“So, is that it?” asks Jess. “Have you invested all the money?”
“Oh, no. I’ve still got loads!” I take a sip of coffee, then notice an abstract painting on the wall next to me. It’s just a big blue square of oil paint on canvas, and there’s a little price tag of £195. “Hey, look at that!” I say, focusing on it with interest. “D’you think I should—”
“No!” chime Jess and Suze in unison.
Honestly. They didn’t even know what I was going to say.
I arrive home that evening to find a dark, empty flat and no Luke. He’s with her immediately shoots through my mind.
No. He’s not. Stop it. I make myself a sandwich, kick off my shoes, and curl up on the sofa with the remote. As I’m flicking down the channels looking for Birth Stories, which I’m addicted to (only I have to watch the crucial bit through my fingers), the phone rings.
“Hi.” It’s Luke, sounding hurried. “Becky, I forgot to remind you — I’m out at the Finance Awards. I’ll be back late.”
“Oh, right.” Now I remember — I did know about the Finance Awards. In fact, Luke invited me, but I couldn’t face an evening of boring old fund managers. “OK. I’ll see you then. Luke…”
I break off, my heart thumping. I don’t know what I want to say, let alone how to say it.
“I have to go.” Luke hasn’t even noticed my troubled silence. “See you later.”
“Luke…” I try again, but the line’s already dead.
I stare into space for a while, imagining the perfect conversation in which Luke asked me what was wrong and I said, Oh nothing, and he said, Yes there is, and it ended with him saying he totally loved me and Venetia was really ugly and how about we fly to Paris tomorrow?
A blaring theme song from the TV drags me from my daze and I look up at the screen. Somehow I’ve gone too far down the cable list, and I’m on some obscure business and finance channel. I’m just trying to remember the number for the Living Channel, when my attention is drawn to the screen by a portly guy in a dinner jacket. I recognize him. It’s Alan Proctor from Foreland Investments. And there’s that girl Jill from Portfolio Management, sitting next to him. What on earth…
I don’t believe it. The Finance Awards are actually being televised! On some cable channel which nobody ever watches — but still! I sit up and focus on the screen. Maybe I’ll see Luke!
“And we’re live from Grosvenor House at this year’s Finance Awards….” an announcer is saying. “The venue has been changed this year due to increased numbers….”
Just for fun, I reach for the phone and speed-dial Luke. The camera pans around the ballroom and I scan the screen intently, looking at all the black-tied people sitting at tables. There’s Philip, my old editor at Successful Saving, swigging back the wine. And that girl from Lloyds who always used to wear the same green suit to press conferences…
“Hi, Becky,” Luke answers abruptly. “Is everything OK?”
“Hi!” I say. “I just wondered how it’s going at the Finance Awards?”
I’m waiting for the camera to pan to Luke. Then I can say, “Guess what, I’m watching you!”
“Oh…the same old, same old,” Luke says after a pause. “Packed room at the Dorchester…gruesome crowds…”
The Dorchester?
I stare at the phone for a moment. Then, feeling hot and cold, I press my ear hard to the receiver. I can’t hear any background babble. He’s not in a crowded ballroom, is he?
He’s lying.
“Becky? Are you there?”
“I…um…yes.” I feel dizzy with shock. “So, who are you sitting next to?”
“I’m next to…Mel. I’d better go, sweetheart.”
“OK,” I say numbly. “Bye.”
The camera’s just panned to Mel. She’s sandwiched between two large men in suits. There isn’t an empty chair at the whole table.
Luke lied to me. He’s somewhere else. With someone else.
The glitzy light and noise of the awards ceremony is jarring my nerves, and I jab the TV off. For a moment I just stare blankly, in silence — then, in a daze, I reach for the phone and find myself dialing Mum’s number. I need to talk to someone.
“Hello?” As soon as I hear her safe, familiar voice, I want to burst into tears.
“Mum, it’s Becky.”
“Becky! How are you, love? How’s the baby? Kicking away?”
“The baby’s fine.” I touch my bump automatically. “But I’ve got…a…a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Mum sounds perturbed. “Becky, it’s not those people from MasterCard again?”
“No! It’s…personal.”
“Personal?”
“I…it’s…” I bite my lip, suddenly wishing I’d thought before phoning. I can’t tell Mum what’s wrong. I can’t get her all worried. Not after she warned me about exactly this happening.
Maybe I can ask her advice without giving away the truth. Like when people write to advice columnists about their “friend” and it was really them who got caught wearing their wife’s swimwear.
“It’s a…a colleague at work,” I begin, my voice faltering. “I think she’s planning to…to move to a different department. She’s been talking to them behind my back and having lunches with them, and I’ve just found out she’s lied to me….” A teartrickles down my cheek. “Do you have any advice?”