“Becky, darling.” Luke leans forward. “If Venetia says you should wear them—”
“I’m sure I haven’t got varicose veins!” My voice is growing shriller. “Luke, it was my shoes, remember?”
“Ah,” Venetia chips in. “You may have a point. Let me see what you’re wearing.”
She surveys my new platform wedges and shakes her head sadly.
“Those really aren’t suitable for late pregnancy. Here, try these.” She roots in her bottom desk drawer and produces a pair of ugly brown rubber flip-flops. “They’re an orthopedic sample. I’d be glad to know what you think of them.”
I stare at them in dismay. “Instead of the support stockings?”
“Oh no!” She smiles. “I think you should wear the support stockings as well. Just to be on the safe side.”
Bitch. Bitch.
“Put them on, darling,” says Luke with an encouraging nod. “Venetia’s just thinking of your health.”
No, she’s not! I want to yell. Can’t you see what she’s doing?
But I can’t. There’s no way out. They’re both watching me. I’m going to have to do this.
Feeling sick, I slowly pull on first one surgical stocking, then the other.
“Tug them right up!” says Venetia. “That’s it, over your thighs.” I slip on the horrible flip-flops. Then I pick up my new oversize Marc Jacobs (pale yellow, totally gorgeous) bag to stuff my wedges in.
“Is that your bag?” Venetia’s beady eyes alight on it and I feel a clutch of dread. Not the bag. Please, not the bag.
“This is far too heavy for a pregnant woman!” she says, taking it from me and hefting it with a frown. “Do you know the damage you might do to your spine?” To Luke she adds, “You know, I did a year working very closely with a physical therapist. The injuries she saw, from people lugging around ridiculous-size bags!”
“Big bags are in fashion,” I say tightly.
“Fashion!” Venetia gives her silvery laugh. “Fashion is bad for your health. Try this, Becky. My physical therapist supplies them.” She opens a cupboard and produces a fanny pack made of khaki webbing. “Far more ergonomic for the back. You can even hide it under your T-shirt for security….”
“That’s great!” says Luke, taking my Marc Jacobs from Venetia and putting it on the floor where I can’t reach it. “Venetia, this is so kind of you.”
Kind? He has no idea what’s going on here. None.
“Go on, Becky!” Venetia is like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse, relishing its suffering. “See if it fits.”
With trembling hands I pull up my T-shirt, fit the khaki belt around my belly, fasten the clasp, and allow my T-shirt to fall back down. As I turn I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror fitted to the back of the door.
I want to cry. I look like a grotesque monster. My legs are two white, bulbous tree trunks. My feet resemble a granny’s. I have bumps in front and behind.
“You look great, Becky!” Venetia has hopped onto the desk and is doing an agile, yoga-type stretch which shows off her long, lithe arms. “So, Luke, that was a marvelous meeting we had. I was really interested in what you had to say about Web links….”
Miserably, I shuffle to my seat and wait for them to finish talking about Venetia’s business profile. But now they’ve moved on to her brochure and whether it could be improved.
“Oh, sorry, Becky!” Venetia suddenly appears to notice me. “This must be really boring. You know, the checkup’s done, so if you don’t want to hang around….”
“Aren’t you meeting Suze and Jess for lunch?” Luke looks at me. “Why don’t you shoot off? I just want to recap a few things with Venetia.”
I’m rooted to the ground. I don’t want to leave him here alone with her. Every instinct is telling me not to. But if I say that, he’ll think I’m just being all possessive and suspicious and we’ll have another huge row.
“Well, OK,” I say at last. “I’ll go.”
“Make sure you take what you need,” says Venetia, gesturing at my Marc Jacobs. “And I don’t want to hear that you’ve been using that bag!” She wags her finger at me.
I want to shoot her. But there’s no point arguing; Luke will only take her side. In silence I take out my purse, phone, keys, and a few essential items of makeup. I put them in the khaki bag and zip it shut.
“Bye, darling.” Luke kisses me. “I’ll call you later.”
“Bye. Bye, Venetia.” I can barely look her in the eye. I leave the room and head out to the foyer.
At the reception desk I can see an excited blond girl with the tiniest of bumps, saying, “I’m so thrilled to have a place with Venetia!”
Yes, you are now, I think savagely. Until she makes you look like a freak in front of your husband.
I’m nearly at the door, when a sudden recollection stops me. Luke’s mobile rang this morning while he was in the shower, and I answered it. Which was not because I am possessive and suspicious, but because…
Well, OK. I thought it might be Venetia. But it wasn’t; it was John from Brandon Communications and I never told Luke to ring him. I’d better let him know.
I retrace my steps through the waiting room, trying to ignore the curious stares of the blond girl and her husband. These bloody stockings are coming off as soon as I get outside.
A woman in a blue nurse-type uniform is ahead of me in the corridor, and as I’m shuffling along she pauses at Venetia’s door. She knocks twice, then opens the door.
“Oh, sorry!” I hear her say. “I didn’t mean to disturb…”
Disturb what? Disturb what?
My heart suddenly hammering, I hurry forward along the corridor, and just catch a glimpse through the doorway as the nurse retreats.
And I see them. Sitting together on the desk, talking in low, laughing voices. Venetia’s arm is resting casually across Luke’s shoulders. The other hand is entwined in his. They look happy and relaxed and intimate.
They look like a couple.
I don’t know how I get to the restaurant where I’m meeting Suze and Jess. I’m walking on autopilot, like a zombie. I want to throw up every time I think about it.
They were together. They were together.
“Bex?”
Somehow I’ve pushed my way in through the glass doors and am standing in a total daze as waiters bustle around and people chatter. “Bex, are you OK?” Suze is hurrying over to greet me. Her eyes drop in dismay to my white legs. “What are you wearing ? What’s happened? Bex…can you speak?”
“I…no. I need to sit down.” I totter after her to a corner table where Jess is sitting.
“What’s happened?” Jess looks aghast at my appearance. She quickly pushes out a chair for me and helps me sit down. “Are you OK? Is it the baby?”
“I saw them,” I manage.
“Who?”
“Luke and Venetia. Together.”
“Together?” Suze claps a hand to her mouth. “Together, doing…what?”
“They were sitting on a desk, talking.” I can barely get the words out. “She had her arm on his shoulders. And he was holding her hand.” I look up for a reaction. Both Suze and Jess look like they’re waiting for more.
“Were they…kissing?” Suze ventures.
“No, they were laughing. They looked all happy. I just…I had to get out of there.” I take a deep gulp of water. Suze and Jess exchange glances.
“And…that’s why you put on white tights?” hazards Suze cautiously.
“No! Of course not!” I thrust down my glass, feeling the humiliation rise up again. “It was Venetia! She took away my shoes and my bag and she made me put these things on, just so I’d look all gross in front of Luke.”
Suze gasps. “What a cow!”
“And I can’t get them off.” I’m near tears by now. “I’m stuck with them!”
“Come on! I’ll help you!” Suze puts down her glass and reaches for one of the stockings. Jess is watching, her brow wrinkled.
“Becky…are you sure there isn’t some good health reason for wearing them?”
“No! She was just doing it to be mean! She said fashion’s bad for the health!”
Jess looks unmoved. “Fashion is bad for the health.”
“Fashion is not bad for the health!” I erupt. “It’s good for the health! It makes you…it makes you stay slim and stand up straight so your jacket hangs better. And take an interest in yourself so you don’t get all depressed.” I’m ticking the points off on my fingers. “And high heels are brilliant exercise for calf muscles….”
“Bex, have some wine,” says Suze soothingly, pushing her glass over. “Just a sip won’t hurt the baby. And it might…calm you down a bit.”
“OK. Thanks.” I take a grateful gulp.
“My obstetrician told me I could have a glass every other night,” adds Suze. “He’s French.”
I take another sip, feeling my heart rate subside. I should have gone to France to have the baby. Or anywhere but Venetia Carter. Maybe I should just forget this whole hospital thing and have the baby in a shop, like I always planned. At least I’d feel relaxed and happy. At least I’d get free clothes.
“I don’t know what to do.” I put the wineglass down and look miserably from Suze to Jess. “I’ve already tried talking to Luke. He said nothing was going on and they were just friends. But they didn’t look like just friends to me.”
“How exactly was he holding her hand?” Suze frowns intently. “Could it just have been friendly? Is Venetia a touchy-feely person?”
“She’s…” I think back. I remember her squeezing my arm, brushing a hand down my arm. “Quite,” I allow at last.
“Well, maybe that’s all it is! Maybe she’s just one of those people that gets too close.”
“Do you have any other evidence?” asks Jess.
“Not yet.” I fiddle with a bread stick wrapper, wondering whether to tell them. “I followed him the other day.”
“You did what ?” Suze looks aghast. “What if he’d seen you?”
“He did see me. I pretended I was shopping.”
“Bex…” Suze clutches her hair. “What if nothing’s going on? Just seeing them holding hands isn’t proof. You don’t want to ruin all the trust between you and Luke.”
“So, what should I do?” I look from face to face. “What should I do?”
“Nothing,” says Suze firmly. “Bex, I know Luke loves you. And he hasn’t done anything really incriminating, has he? It would be different if he’d lied to you, or if you’d seen them kissing….”
“I agree.” Jess nods vigorously. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Becky.”
“But…” I trail off, winding the wrapper tightly around my fingers. I don’t know how to explain it; I just have a bad feeling. It’s not just the texting, or the dinners. It’s not even seeing them just now. It’s something about her. It’s something in her eyes. She’s a predator.
But if I say that to the others, they’ll say I’m imagining it.
“All right,” I say at last. “I won’t do anything.”
“Let’s order,” says Suze firmly, shoving a menu at me.
“There’s a set menu,” says Jess, putting a typed sheet on top of the à la carte. “It’s more economical, if we only have two courses and don’t choose any of these ridiculous items with truffles.”
I immediately want to retort that truffles are my favorite food and who cares how much they cost? But the trouble is, I kind of agree. I’ve never got the whole thousand-pounds-for-a-truffle thing.
Oh God. Please don’t say I’m starting to agree with Jess.
“And you can help me think of how to get my own back on Lulu,” adds Suze, passing the bread basket.
“Ooh,” I say, cheering up. “How come?”
“She’s been asked to do a TV program,” Suze says with disdain. “One of those makeover shows where she goes to the house of some crap mother and tells them how to cook healthily for their children. And she’s asked me to be the first crap mother!”
“No!”
“She’s already put my name forward to the production company!” Suze’s voice rises in indignation. “They phoned me up and said was it true that I only fed my children canned food and that none of them could speak?”
“What a nerve!” I take a roll and spread some butter on it. There’s nothing like having someone else to hate, to make you forget your problems.
We have a great lunch, the three of us, and by the end of it I feel so much better. We all decide Lulu is the absolute pits. (Jess has never met Lulu, but I give her a pretty good description.) And then Jess relays her own problems. She told Tom about Chile and it didn’t go too well.
“First he thought I was joking,” she says, crumbling a roll into little bits. “Then he thought I was testing his love. So he proposed.”
“He proposed?” I say in an excited squeak.
“Obviously, I told him to stop being so ridiculous,” says Jess. “And now…we’re not really talking.” She says it in a matter-of-fact way, but I can see the sadness in her eyes. “Just one of those things.” She takes a deep gulp of wine, which is really unlike Jess. I glance at Suze, who gives me an anxious frown.
“Jess, are you sure about Chile?” I say tentatively.
“Yes.” She nods. “I have to go. I have to do this. I’ll never get this opportunity again.”
“And Tom can always come and visit you out there,” Suze points out.
“Exactly. If he would just stop listening to his mother!” Jess shakes her head in exasperation. “Janice is in total hysterics. She keeps sending me pages which she’s printed out from the Internet, saying Chile’s a dangerous, unstable country riddled with disease and land mines.”
“Is it?” I say fearfully.
“Of course not!” says Jess. “She’s talking absolute rubbish.” She takes a sip of wine. “There’s just a few land mines, that’s all. And a small cholera problem.”
A few land mines? Cholera?
“Jess, be really careful out there,” I say on impulse, and grab her hand. “We don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Yes, be careful,” chimes in Suze.
“I will.” Jess’s neck flushes pink. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, anyway.” As the waiter arrives with our coffees she withdraws her hand, looking awkward. “I. . like your hair clip, Becky.”
She obviously wants to change the subject.
“Oh, thanks,” I touch it fondly. “Isn’t it fab? It’s Miu Miu. Actually, it’s part of the baby’s trust fund portfolio.”
There’s silence and I look up to see both Suze and Jess staring at me.
“Bex, how can a Miu Miu hair clip be part of a trust fund portfolio?” says Suze uncertainly.
“Because it’s an Antique of the Future!” I say with a flourish.
“What’s an Antique of the Future?” Suze looks puzzled.
Ha. You see. I am so ahead of the game!
“It’s this fab new way to invest,” I explain. “It’s easy-peasy! You just buy anything and keep the packaging, and then in fifty years you auction it and make a fortune!”
“Right,” says Suze, looking dubious. “So, what else have you bought?”
“Um…” I think. “Quite a few things from Miu Miu, actually. And some Harry Potter figures and Barbie princess dolls…and this fab bracelet from Topshop…”
“Becky, a Topshop bracelet isn’t an investment,” says Jess, looking incredulous.
She really hasn’t got the point.
“Maybe not now,” I explain patiently. “But it will be. It’ll be on the Antiques Road Show—you’ll see!”
“Bex, what’s wrong with a bank?” says Suze anxiously.
“I’m not putting the baby’s money into some crappy bank like everyone else!” I say. “I’m a financial professional, remember, Suze. This is what I do.”
“What you used to do.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” I assure her l
oftily. I’m not actually that great at riding a bike, but I needn’t mention that.
“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…