll soon let you know.”

I write “Venetia Carter” at the top of the page, then stop.

What am I doing?

“I can’t do it.” I drop the pen. “I’m sorry. This just feels so weird. So wrong. To spy on my own husband!” I push my chair back and stand up. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t even be here!”

“You don’t need to make your decision today,” Dave Sharpness says unperturbed, reaching for a packet of toffees. “All I will say is that of the customers who react like your good self…ninety percent are back within a week. They still go ahead with the investigation, only they’ve lost a week. As a lady in your advanced condition…” His gaze drops meaningfully to my stomach. “Well, I’d be cracking on.”

“Oh.” Slowly I sink back down into the chair. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“And we don’t use the word spying,” he adds, wrinkling his florid nose. “No one likes to think of themselves as spying on a loved one. We prefer the term distance observation.”

“Distance observation.” That does sound better.

I fiddle with my birthing stone, my mind spinning. Maybe he’s got a point: if I walk away now, I’ll only be back in a week. Maybe I should just sign on the dotted line straightaway.

“But what if my husband saw you?” I say, looking up. “What if he’s totally innocent and he discovers I hired a detective? He’ll never trust me again….”

Dave Sharpness holds up a hand. “Let me reassure you. All of my operatives operate with the utmost caution and discretion. Either your husband is innocent — in which case, no harm done — or he’s guilty, in which case you have the proof you need to take further action. To be perfectly honest, Mrs. Brandon, it’s a win-win situation.”

“So there’s no way at all he could find out?” I say, just to be totally sure.

“Please.” Dave Sharpness chuckles again. “Mrs. Brandon, I’m a professional.”

Honestly, I never realized hiring a private investigator was such hard work. It takes me about forty minutes to write down all the information Dave Sharpness wants. Every time I try to explain that I’m only interested in whether Luke’s seeing Venetia, he holds up his hand and says, “Take it from me, Mrs. Brandon, you’ll be interested enough if we find anything.”

“That’s it,” I say at last, shoving the pad of paper toward him. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Excellent.” Dave Sharpness takes it and runs a fingernail down all the names. “We’ll get cracking on this lot. Meanwhile, we’ll place your husband under what we call low-grade surveillance.”

“Right,” I say nervously. “What does that involve?”

“One of my highly skilled operatives will follow your husband for an initial period of two weeks, at which time we shall meet again. Any information gained in the meantime shall be communicated to you directly by myself. I shall require a deposit….”

“Oh,” I say, feeling for my bag. “Of course.”

“And as a new customer”—he rifles in his drawer and produces a small flyer—“you qualify for our special offer.”

Special offer? He honestly thinks I’m interested in some stupid special offer? My marriage is under threat here. In fact, I’m pretty insulted he even mentioned it.

“Valid only today,” Dave Sharpness continues. “Buy one, get the second half-price. It’s a unique opportunity for new customers. Shame to miss out on a bargain.”

There’s silence. In spite of myself I’m feeling the teeniest, weeniest ripple of interest.

“What do you mean?” I give a reluctant shrug. “You get the second detective half off?”