“It’s not that,” I cut him off scornfully.
It’s that she used to be his ex-girlfriend and has long swishy red hair. But I’m not going to say that.
“It’s that…” I flounder. “It’s that…we’re married, Luke. We should share everything. We shouldn’t have anything separate. I’m an open book! Look at my phone!” I gesture widely. “Look in my drawers! I don’t have a single secret! Go on, look!”
“Becky, it’s getting late.” Luke rubs his face. “Could we do this tomorrow?”
I stare at him indignantly. What does he mean, “do this tomorrow”? We’re not playing Monopoly — we’re having a crucial discussion about the state of our marriage.
“Go on! Look!”
“All right.” Luke lifts his hands in surrender, and heads toward my bureau.
“I don’t have a single secret I’m keeping from you! You can look anywhere, poke about all you like—” I draw up sharply.
Shit. The gender predictor test. It’s in the top left drawer.
“Er…except that drawer,” I exclaim hastily. “Don’t touch the top left drawer.”
Luke stops. “I can’t touch that drawer?”
“No. It’s…a surprise. Or the Harrods bag on the chair,” I add hastily. I don’t want him seeing the receipt for my new hi-tech moisturizer. I nearly died myself when I saw the price.
“Anything else?” Luke inquires.
“Um…a couple of things in the wardrobe. Early birthday presents for you,” I add defiantly.
There’s silence in the bedroom. I can’t quite tell what Luke is thinking. At last he turns, his face working oddly.
“So, our marriage is a completely honest, open book except for that drawer, this Harrods bag, and the back of the wardrobe?”
I sense my position on the moral high ground is not quite as strong as I thought it was.
“The point is…” I cast around. “The point is, I wasn’t out all night with someone else, doing goodness knows what!”
Oh God. I sound exactly like a whingy EastEnders wife.
“Becky.” Luke sighs and sits down on the bed. “Venetia’s not ‘someone else.’ She’s a client. She’s a friend. She’d like to be your friend.”
I turn away, pleating the duvet cover into a little fan.
“I just can’t understand what your problem is. You were the one who wanted to go to Venetia in the first place!”
“Yes, but—”
I can’t exactly say, I didn’t know then that she was a husband stealer.
“She’s going to be delivering our baby in a few weeks’ time! You should be getting to know her. Feeling relaxed with her!”
I don’t want her to deliver the baby flashes through my mind.
“And on that subject…” Luke stands up. “Venetia asked if we could make an appointment tomorrow. She hasn’t seen you for a while and she feels bad about it. I said we’d both be there. OK?” He heads into the bathroom.
“Fine,” I say morosely, and sink back into the pillows with a great sigh. My head is swirling with confused thoughts. Maybe I am being unreasonable and paranoid. Maybe she’s not after Luke.
And she is the best obstetrician in the world, practically. OK. I’m going to make a real, real effort and see if we can be friends.
When we arrive at the Holistic Birth Center on Friday, the paparazzi are out in force and I can see why. The Bond girl and the new face of Lancôme are posing together on the steps, both in cool low-slung trousers and clingy tops which accentuate their teeny bumps.
“Becky, slow down!” Luke calls after me as I hurry to join them. But by the time I arrive, they’ve already pushed their way in through the doors. I pause hopefully on the steps, but not a single lens points toward me. In fact, the photographers are all moving away, which is pretty insulting. You’d think they’d take a picture just to be polite.
Inside, the Bond girl is ahead of me at the desk, and I can hear the receptionist saying, “And you got your invitation to tea at the Savoy? Do you need us to send a car?”
“No, thanks,” says the Bond girl, nodding at the Lancôme model. “Zara and I are going together.”
My heart skips a beat. Tea at the Savoy? I didn’t get an invitation to tea at the Savoy. Maybe they’re going to give it to me now! I approach the receptionist with an expectant smile, already reaching for my diary so I can check the date. But she doesn’t hand over any invitation.
“Take a seat, Mrs. Brandon.” She smiles back. “Venetia will be with you shortly.”
“Er…was there anything else?” I linger at the desk. “Anything I should…have?”
“Did you bring a urine sample?” The receptionist smiles. “That’s all you need.”
That is not what I was talking about. I wait another few seconds just in case, then stalk over to the seating area, trying to hide my disappointment. She hasn’t invited me. All the celebrities will be having tea together, exchanging pregnancy stories and asking each other where they buy their premiere dresses, and I’ll be sitting at home on my own.
“Becky?” Luke is regarding me, puzzled. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I can feel my bottom lip quivering. “Only she didn’t invite me to the tea party. They’re all going to the Savoy. All of them! Without me.”
“Becky, you don’t know there’s a tea party. I’m sure…I mean…” Luke breaks off, clearly at a loss. “Look, even if she didn’t, does it matter? You don’t go to a doctor because of the tea parties.”