While I’m introduced to the two women, Sage flops down on a chair, furiously tapping at her phone.
“What’s up?” I say quietly to Luke.
“Lois Kellerton,” he murmurs back. “Florence Nightingale.
I have a feeling Lois is going to get the role. Just don’t mention it, OK?”
“Oh.” I feel an uncomfortable twinge. “All right.”
I can feel Suze’s eyes burning into me, and I know what she’s trying to say: I should tell Luke that I’m going to start working with Lois Kellerton. She’s right. I should. Only I’m not quite sure how to do it in front of Sage.
Could I text him?
I get out my phone, open a text, and start typing.
Luke. I have a new client. It’s Lois Kellerton.
No. Too blunt. I delete the whole thing and try again.
Luke, I have an amazing new opportunity, which I don’t want to mention out loud. And I hope you’ll be pleased for me. I THINK you’ll be pleased for me. There may be a very slight conflict of interest, but we can always build Chinese walls, and
Damn. I’ve run out of room. I’m just backspacing again, when Sage looks up from her own phone.
“Cute purse,” she says, spying the Art Deco bag and pulling it toward her. “Is that yours, Becky?”
Shit. Shit.
“Oh. Um …” As I’m working out how to answer, Luke plunges in.
“That’s one of Becky’s work purchases,” he says. “You know she’s a stylist, Sage? She’s worked at Barneys and at a major store in London. Remember, I was telling you about her work yesterday.”
“I do,” says Aran, looking up from his phone. “We couldn’t get you to shut up about it.” He winks at me, then resumes tapping at his phone.
I can’t help feeling touched. I had no idea Luke was bigging up my work.
Sage’s brow has wrinkled as though she’s recalling a distant memory from a past life. “Sure,” she says vaguely. “You told me. So who is this purse for?”
“I think it might, in fact, be for you!” Luke’s eyes twinkle. “Am I right, Becky?”
No. Nooooooo!
Disaster. Total disaster. Why didn’t I hide it under the table?
“Um …” I clear my throat. “Actually—”
“For me?” Sage’s face lights up. “How cool. It matches my dress.”
Is she crazy? It’s totally the wrong silver.
“The thing is—it’s not—” I reach for the bag, but it’s too late. Sage has stood up and is trying it out, posing as though she’s on the red carpet. I meet Suze’s eyes—and she looks as horrified as I feel.
“I think you’ve scored a hit, Becky,” says Luke, delighted. “Bravo.”
“The thing is, it’s for a client,” I say awkwardly. “I’ve promised it to her. Sorry. I can try to get you another one like it.”
“Which client?” Sage looks put out.
“Just a … um … this girl …” I’m knotting my fingers. “You wouldn’t know her.…”
“Well, tell her you lost it.” Sage pouts winsomely. “It’s too cute. I have to have it.”
“But I’ve promised it to her.…” I try to swipe it, but she dances away.
“Mine now!”
Before I can stop her, she’s moving into a cluster of guys in black tie. The next moment she’s gone.
“Luke!” I let out all my stress by banging the table. “How could you? You’ve ruined everything! That clutch wasn’t for her!”
“Well, I’m very sorry, but I thought I was helping you!” he replies hotly. “You’ve been telling me for weeks how you want to be Sage’s stylist.”
“I do! But I’ve got this other client—”
“Who is this other client?” He doesn’t look convinced. “Does she even exist?”
“Yes!”
“Well, who is it?” He turns to Suze. “Do you know this client?”
“I think Becky needs to tell you herself,” says Suze in disapproving tones.
“Er … Luke,” I say with a small gulp. “Let’s go to the bar.”
As we make our way to the bar, I’m lurching between two feelings. Glee that I’ve finally got a client, and dread at having to tell Luke. Glee–dread, glee–dread … My head is spinning and my hands are clenched and my legs are shaking, and altogether I’m glad when we reach the bar.
“Luke, I have something to tell you,” I blurt out. “It’s good but it’s not good. Or it may not be good. Or …” I’ve run out of possibilities. “I need to tell you,” I finish lamely.
Luke eyes me for a moment without saying anything. “Is this a stiff drink kind of a something?” he says at last.
“It could be.”
“Two gimlets,” he instructs the barman. “Straight up.”
Luke quite often orders for me, which is because I can never decide what to have. (Mum’s the same. Phoning for Chinese honestly takes about an hour in our house.)
“So, the good news is, I’ve got a client.”
“So you said.” Luke raises his eyebrows. “Well done! And the bad news?”
“The bad news is …” I screw up my face. “My client is Lois Kellerton.”
I’m bracing myself for Luke to explode, or frown, or maybe bang his fist on the bar and say, Of all the movie stars in all the towns … and stare murderously into the middle distance. But instead he looks puzzled.