‘Yes!’ I cry out, suddenly near tears. ‘It is!’ I know she thinks I’m crazy and irrational. And maybe I am. But I’m not giving up now.
As I put down the phone I’m trembling. It’s as if the line of tension has been drawn up another 50 per cent, till I can hardly breathe. Barely knowing what I’m doing I head back to the sofa, reach for a tiny sugared bun and stuff it into my mouth. Then another one. Maybe sugar will help me think.
How do I stop Luke going to Paris? Pinch his passport? Kidnap him? Find some brilliant, watertight excuse which will stop him going?
Suddenly I become aware that Elinor has stopped reaching for pieces of puzzle and her chilly eye is resting on me. If she tells me my shoe is scuffed I will honestly throw this bun at her.
‘Rebecca, are you quite well? Have you had a shock?’
I automatically open my mouth to say, ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine.’ But suddenly … I just can’t. I’m not strong enough to keep up the happy façade. Not to someone who doesn’t even count.
‘To be honest, I’ve been better.’ With a shaky hand I pour myself a cup of tea and stir three sugars into it, slopping some over the edge.
‘Would you like a brandy? Or a stiff cocktail?’
I eye her a bit suspiciously. Elinor’s offering me a cocktail? Is she making a dig?
No. Her face is humourless. I think she means it. And you know what? It’s the most welcome suggestion anyone has made to me for a long time.
‘Yes please,’ I say after a pause. ‘I’d love a stiff cocktail.’
Elinor passes me the room-service list and I order an apple martini, and after about a nano-second it appears. I sip it gratefully and the alcohol hits my bloodstream and at once I feel a bit better. Once I’m halfway down I stop trembling. God, I could do with about three of these.
Elinor is still calmly putting jigsaw pieces together as though nothing’s wrong, but after a while she looks up dispassionately and says, ‘Have you heard some bad news?’
‘Kind of.’ I take another sip of apple martini. There’s something about sitting in this room which is mesmerizing. It feels totally detached from the real world, as if we’re in a bubble. No one even knows I’m here. It’s like none of it really exists.
And suddenly I have an overwhelming urge to spill. I mean, if I tell Elinor, who can she blab to? No one.
‘I’ve been organizing this party for Luke for his birthday.’ I stir my apple martini. ‘A big surprise party. It’s in two weeks.’
Elinor doesn’t flicker, even though it can’t be easy to hear that your only son is having a surprise party and you don’t even know about it, let alone have an invitation.
‘I couldn’t invite you,’ I add bluntly. ‘You know I couldn’t.’ Even if I wanted to, I don’t add.
Elinor moves her head about a millimetre without replying, and I press on.
‘There were already loads of glitches.’ I rub my face. ‘I mean, I was already pretty stressed out. But now I’ve just heard that Luke’s arranged a meeting with this guy Christian Scott-Hughes on the same day as the party, in Paris. And we can’t get him to change it. He’s been wanting to meet Christian Scott-Hughes for ages. His assistant doesn’t know what to do and nor do I. Either I pinch his passport and he’s totally livid, or we move the whole party to Paris somehow, or I just give in and tell him the truth …’
I trail off miserably. I so, so, so don’t want to tell Luke. But I have a horrible feeling that’s what it might come to.
‘I’ve kept it a secret all this time.’ I nibble on the slice of martini-infused apple. ‘Luke has no idea what I’m up to. I can’t bear to spoil it. But what else am I going to do?’
There’s a knock at the door and a waiter silently comes in with another apple martini. He takes my empty glass, replaces it with the full one and glides out again.
I gape stupidly. Does that always happen here? Or is it just Elinor?
‘Do you mean Christian Scott-Hughes who works for Sir Bernard Cross?’ enquires Elinor, who has made no comment on the second apple martini.
‘Exactly. Luke’s desperate to make contact with Bernard Cross for some environmental client.’
I take a sip of my new cocktail, which is just as delicious as the first, then glance up to see if I’m going to get any sympathy from Elinor. If this was anyone normal, they’d already be going ‘You poor thing!’ or even giving me a hug. But her face is as rigid and distant as ever.
‘I know Bernard,’ she says eventually. ‘We met at St Tropez on his yacht. A charming man.’
Great. Just typical. Here I am, sharing my problems, and all she can do is boast about her superior social connections. And by the way, does Elinor even know what the word ‘charming’ means? Maybe she’s mixed it up with ‘rich’. That would explain a lot.
‘I’m sure you do know him,’ I say shortly. ‘Well done.’ I know I’m being rude, but I don’t care. Does she think I care whose stupid yacht she’s been on? I fish out the slice of apple from the second martini and stuff it in my mouth, but not before Minnie has spotted it.
‘Apple! Miiiine apple!’ She tries to reach inside my mouth and get it back out.
‘No, Minnie,’ I manage to say, and remove her wriggling fingers from my mouth. ‘Not your apple. It was a grown-up apple and it’s all gone now.’
‘Mine juice!’ Now she focuses on the cocktail. ‘Miiiine juice—’