‘You think a marquee costs the same as a couple of handbags?’ he says menacingly.
Oh God. Does he think I was trying to pull some kind of scam?
‘No! I mean … I don’t know!’ My voice jumps with nerves. ‘I was just hoping someone might just have a spare marquee they didn’t want, you know, lying around the place—’
I break off as I suddenly realize my voice might be carrying up to the bathroom window. Shit.
‘Can we whisper, please?’ I edge nearer the cab. ‘It’s all supposed to be a secret. And if my husband comes out … I’m buying fruit off you, OK?’
Nicole’s dad shoots me an incredulous look, then says, ‘How much are them bags worth, anyway?’
‘They cost about a thousand pounds new. I mean, it depends how much you like Marc Jacobs, I suppose …’
‘Thousand quid.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘She’s a bloody little lunatic.’
I don’t dare chime in, either to agree or disagree. In fact, now I think about it, he might be talking about me.
Abruptly Nicole’s dad focuses on me again. ‘All right,’ he says heavily. ‘If my daughter promised you a marquee, I’ll supply a marquee. I can’t lay on the full monty, you’ll have to put it up yourself. But we’re quiet at the moment. I’ll sort you something.’
For an instant I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.
‘You’ll get me a marquee?’ I clap a hand over my mouth. ‘Oh my God. Do you know that you have just saved my life?’
Nicole’s dad gives a short laugh and hands me a card. ‘One of the lads’ll be in touch. Tell him the date, say Cliff knows about it, we’ll sort you out.’ He grinds the van into gear and starts reversing out of the drive.
‘Thanks, Cliff!’ I call after him. ‘Tell Nicole I hope she’s enjoying the bags!’
I want to dance around. I want to whoop. I’ve got a marquee! And it didn’t cost thousands, and it’s all sorted. I knew I could do it.
CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1
Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
28 February 2006
Dear Rebecca
Thank you for your prompt reply. It is most kind of you to issue permission so readily.
Unfortunately The British Journal of Monetary Economics is not an illustrated periodical and does not have a ‘photo-editor’ or ‘stylist’ as you suggest. I will therefore be unable to use the photographs of the Missoni coat, belt and boots that you so kindly enclosed and return them with thanks.
Yours sincerely
Edwin Tredwell
Director of Policy Research
TWELVE
This time, we’ve gone for a central London restaurant, well away from Luke’s office. As I arrive I can see Bonnie, already at a corner table, looking immaculate in a coral-coloured suit and the seed-pearl earrings which I made Luke buy her as a birthday present. She looks perfectly comfortable sitting there on her own, her head erect, calmly sipping a cup of tea. Like she’s sat on her own in restaurants a million times before.
‘The earrings look great!’ I say, sliding into the seat opposite.
‘They’re exquisite!’ says Bonnie, touching one. ‘I do hope you got my thank-you message, Becky. How on earth did you do it?’
‘I was really subtle,’ I say proudly. ‘I found them online and told Luke I wanted them for myself. Then I said, “Actually, no! They’d suit someone with different colouring. Someone like your assistant Bonnie, maybe!”’
I won’t mention that I had to say it about five times, louder and louder, before Luke even looked up from his laptop.
‘You’re very adept.’ Bonnie sighs. ‘I haven’t had quite so much luck with your basement gym, I’m afraid. I have tried to mention it—’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that any more. The house is off for the moment, anyway.’ I pick up the menu, then put it down distractedly. ‘I’m more bothered about the party. Can you believe what happened last night?’
‘People are so lax when it comes to invitations.’ Bonnie tuts with disapproval. ‘They never read instructions properly.’
‘So what am I going to do?’ I’m hoping Bonnie will have thought of some clever solution already – and sure enough, she nods calmly.
‘I have a suggestion. We contact each invitee personally, reiterate the top-secret nature of the party, and head off any further mishaps.’
‘Yes,’ I say slowly. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll take the list to work tomorrow.’
‘May I suggest, Becky, that I do the telephoning?’ says Bonnie gently. ‘If you do, you will give the impression that you are the point of contact. But you should not be the point of contact. We need to separate you from the guests as much as possible, to prevent any further slip-ups.’
‘But that would be too much work! You can’t do that!’
‘I don’t mind at all. Really, I’d be glad to.’ She hesitates. ‘It’s rather fun!’
‘Well … thanks!’
A waiter is hovering and I order a double-shot cappuccino. I need the caffeine. This party is harder work than I thought. My hand muscles are aching from cutting out plastic bags for pompoms (I’ve done seventy-two) and I’m constantly paranoid Luke’s going to stumble across my folder of notes. Last night I dreamed that he came back home just as I was making his birthday cake in a giant mixing bowl and I had to pretend it was breakfast and he kept saying, ‘But I don’t want cake for breakfast.’