“So I did,” says Luke. “But this—” He gestures at the case. “I'm impressed.”
As he opens the boot, I get into the driving seat and adjust the seat forward so I can reach the pedals. I've always wanted to drive a convertible!
The boot slams behind me, and Luke comes round, a quizzical look on his face.
“You're driving, are you?”
“Part of the way, I thought,” I say carelessly. “Just to take the pressure off you. You know, it's very dangerous to drive for too long.”
“You can drive, can you, in those shoes?” He's looking down at my clementine sandals—and I have to admit, the heel is a bit high for pedaling. But I'm not going to let him know that. “They're new, aren't they?” he adds, looking more closely at them.
And I'm about to say yes, when I remember that the last time I saw him, I had new shoes on—and the time before that, too. Which is really weird and must be one of those random cluster things.
“No!” I reply instead. “Actually, I've had them for ages. Actually . . .” I clear my throat. “They're my driving shoes.”
“Your driving shoes,” echoes Luke skeptically.
“Yes!” I say, and start the engine before he can say any more. God, this car is amazing! It makes a fantastic roaring sound, and a kind of screech as I move it into gear.
“Becky—”
“I'm fine!” I say, and slowly move off across the car park into the street. Oh, this is such a fantastic moment. I wonder if anybody's watching me. I wonder if Emma and Rory are looking out the window. And that sound guy who thinks he's so cool with his motorbike. He hasn't got a convertible, has he? Accidentally on purpose, I lean on the horn, and as the sound echoes round the car park I see at least three people turning to look. Ha! Look at me! Ha-ha-ha . . .
“My petal,” says Luke beside me. “You're causing a traffic jam.”
I glance into my rear mirror—and there are three cars creeping along behind me. Which is ridiculous, because I'm not going that slowly.
“Try moving it up a notch,” suggests Luke. “Ten miles an hour, say?”
“I am,” I say crossly. “You can't expect me just to whiz off at a million miles an hour! There is a speed limit, you know.”
I reach the exit, smile nonchalantly at the porter at the gate, who gives me a surprised look, and pull out into the road. I signal left and take a last glance back to check if anyone I know has just come out and is watching me admiringly. Then, as a car behind me starts to beep, I carefully pull in at the pavement.
“There we are,” I say. “Your turn.”
“My turn?” Luke stares at me. “Already?”
“I have to do my nails now,” I explain. “And anyway, I know you think I can't drive. I don't want to have you pulling faces at me all the way down to Somerset.”
“I do not think you can't drive,” protests Luke, half-laughing. “When have I ever said that?”
“You don't need to say it. I can see it coming out of your head in a thought bubble: ‘Becky Bloomwood cannot drive.' ”
“Well, that's where you're wrong,” retorts Luke. “The bubble actually reads: ‘Becky Bloomwood cannot drive in her new orange shoes because the heels are too high and pointy.' ”
He raises his eyebrows, and I feel myself flush slightly.
“They're my driving shoes,” I mutter, shifting over to the passenger seat. “And I've had them for years.”
As I reach into my bag for my nail file, Luke gets into the driver's seat, leans over, and gives me a kiss.
“Thank you for doing that stint, anyway,” he says. “I'm sure it'll lessen my risk of fatigue on the motorway.”
“Well, good!” I say, starting on my nails. “You need to conserve your energy for all those long country walks we're going to go on tomorrow.”
There's silence, and after a while I look up.
“Yes,” says Luke—and he isn't smiling anymore. “Becky . . . I was going to talk to you about tomorrow.” He pauses and I stare at him, feeling my own smile fade slightly.
“What is it?” I say, trying not to sound anxious.
Luke exhales sharply. “Here's the thing. A business opportunity has arisen which I really would like to . . . to take advantage of. And there are some people over from the States who I need to talk to. Urgently.”
“Oh,” I say, a little uncertainly. “Well—that's OK. If you've got your phone with you . . .”
“Not by phone.” He looks straight at me. “I've scheduled a meeting for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I echo, and give a little laugh. “But you can't have a meeting. We'll be at the hotel.”
“So will the people I need to talk to,” says Luke. “I've invited them down.”
I stare at him in shock.
“You've invited businesspeople down on our holiday?”
“Purely for the meeting,” says Luke. “The rest of the time it'll just be the two of us.”
“And how long will the meeting go on?” I exclaim. “Don't tell me! All day!”
I just can't believe it. After waiting all this time, after getting all excited, after all my packing . . .
“Becky, it won't be as bad as that . . .”
“You promised me you'd take time off! You said we'd have a lovely romantic time.”
“We will have a lovely romantic time.”
“With all your business friends. With all your horrible contacts, networking away like . . . like maggots!”
“They won't be networking with us,” says Luke with a grin. “Becky—” He reaches for my hand, but I pull it away.
“To be honest, I don't see any point in my coming if it's just you doing business!” I say miserably. “I might as well just stay at home. In fact—” I open the car door. “In fact, I think I'll go home right now. I'll call a taxi from the studio.”
I slam the car door and begin to stride off along the street, my clementine sandals making a click-clack sound against the hot pavement. And I've almost got to the studio gate before I hear his voice, raised so loud that several people turn to look.
“Becky! Wait there!”
I stop and slowly turn on the spot—to see him standing up in the car, dialing a number on his mobile phone.
“What are you doing?” I call suspiciously.
“I'm phoning my horrible business contact,” says Luke. “To put him off. To cancel.”
I fold my arms and stare at him with narrowed eyes.
“Hello?” he says. “Room 301, please. Michael Ellis. Thanks. I guess I'll just have to fly out and see him in Washington,” he adds to me in deadpan tones. “Or wait until the next time he and his associates are all together in Britain. Which could be a while, bearing in mind their completely crazy schedules. Still, it's only business, after all. Only a deal. It's only the deal I've been wanting to make for . . .”
“Oh . . . stop it!” I say furiously. “Stop it. Have your stupid meeting.”
“Are you sure?” says Luke, putting a hand over the receiver. “Absolutely sure?”
“Quite sure,” I say, giving a morose shrug. “If it's that important . . .”
“It's pretty important,” says Luke, and meets my eyes, suddenly serious. “Believe me, I wouldn't be doing it otherwise.”
I walk slowly back to the car as Luke puts away his mobile phone.
“Thanks, Becky,” he says as I get in. “I mean it.” He touches my cheek gently, then reaches for the keys and starts up the engine.
As we drive off toward a set of traffic lights, I glance at him, and then at his mobile phone, still sticking out of his pocket.
“Were you really phoning your business contact?” I say.
“Were you really going home?” he replies, without moving his head.
This is what's so annoying about going out with Luke. You can't get away with anything.
We drive for about an hour into the countryside, stop for lunch in a little village pub, then drive for another hour and a half down to Somerset. By
the time we reach Blakeley Hall, I feel like a different person. It's so good to get out of London—and I'm already incredibly energized and refreshed by all this wonderful country air. As I step out of the car I do a few stretches—and honestly, I already feel fitter and more toned. I reckon if I came to the country every week, I'd lose half a stone, if not more.
“Do you want any more of these?” says Luke, reaching down and picking up the nearly empty packet of Maltesers which I've been snacking on. (I have to eat in the car, otherwise I get carsick.) “And what about these magazines?” He picks up the stack of glossies which have been at my feet, then makes a grab as they all start slithering out of his hands.
“I'm not going to read magazines here!” I say in surprise. “This is the country!”
Honestly. Doesn't Luke know anything about rural life?
As he's getting the bags out of the boot I wander over to a fence and gaze peacefully at a field full of browny-yellow stuff. You know, I reckon I have a real natural affinity for the countryside. It's like I've got this whole nurturing, earth-mother side, which has been gradually creeping up on me. For example, the other day I found myself buying a Fair Isle jersey from French Connection. And I've recently started gardening! Or at least, I've bought some sweet little ceramic flowerpots from The Pier, marked “Basil” and “Coriander”—and I'm definitely going to get some of those little plants from the supermarket and have a whole row of them on the windowsill. (I mean, they're only about 50 pence, so if they die you can just buy another one.)
“Ready?” says Luke.
“Absolutely!” I say, and teeter back toward him, cursing the mud.
We crunch over the gravel to the hotel—and I have to say, I'm impressed. It's a great big old-fashioned country house, with beautiful gardens, and modern sculptures in the gardens and its own cinema, according to the brochure! Luke's been here quite a few times before, and he says it's his favorite hotel. And lots of celebrities come here, too! Like Madonna. (Or was it Sporty Spice? Someone, anyway.) But apparently they're always very discreet and usually stay in some separate coach-housey bit, and the staff never lets on.
Still, as we go into the reception hall I have a good look around, just in case. There are lots of cool-looking people in trendy spectacles and denim, and there's a blonde girl who sort of looks famous-ish, and standing over there . . .
I freeze in excitement. It's him, isn't it? It's Elton John! Elton John himself is standing right there, only a few—
Then he turns round—and it's just a dumpy guy in an anorak and spectacles. Damn. Still, it was nearly Elton John.
We've reached the reception desk by now, and a concierge in a trendy Nehru jacket smiles at us. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brandon,” he says. “And Miss Bloomwood. Welcome to Blakeley Hall.”
He knew our names! We didn't even have to tell him! No wonder celebrities come here.
“I've put you in room 9,” he says, as Luke starts to fill in a form. “Overlooking the rose garden.”
“Great,” says Luke. “Becky, which paper would you like in the morning?”
“The Financial Times,” I say smoothly.
“Of course,” says Luke, writing. “So that's one FT—and a Daily World for me.”
I give him a suspicious look, but his face is completely blank.
“Would you like tea in the morning?” says the concierge, tapping at his computer. “Or coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” says Luke. “For both of us, I think.” He looks at me questioningly, and I nod.
“You'll find a complimentary bottle of champagne in your room,” says the concierge, “and room service is available twenty-four hours.”
I have to say I'm very impressed. This really is a top-class place. They know your face immediately, they give you champagne—and they haven't even mentioned my Special Express parcel yet. Obviously they realize it's a matter of discretion. They realize that a girl doesn't necessarily want her boyfriend knowing about every single package that is delivered to her—and are going to wait until Luke is out of earshot until they tell me about it. This is why it's worth coming to a good hotel.
“If there's anything else you require, Miss Bloomwood,” says the concierge, looking at me meaningfully, “please don't hesitate to let me know.”
You see? Coded messages and everything.
“I will, don't worry,” I say, and give him a knowing smile. “In just a moment.” I flick my eyes meaningfully toward Luke, and the concierge gives me a blank stare, exactly as though he's got no idea what I'm talking about. God, these people are good!
Eventually, Luke finishes the forms and hands them back. The concierge hands him a big, old-fashioned room key, and summons a porter.
“I don't think we need any help,” says Luke, with a smile, and lifts up my dinky suitcase. “I'm not exactly overburdened.”
“You go on up,” I say. “I just want to . . . check something. For tomorrow.” I smile at Luke and after a moment, to my relief, he heads off toward the staircase.
As soon as he's out of earshot, I swivel back to the desk.
“I'll take it now,” I murmur to the concierge, who has turned away and is looking in a drawer. He raises his head and looks at me in surprise.
“I'm sorry, Miss Bloomwood?”
“It's OK,” I say more meaningfully. “You can give it to me now. While Luke's gone.”
A flicker of apprehension passes over the concierge's face.
“What exactly—”
“You can give me my package.” I lower my voice. “And thanks for not letting on.”
“Your . . . package?”
“My Special Express.”
“What Special Express?”
I stare at him, feeling a few misgivings.
“The parcel with all my clothes in it! The one you weren't mentioning! The one . . .”
I tail away at the sight of his face. He doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about, does he? OK. Don't panic. Someone else will know where it is.
“I should have a parcel waiting for me,” I explain. “About this big . . . It should have arrived this morning . . .”
The concierge is shaking his head.
“I'm sorry, Miss Bloomwood. There aren't any packages for you.”
Suddenly I feel a little hollow.
“But . . . there has to be a package. I sent it by Special Express, yesterday. To Blakeley Hall.”
The concierge frowns.
“Charlotte?” he says, calling into a back room. “Has a parcel arrived for Rebecca Bloomwood?”
“No,” says Charlotte, coming out. “When was it supposed to arrive?”
“This morning!” I say, trying to hide my agitation. “ ‘Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning'! I mean, this is anywhere, isn't it?”
“I'm sorry,” says Charlotte, “but nothing's come. Was it very important?”
“Rebecca?” comes a voice from the stairs, and I turn to see Luke peering down at me. “Is something wrong?”
“No!” I say brightly. “Of course not! What on earth could be wrong?” Quickly I swivel away from the desk and, before Charlotte or the concierge can say anything, hurry toward the stairs.
“Everything all right?” he says as I reach him, and smiles at me.
“Absolutely!” I say, my voice two notches higher than usual. “Everything's absolutely fine!”
I have no clothes. This cannot be happening.
I'm on holiday with Luke, in a smart hotel—and I have no clothes. What am I going to do?
I can't tell him the truth. I just can't admit that my dinky suitcase was only the tip of the clothes-berg. Not after having been so smug about it. I'll just have to . . . improvise, I think wildly, as we turn a corner and start walking down another plushy corridor. Wear his clothes, like Annie Hall or . . . or rip down the curtains and find some sewing stuff . . . and quickly learn how to sew . . .
Calm down, I tell myself firmly. Just . . . calm down. The parcel is bound to arrive tomorrow morning,
so I've only got to last one night. And at least I've got my makeup with me . . .
“Here we are,” says Luke, stopping at a door and opening it. “What do you think?”
Oh wow. For a moment all my worries are swept away as I gaze around the enormous airy room. Now I can see why Luke likes this hotel so much. It's gorgeous—exactly like his flat, all huge white bed with an enormous waffle duvet, and a state-of-the-art music system and two suede sofas.
“Take a look at the bathroom,” says Luke, and I follow him through—and it's stunning. A great sunken mosaic Jacuzzi, with the hugest shower I've ever seen above, and a whole rack of gorgeous-looking aromatherapy oils.
Maybe I could just spend the whole weekend in the bath.
“So,” he says, turning back into the room. “I don't know what you'd like to do . . .” He walks over to his suitcase and clicks it open—and I can see serried rows of shirts, all ironed by his housekeeper. “I suppose we should unpack first . . .”
“Unpack! Absolutely!” I say brightly. I walk over to my own little suitcase and finger the clasp, without opening it. “Or else . . .” I say, as though the idea's just occurring to me, “why don't we go and have a drink—and unpack later!”
Genius. We'll go downstairs and get really pissed, and then tomorrow morning I'll just pretend to be really sleepy and stay in bed until my package comes. Thank God. For a moment there I was starting to—
“Excellent idea,” says Luke. “I'll just get changed.” And he reaches into his case and pulls out a pair of trousers and a crisp blue shirt.
“Changed?” I say after a pause. “Is there . . . a strict dress code?”
“Oh no, not strict,” says Luke. “You just wouldn't go down in . . . say, in what you're wearing at the moment.” He gestures to my denim cutoffs with a grin.
“Of course not!” I say, laughing as though the idea's ridiculous. “Right. Well. I'll just . . . choose an outfit, then.”
I turn to my case again, snap it open, lift the lid, and look at my makeup bag.
What am I going to do? Luke's unbuttoning his shirt. He's calmly reaching for the blue one. In a minute he's going to look up and say, “Are you ready?”
I need a radical plan of action here.