But then, it’s not up to me, is it? It’s Luke who’s buying the case. He’s the one who’s got to choose. We sit down on the floor, side by side, and look at them.
“The green one would be more practical,” says Luke eventually.
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. “I suppose it would.”
“It’s lighter — and the wheels are better.”
“Mmm.”
“And that pale calfskin would probably scuff in a matter of minutes. Green’s a more sensible color.”
“Mmm,” I say, trying to sound as though I agree with him.
He gives me a quizzical look and says, “Right, well, I think we’ve made our choice, don’t you?” And, still sitting on the floor, he calls over the assistant.
“Yes, sir?” says the assistant, and Luke nods at him.
“I’d like to buy one of these pale beige suitcases, please.”
“Oh!” I say, and I can’t stop a smile of delight spreading over my face. “You’re getting the one I liked best!”
“Rule of life,” says Luke, getting to his feet and brushing down his trousers. “If you bother to ask someone’s advice, then bother to listen to it.”
“But I didn’t say which one. .”
“You didn’t have to,” says Luke, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet. “Your mmms gave it all away.”
His hand is surprisingly strong round mine, and as he pulls me up, I feel a slight swooping in my stomach. He smells nice, too. Some expensive aftershave, which I don’t recognize. For a moment, neither of us says anything.
“Right,” says Luke at last. “Well, I’d better pay for it, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I say, suddenly feeling ridiculously nervous. “Yes, I suppose you had.”
He walks off to the checkout and starts talking to the assistant, and I perch next to a display of leather suit-carriers, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. I mean, what happens next?
Well, we’ll just say good-bye politely, won’t we? Luke’ll probably have to get back to the office. He can’t hang around shopping all day. And if he asks me what I’m doing next, I tell myself, I really will say I’m busy. I’ll pretend I’ve got some important meeting arranged or something.
“All sorted out,” he says, coming back. “Rebecca, I’m incredibly grateful to you for your help.”
“Great!” I say brightly. “Well, I must be on my—”
“So I was wondering,” says Luke, before I can continue. “Would you like some lunch?”
This is turning into my perfect day. Shopping at Harrods, and lunch at Harvey Nichols. I mean, what could be better than that? We go straight up to the Fifth Floor restaurant, and Luke orders a bottle of chilled white wine and raises his glass in a toast.
“To luggage,” he says, and smiles.
“Luggage,” I reply happily, and take a sip. It’s just about the most delicious wine I’ve ever tasted. Luke picks up his menu and starts to read it, and I pick mine up, too — but to be honest, I’m not reading a word. I’m just sitting in a happy glow. I’m looking around with relish at all the smart women coming in to have lunch here, and making notes of their outfits and wondering where that girl over there got her pink boots from. And now, for some reason, I’m thinking about that nice card Luke sent me. And I’m wondering whether it was just being friendly — or. . or whether it was something else.
At this thought, my stomach flips so hard I almost feel sick, and very quickly I take another sip of wine. Well, a gulp, really. Then I put down my glass, count to five, and say casually, “Thanks for your card, by the way.”
“What?” he says, looking up. “Oh, you’re welcome.” He reaches for his glass and takes a sip of wine. “It was nice to bump into you that night.”
“It’s a great place,” I say. “Great for table-hopping.”
As soon as I’ve said this, I feel myself blush. But Luke just smiles and says, “Indeed.” Then he puts down his glass and says, “Do you know what you want?”
“Ahm. .” I say, glancing hurriedly at the menu. “I think I’ll just have. . erm. . fish cakes. And rocket salad.”
Damn, I’ve just spotted squid. I should have had that. Oh well, too late now.
“Good choice,” says Luke, smiling at me. “And thanks again for coming along today. It’s always good to have a second opinion.”
“No problem,” I say lightly, and take a sip of wine. “Hope you enjoy the case.”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” he says after a pause. “It’s for Sacha.”
“Oh, right,” I say pleasantly. “Who’s Sacha? Your sister?”
“My girlfriend,” says Luke, and turns away to beckon to a waiter.
And I stare at him, unable to move.
His girlfriend. I’ve been helping him choose a suitcase for his girlfriend.
Suddenly I don’t feel hungry anymore. I don’t want fish cakes and rocket salad. I don’t even want to be here. My happy glow is fading away, and underneath I feel chilly and rather stupid. Luke Brandon’s got a girlfriend. Of course he has. Some beautiful smart girl called Sacha, who has manicured nails and travels everywhere with expensive cases. I’m a fool, aren’t I? I should have known there’d be a Sacha somewhere on the scene. I mean, it’s obvious.
Except. . Except it’s not that obvious. In fact, it’s not obvious at all. Luke hasn’t mentioned his girlfriend all morning. Why hasn’t he? Why didn’t he just say the suitcase was for her in the first place? Why did he let me sit on the floor beside him in Harrods and laugh as I marched up and down, testing the wheels? I wouldn’t have behaved anything like that if I’d known we were buying a case for his girlfriend. And he must have known that. He must have known.