“Oh. Sorry.” I come to, and move out of the way.
In real life, I haven’t spoken to Luke since he left. He’s tried to call several times, but I just sent short texts back saying sorry I missed him and everything’s OK. I didn’t want to talk to him until he’d read my letter — which only happened last night, according to the tracking system. Somebody at the Geneva office signed for it at 6:11 p.m., so he must have read it by now.
The die is cast. By six o’clock tonight I’ll know, one way or another. Either he’ll be there, waiting for me, or…
Nausea rises through me and I shake my head briskly. I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to get through this shoot first. I take a bite of a Kit Kat for energy, and glance down again at the printed page that Martha e-mailed me. It’s an interview with one of the other yummy mummies-to-be from the article, which Martha said would “give me an idea.” The other yummy is called Amelia Gordon-Barraclough. She’s posing in a vast Kensington nursery wearing a beaded kaftan and about fifty-nine bracelets, and all her quotes sound totally smug.
“We commissioned all our nursery furniture from artisans in Provence.”
Well. Huh. I’ll say we got all ours from artisans in…outer Mongolia. No, we sourced it. People in glossy magazines never just buy something from a shop, they source it, or discover it in a junkyard, or get left it by their famous designer godmother.
“My husband and I do couples’ yoga together twice a day in our ‘retreat room.’ We feel it creates harmony in our relationship.”
With a pang, I have a sudden memory of Luke and me doing couples’ yoga on our honeymoon.
At least, we were doing yoga, and we were a couple.
A lump is rising in my throat. No. Stop it. Think confident. Think yummy. I’ll say that Luke and I do something much cooler than yoga. Like that thing I read about the other day. Qi-something.
My thoughts are broken by the roar of a motorbike, and I look up to see a Harley speeding along the quiet residential street.
“Hi!” I wave my arms. “Here!”
“Hey, Becky!” The motorbike comes to a throbbing halt beside me. Danny pulls off a motorbike helmet and leaps off the back, a shoe box in his hand. “There you go!”
“Oh, Danny, thanks.” I give him an enormous hug. “You saved my life.”
“No problem!” Danny says, getting back on the bike. “Let me know how it goes! This is Zane, by the way.”
“Hi!” I wave at Zane, who is in leathers from head to foot and raises a hand in greeting. “Thanks for the delivery!”
The motorbike zooms off again. I take hold of the handle of my suitcase, which is filled with spare outfits and props, and pick up the armful of flowers I bought this morning to make the house look nice. I head toward number thirty-three, somehow manhandle the case up the steps, and ring the doorbell. There’s no answer.
After a pause I ring again and call “Fabia!” But there’s still no reply.
She can’t have forgotten it’s this morning.
“Fabia! Can you hear me?” I beat on the door. “Fa-bi-a!”
There’s dead silence. No one’s there. I feel a beat of panic. What am I going to do? Vogue will be here any—
“Cooee! Hello there!” A voice from the street heralds me and I turn to see a girl leaning out of the window of a Mini Cooper. She’s skinny, has glossy hair, a Kabbala bracelet, and a huge engagement rock. She has to be from Vogue.
“Are you Becky?” she calls.
“Yes!” I force a bright smile. “Hi! Are you Martha?”
“That’s right!” Her eyes are running up and down the storys. “You’ve got a gorgeous house! I can’t wait to see inside!”
“Oh. Er…thanks!”
There’s an expectant pause and I lean casually against one of the pillars. Like I’m just hanging out on my front steps. Like people do.
“Everything all right?” asks Martha, looking puzzled.
“Fine!” I attempt an easy gesture. “Just you know…enjoying the air…”
I’m thinking frantically. Maybe we could do the whole shoot out here on the steps. Yes. I could say the front door is the best feature of the house and the rest of it isn’t worth bothering with….
“Becky, have you lost your key?” says Martha, still looking puzzled.
Genius. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Yes! Silly me!” I hit myself on the head. “And none of the neighbors have got one, and there’s no one in….”
“Oh no!” Martha’s face falls.
“I know.” I give a regretful shrug. “I’m really sorry. But if we can’t get in…”
As I say the words, the front door opens and I nearly fall into the house. Fabia has appeared, rubbing her eyes and wearing an orange Marni dress.
“Hi, Becky.” She sounds so drifty. Like she’s on tranquilizers or something.
“Wow!” Martha’s face lights up. “Someone was in! How lucky! Who’s this?”
“This is Fabia. Our…lodger.”
“Lodger?” Fabia wrinkles her nose.
“Lodger and good friend,” I amend hastily, putting an arm round her. “We’re very close….”
Thank God, down on the street a car has pulled up behind the Mini and is starting to hoot.
“Oh, shut up!” says Martha. “Becky, we’re just going to get some coffees. Can I get you anything?”