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“Hearty stew?” echoes Luke. “Who’s going to make hearty stew?”

  “We can buy it at Waitrose,” I explain.

  I come round the table and look up at him earnestly. “Luke, think about it. We’ll never again be in Sri Lanka with authentic wood-carvers right in front of us. This is a unique opportunity. And I’ve had it personalized!”

  I point to the panel of wood running down the side of the table. There, beautifully carved in among the flowers, are the words Luke and Rebecca, Sri Lanka, 2003.

  Luke runs a hand over the table. He feels the weight of one of the chairs. I can see him relenting. Then suddenly he looks up with a slight frown.

  “Becky, is there anything else you’ve bought that you haven’t told me about?”

  I feel a nervous flip inside, which I disguise by pretending to examine one of the carved flowers.

  “Of course not!” I say at last. “Or . . . you know. Maybe just the odd little souvenir along the way. Just here and there.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t remember!” I exclaim. “It’s been ten months, for goodness’ sake!” I look at the table again. “Come on, Luke, you must love it. We can have fantastic dinner parties . . . and it’ll be an heirloom! We can hand it down to our children—”

  I break off a bit awkwardly. For a moment I can’t quite look at Luke.

  A few months ago we had this huge big discussion and decided that we’d like to try for a baby. But so far nothing’s happened.

  I mean, not that it’s a big deal or anything. It will happen. Of course it will.

  “All right,” says Luke, his voice a little gentler. “You’ve won me over.” He gives the table a pat, then looks at his watch. “I’m going to e-mail the office, tell them about our change of plans.” He gives me a wry look. “Presumably you weren’t expecting me to burst open the door of the boardroom and yell ‘Surprise, I’m back!’?”

  “Of course not!” I retort, barely missing a beat.

  That is, actually, kind of what I’d pictured. Except I’d be there too, with a bottle of champagne and maybe some party poppers.

  “I’m not quite that stupid,” I add witheringly.

  “Good.” Luke grins at me. “Why don’t you order us some drinks and I’ll be out in a moment.”

  As I sit down at a table on the shady terrace, I’m just a tad preoccupied. I’m trying to remember all the things I’ve bought and had shipped home without telling Luke.

  I mean, I’m not worried or anything. It can’t be that much stuff. Can it?

  Oh God. I close my eyes, trying to remember.

  There were the wooden giraffes in Malawi. The ones Luke said were too big. Which is just ridiculous. They’ll look amazing! Everyone will admire them!

  And there was all that gorgeous batik art in Bali. Which I did intend to tell him about . . . but then kind of never got round to it.

  And there were the twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns.

  Which . . . OK, I know twenty sounds like quite a lot. But they were such a bargain! Luke just didn’t seem to understand my point that if we bought twenty now, they would last us a lifetime and be a real investment. For someone who works in financial PR, he can be a bit slow off the mark sometimes.

  So I snuck back to the shop and bought them anyway, and had them shipped home.

  The thing is, shipping just makes everything so easy. You don’t have to lug anything about—you just point and ship: “I’d like that shipped, please. And that. And that.” And you give them your card and off it goes, and Luke never even sees it. . . .

  Maybe I should have kept a list.

  Anyway, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine.

  And, I mean, we want a few souvenirs, don’t we? What’s the point of going round the world and coming back empty-handed? Exactly.

  I see Chandra walking past the terrace and give him a friendly wave.

  “You did very well in class today, Becky!” he says, and comes over to the table. “And now I would like to ask you something. In two weeks’ time I am leading an advanced meditation retreat. The others are mainly monks and long-term yoga practitioners, but I feel you have the commitment to join us. Would you be interested?”

  “I’d love to!” Then I pull a regretful face. “But I can’t. Luke and I are going home!”

  “Home?” Chandra looks shocked. “But . . . you are doing so well. You are not going to abandon the path of yoga?”

  “Oh no,” I say reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ll buy a video.”

  As Chandra walks off, he looks a little shell-shocked. Which actually, isn’t surprising. He probably didn’t even realize you could get yoga videos. He certainly didn’t seem to have heard of Geri Halliwell.

  A waiter appears and I order a beer for Luke, plus a mango and papaya cocktail, which in the menu is called Happy Juice. Well, that just about suits me. Here I am in the sunshine, on my honeymoon, about to have a surprise reunion with all the people I love. Everything’s perfect!

  I look up to see Luke approaching the table, holding his handheld computer. Is it my imagination, or is he walking faster and looking more animated than he has for months?

  “OK,” he says. “I’ve spoken to the office.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “It certainly is.” He seems full of a suppressed energy. “It’s going very well. In fact, I want to set up a couple of meetings for the end of this week.”

  “That was quick!” I say in astonishment.

  Blimey. I’d thought it would take about a week just to get ourselves organized.

  “But I know how much you’re getting out of this yoga retreat,” he adds. “So what I propose is that I go on ahead, and you join me later . . . and then we return to Britain together.”

  “So, where are your meetings?” I say, confused.

  “Italy.”

  The waiter appears with my Happy Juice and Luke’s beer.

  “But I don’t want to be separated from you!” I say as the waiter retreats. “This is our honeymoon!”

  “We have had ten solid months together. . . .” Luke gently points out.

  “I know. But still . . .” I take a disconsolate sip of Happy Juice. “Where are you going in Italy?”

  “Nowhere exciting,” Luke says after a pause. “Just a . . . northern Italian city. Very dull. I recommend you stay here. Enjoy the sunshine.”

  “Well . . .” I look around, feeling torn. It is pretty nice here. “Which city?”

  There’s silence.

  “Milan,” Luke says reluctantly.

  “Milan?” I nearly fall off my chair with excitement. “You’re going to Milan? I’ve never been to Milan! I’d love to go to Milan!”

  “No,” says Luke. “Really?”

  “Yes! Definitely! It’s the fashion capital of the world! I mean, it’s got Prada . . . and Dolce—” I break off as I catch his expression. “And . . . er . . . it’s a place of great cultural interest which no modern traveler should miss. Luke, I have to come.”

  “OK.” Luke shakes his head ruefully. “I must be mad, but OK.”

  Elated, I lean back in my chair and take a big slurp of Happy Juice. This honeymoon just gets better and better!

  Two

  OK, I cannot believe Luke was planning to come to Milan without me. How could he come here without me? I was made for Milan.

  No. Not Milan, Milano.

  I haven’t actually seen much of the city yet except for a taxi and our hotel room—but for a world traveler like me, that doesn’t actually matter. You can pick up the vibe of a place in an instant, like bushmen in the wild. And as soon as I looked round the hotel foyer at all those chic women in Prada and D&G, kissing each other while simultaneously downing espressos, lighting cigarettes, and flinging their shiny hair about, I just knew, with a natural instinct: this is my kind of city.

  I take a gulp of room-service cappuccino and glance across at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Honestly, I look Italian! All I need is some capr
i pants and dark eyeliner. And maybe a Vespa.

  “Ciao,” I say casually, and flick my hair back. “Sì. Ciao.”

  I could so be Italian. Except I might need to learn a few more words.

  “Sì.” I nod at myself. “Sì. Milano.”

  Maybe I’ll practice by reading the paper. I open the free copy of Corriere della Sera, which arrived with our breakfast, and start perusing the lines of text. The first story is all about the president washing his piano. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what presidente and lavoro pieno must mean.

  “You know, Luke, I could really live in Italy,” I say as he comes out of the bathroom. “I mean, it’s the perfect country. It has everything! Cappuccinos . . . yummy food . . . Everyone’s so elegant. . . . You can get Gucci cheaper than at home. . . .”

  “And the art,” says Luke, deadpan. “Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, for instance.”

  I was just about to mention the art.

  “Well, obviously the art,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I mean, the art goes without saying.”

  I flick over a page of Corriere della Sera and briskly skim the headlines. Then my brain suddenly clicks.

  I put the paper down and stare at Luke again.

  What’s happened to him?

  I’m looking at the Luke Brandon I used to know back when I was a financial journalist. He’s completely clean-shaven, and dressed in an immaculate suit, with a pale green shirt and darker green tie. He’s wearing proper shoes and proper socks. His earring is gone. His bracelet is gone. The only vestige of our travels is his hair, which is still in tiny plaits.

  I can feel a bubble of dismay growing inside. I liked him the way he was, all laid-back and disheveled.

  “You’ve . . . smartened up a bit!” I say. “Where’s your bracelet?”

  “In my suitcase.”

  “But the woman in the Masai Mara said we must never take them off!” I say in shock. “She said that special Masai prayer!”

  “Becky . . .” Luke sighs. “I can’t go into a meeting with an old bit of rope round my wrist.”

  Old bit of rope? That was a sacred bracelet, and he knows it.

  “You’ve still got your plaits!” I retort. “If you can have plaits, you can have a bracelet!”

  “I’m not keeping my plaits!” Luke looks incredulous. “I’ve got a haircut booked in”—he consults his watch—“ten minutes.”

  A haircut?

  This is all too fast. I can’t bear the idea of Luke’s sun-bleached hair being snipped off and falling to the floor. Our honeymoon hair, all gone.

  “Luke, don’t,” I say, before I can stop myself. “You can’t.”

  “What’s wrong?” Luke turns and looks at me more closely. “Becky, are you OK?”

  No. I’m not OK.

  “You can’t cut off your hair,” I say desperately. “Then it will all be over!”

  “Sweetheart . . . it is over.” Luke comes over and sits down beside me. He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. “You know that, don’t you? It’s over. We’re going home. We’re going back to real life.”

  “I know!” I say, after a pause. “It’s just . . . I really love your hair long.”

  “I can’t go into a business meeting like this.” Luke shakes his head so the beads in his hair click together. “You know that as well as I do!”

  “But you don’t have to cut it off!” I say, suddenly inspired. “Plenty of Italian men have long hair. We’ll just take the plaits out!”

  “Becky . . .”

  “I’ll do it! I’ll take them out! Sit down.”

  I push Luke down onto the bed and carefully edge out the first few little beads, then gently start to unbraid his hair. As I lean close, I can smell the business-y smell of Luke’s expensive Armani aftershave, which he always wears for work. He hasn’t used it since before we got married.

  I shift round on the bed and carefully start unbraiding the plaits on the other side of his head. We’re both silent; the only sound in the room is the soft clicking of beads. As I pull out the very last one, I feel a lump in my throat—which is ridiculous.

  I mean, we couldn’t stay on our honeymoon forever, could we? And I am looking forward to seeing Mum and Dad again, and Suze, and getting back to real life. . . .

  But still. I’ve spent the last ten months with Luke. We haven’t spent more than a few hours out of each other’s sight. And now that’s all ending.

  Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll be busy with a new job . . . and all my friends. . . .

  “Done!”

  I reach for my Paul Mitchell Gloss Drops, put some on Luke’s hair, and carefully brush it out. It’s a bit wavy, but that’s OK. He just looks European.

  “You see?” I say at last. “You look brilliant!”

  Luke surveys his reflection doubtfully and for an awful moment I think he’s going to say he’s still getting a haircut. Then he smiles.

  “OK. Reprieved. But it will have to come off sooner or later.”

  “I know,” I say, suddenly feeling light again. “But just not today.”

  I watch as Luke gathers some papers together and puts them in his briefcase.

  “So . . . who exactly are you meeting with today?”

  Luke did tell me, on the flight from Colombo—but they were serving free champagne at the time, and I’m not entirely sure I took it all in.

  “We’re going after a new client. The Arcodas Group.”

  “That’s right. Now I remember. So what are they? Fund managers?”

  Luke’s company is called Brandon Communications, and it’s a PR agency for financial institutions like banks and building societies and investment houses. That’s kind of how we met, actually, during my days on Successful Saving magazine.

  “Nope.” Luke snaps his briefcase shut. “We want to broaden out of finance.”

  “Really?” I look at him in surprise.

  “It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. The company’s successful as it is, but I want to go bigger. Wider. The Arcodas Group is a very large corporation with lots of different interests. They own property developments . . . sports centers . . . shopping malls . . .”

  “Shopping malls?” I say, suddenly alert. “Do you get a discount?”

  “If we get the account. Maybe.”

  “So, does Arcodas have any shopping malls in Milan?” I say, trying to sound helpful. “Because I could go and visit one. For research.”

  “They haven’t got any in Milan. They’re only over here for a retail conference.” Luke puts his briefcase down and gives me a long look.

  “What?” I say.

  “Becky . . . I know this is Milan. But please. Don’t go crazy today.”

  “Go crazy?” I say, a little offended. “What do you mean?”

  “I know you’re going to go shopping. . . .”

  How does he know that? Honestly, Luke has such a nerve. How does he know I’m not going to go and see some famous statues or something?

  “I’m not going to go shopping!” I say haughtily. “I simply mentioned the shopping malls to show an interest in your work.”

  “I see.” Luke gives me a quizzical look, which bugs me.

  “I’m actually here for the culture.” I lift my chin. “And because Milan is a city I’ve never seen.”

  “Uh-huh.” Luke nods. “So you weren’t planning to visit any designer shops today?”

  “Luke,” I say kindly, “I am a professional personal shopper. Do you really think I’m going to get excited by a few designer shops?”

  “Frankly, yes,” says Luke.

  I feel a slight swell of indignation. Didn’t we make vows to each other? Didn’t he promise to respect me and not ever doubt my word?

  “You think I came here just to go shopping? Well, take this!” I reach for my bag, then take out my purse and thrust it at him.

  “Becky, don’t be silly—”

  “Take it! I’ll just have a simple walk around the city! I’ll go and look at the cat
hedral.”

  “OK, then.” Luke shrugs and pockets my purse.

  Damn. I didn’t think he’d actually take it.

  Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I have another credit card hidden in my bag, which Luke doesn’t know about.

  “Fine,” I say, folding my arms. “Keep my money. I don’t care!”

  “I’m sure you’ll survive,” says Luke. “You can always use the credit card you keep hidden in your bag.”

  What?

  How does he know about that? Has he been spying on me?

  This has to be grounds for divorce, surely.

  “Have it!” I say furiously, reaching into my bag. “Have everything! Take the shirt off my back!” I throw my credit card at him. “You may think you know me, Luke. But you don’t. All I want is to soak up a little culture, and maybe invest in the odd souvenir or local artifact.”

  “Local artifact?” echoes Luke. “By ‘local artifact’ do you mean ‘Versace shoes’?”

  “No!” I say, after a short pause.

  Which is true.

  True-ish.

  I was thinking more of Míu Míu. Apparently it’s really cheap over here!

  “Look, Becky, just don’t go overboard, OK?” says Luke. “We’re up to our luggage limits as it is.” He glances at our open cases. “What with the South American ritual mask and the voodoo stick . . . Oh, and let’s not forget the ceremonial dancing swords. . . .”

  How many times is Luke going to give me grief about the ceremonial dancing swords? Just because they ripped his stupid shirt.

  “For the millionth time, they’re presents!” I say. “We couldn’t have shipped them. We have to have them with us as we arrive, otherwise we won’t look like proper travelers!”

  “That’s fine. All I’m saying is, we don’t have room for South American masks and six extra pairs of boots.”

  Oh, he thinks he’s so funny.

  “Luke, I’m not like that anymore, OK?” I say, a little crushingly. “I’ve grown up a little. I would have thought you might have noticed.”

  “If you say so.” Luke picks up my credit card, scrutinizes it, then gives it back to me. “You’ve only got a couple of hundred pounds left on this one, anyway.”

  What?

  “How do you know that?” I say in outrage. “That’s my private credit card!”