“It might be an emergency.”
“It’s probably just Luke.”
“What do you mean, just Luke?” I say, punching in my code. “I wouldn’t say it’s just Tarquin.”
“Yes, you would; you say it all the time.” Suze wrenches at my dress. “Are you sure this is the right size?”
I can’t answer. I’m staring at my phone in a state of shock.
“Bex?” Suze pokes me. “Hello?”
“She’s coming,” I say at last.
“Who’s coming?”
“Elinor. Here.”
“Now?” says Suze in alarm.
“No, not now, but soon. In a week or so. I sent her a text, asking her to come, but I never thought she would—” I turn to face Suze, suddenly petrified. “Oh God. What shall I do?”
“You’ll stage an intervention, remember?” says Suze. “Because you’re so brilliant at conflict resolution, remember?”
“Right.” I swallow. “Yes.”
Somehow it all sounded better in theory. But the idea that Elinor is actually going to get on a plane to L.A., and Luke has no idea, and I’ll have the two of them to manage …
“Suze, you have to help me,” I say plaintively.
“I’m not helping you!” she says at once. “Count me out. I always thought it was a bad idea.”
“It isn’t a bad idea! It’s just … it might be more difficult than I thought.”
“I thought you were an expert,” says Suze rather unfeelingly. “I thought you had a variety of techniques up your sleeve and Buddha would guide you with his infinite wisdom.” She pauses, then adds, “Tell you what, I’ll buy you some more wind chimes, if you like.”
“Very funny.”
“Well, honestly, Bex, you must be nuts. What happened about Elinor’s surgery anyway?”
“It was canceled,” I say, reading the third text again. “It was only a minor procedure on her toe.”
“Her toe?” Suze stares at me. “I thought she was dying!”
“So did I,” I admit.
“Well, I think you should cancel her. Say you made a mistake and you won’t be here.” She prods my shoulder. “Turn around. There’s one more hook to do.”
I turn round, thinking hard. That’s the obvious option. The easy solution. I could text Elinor back. Tell her not to come; make some excuse. We’ll probably never see her again. But is that really what I want? Is that really for the best for all of us? For Luke? For Minnie?
Suze fixes the last hook in place. “There. Done.” Then she adds, “Or you could always say Minnie was ill,” she adds. “I do that all the time if I want to get out of things. Ernie’s had whooping cough about five times, poor little love—”
“I’m not going to cancel.” I’m feeling resolute. “Elinor and Luke have to sort things out, and I really think I can help them, and the longer I put it off, the harder it’ll be.”
“God help us.” Suze stares at me, incredulous. “You are going to stage an intervention.”
“Why not? I’m sure I can do it. With or without help,” I say pointedly.
“Who needs help?” comes Luke’s voice from the corridor, and I stiffen. I hastily turn off my phone and paste on a casual smile.
“Oh, hi!” I say brightly as he comes in, all smart in black tie. “Just talking about … kettlebells.”
“Marvelous,” says Luke, shooting me an odd look. “What is a kettlebell? I keep hearing about them.”
“It’s an exercise device,” I improvise. “It’s modeled on a kettle. And a bell, obviously. Both. So, what time shall we leave?” I add hurriedly.
“Oh God, is that the time?” Suze suddenly sounds fractious. “Where’s Tarkie?”
“Haven’t seen him.” Luke glances at his watch. “We’ll need to go in about twenty minutes.”
Luke wasn’t originally intending to come to the ASAs, but then Sage announced she wanted to go, and her whole entourage had to come too. Apparently she wanted to bring a monkey as a publicity stunt, and Luke had to talk her out of it. A monkey! Imagine if it made a mess everywhere.
Now Luke’s eye has fallen on a shiny cardboard carrier bag lying on the bed, out of which is poking a diamanté-encrusted clutch.
“Another bag, Becky?” He raises an eyebrow. “I thought the bag you bought at the weekend was so perfect you would use it forever and it would be your signature look and people would call you the Girl with the Lara Bohinc Bag?”
I feel a dart of righteous indignation. Husbands should not memorize conversations, word for word. It’s against the whole spirit of marriage. But in this case I don’t mind, because whatever he’s thinking, he’s wrong.
“That clutch isn’t for me. I bought it in my role as stylist. It’s tax-deductible,” I add smartly.
I don’t actually know if that’s true, but it must be, surely?
“Right. Of course. The styling.” Luke looks quizzical. “How’s that going, then?”
“Great!” I say robustly. “Lots of potential. Lots of irons in the fire.”
Luke sighs. “Becky, sweetheart, I wish you’d let me help you. I’m sure I could get you a couple of introductions—”
“I don’t need your help!” I reply, stung. “I’m on the case.”
This is why I don’t want to mention Lois Kellerton yet. I want to show him. The bag’s for Lois, of course. It’s a one-off from a vintage shop and has an Art Deco design that I think she’ll love. Lately, Lois has taken to wearing really subtle, muted shades, which is all very well, but I think she needs to “pop” more, and this bag will be perfect. Especially against all that lovely dark hair. I’m planning to give it to her tonight, as an icebreaker, and hopefully we can take things from there.