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  “Let’s find that out, shall we? Now, I’ll need as much information as you can give me. All the women he knows—both his friends and yours. All the places he frequents, all his habits. I like to do a thorough job, Mrs. Brandon. I will produce a full dossier on your husband’s life, plus background on any women or other persons deemed to be relevant. There is nothing you will not know by the end of my investigation.”

  “Look.” I try to keep my patience. “I know everything about Luke already. Except for this one tiny thing. He’s my husband.”

  “If I had a pound for every lady who’s said that to me…” Dave Sharpness gives a hoarse chuckle. “You fill in the details. We’ll do the rest.”

  He holds out a fresh pad of paper. I take it from him and flip the pages, feeling uneasy.

  “Do I need to…give you a photograph?”

  “We’ll take care of that. You just tell us about the women. Don’t leave anyone out. Friends…colleagues…Do you have a sister?”

  “Well…yes,” I say, taken aback. “But he’d never…I mean, not in a million years…”

  Dave Sharpness is shaking his head in ponderous amusement. “You’d be surprised, Mrs. Brandon. In my experience, if they’ve got one little secret, they’ve got a whole host of them.” He hands me a pen. “Don’t you worry. We’ll soon let you know.”

  I write “Venetia Carter” at the top of the page, then stop.

  What am I doing ?

  “I can’t do it.” I drop the pen. “I’m sorry. This just feels so weird. So wrong. To spy on my own husband!” I push my chair back and stand up. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t even be here!”

  “You don’t need to make your decision today,” Dave Sharpness says unperturbed, reaching for a packet of toffees. “All I will say is that of the customers who react like your good self…ninety percent are back within a week. They still go ahead with the investigation, only they’ve lost a week. As a lady in your advanced condition…” His gaze drops meaningfully to my stomach. “Well, I’d be cracking on.”

  “Oh.” Slowly I sink back down into the chair. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “And we don’t use the word spying,” he adds, wrinkling his florid nose. “No one likes to think of themselves as spying on a loved one. We prefer the term distance observation.”

  “Distance observation.” That does sound better.

  I fiddle with my birthing stone, my mind spinning. Maybe he’s got a point: if I walk away now, I’ll only be back in a week. Maybe I should just sign on the dotted line straightaway.

  “But what if my husband saw you?” I say, looking up. “What if he’s totally innocent and he discovers I hired a detective? He’ll never trust me again….”

  Dave Sharpness holds up a hand. “Let me reassure you. All of my operatives operate with the utmost caution and discretion. Either your husband is innocent—in which case, no harm done—or he’s guilty, in which case you have the proof you need to take further action. To be perfectly honest, Mrs. Brandon, it’s a win-win situation.”

  “So there’s no way at all he could find out?” I say, just to be totally sure.

  “Please.” Dave Sharpness chuckles again. “Mrs. Brandon, I’m a professional.”

  Honestly, I never realized hiring a private investigator was such hard work. It takes me about forty minutes to write down all the information Dave Sharpness wants. Every time I try to explain that I’m only interested in whether Luke’s seeing Venetia, he holds up his hand and says, “Take it from me, Mrs. Brandon, you’ll be interested enough if we find anything.”

  “That’s it,” I say at last, shoving the pad of paper toward him. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

  “Excellent.” Dave Sharpness takes it and runs a fingernail down all the names. “We’ll get cracking on this lot. Meanwhile, we’ll place your husband under what we call low-grade surveillance.”

  “Right,” I say nervously. “What does that involve?”

  “One of my highly skilled operatives will follow your husband for an initial period of two weeks, at which time we shall meet again. Any information gained in the meantime shall be communicated to you directly by myself. I shall require a deposit….”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling for my bag. “Of course.”

  “And as a new customer”—he rifles in his drawer and produces a small flyer—“you qualify for our special offer.”

  Special offer? He honestly thinks I’m interested in some stupid special offer? My marriage is under threat here. In fact, I’m pretty insulted he even mentioned it.

  “Valid only today,” Dave Sharpness continues. “Buy one, get the second half-price. It’s a unique opportunity for new customers. Shame to miss out on a bargain.”

  There’s silence. In spite of myself I’m feeling the teeniest, weeniest ripple of interest.

  “What do you mean?” I give a reluctant shrug. “You get the second detective half off?”

  “She’s a card!” Dave Sharpness wheezes with laughter. “No, you order a second investigation and you’ll get it half-price. Saves you coming back, you see. Wrap up all your investigatory needs in one go.”

  “But I don’t have any other investigatory needs.”

  “Are you sure about that?” He raises his eyebrows. “Have a good think, Mrs. Brandon. No other little mysteries you need to clear up? No missing persons you’d like us to trace? The offer’s valid only today. You’ll regret it if you lose out.” He hands me the flyer. “You’ll see our full list of services here….”

  I open my mouth to tell him I’m not interested, then find myself closing it again.

  Perhaps I should just have a little think about this. I mean, it is a pretty good deal. And maybe there is something else I’d like to find out about. My eyes run down the headings on the flyer. I could trace an old schoolchum…or track a vehicle by GPS satellite…or simply discover more about a friend or neighbor….

  Oh my God. I have it!

  I’m not sure Dave really got the whole eyebrow thing. But I explained as fully as I could and drew him a picture and in the end he became quite enthusiastic. He said if he didn’t find out where and how Jasmine was getting her eyebrows shaped, he wasn’t Regional Salesman of the Year, 1989 (Southwest). I don’t know what that’s got to do with private detecting, but anyway. He’s on the case. Both of them.

  So it’s done. The only thing is, I now feel horribly guilty.

  The nearer I get to home the guiltier I feel, until I can’t bear it anymore. I hurry into the shop at the end of our road and buy Luke a bunch of flowers and some chocolates, and at the last moment I throw in a miniature whisky.

  His car is in our parking space, which means he must be home. As I travel up in the lift I start getting my story straight. My plan is: I’ll just say I was at work all afternoon.

  No. He might have called there for some reason and found out I took the afternoon off.

  I’ll say I was shopping. Nowhere near West Ruislip.

  But what if someone saw me in West Ruislip? What if one of Luke’s employees lives in West Ruislip and she was working from home and rang Luke and said, “Guess what, I’ve just seen your wife!”

  OK, I was in West Ruislip. I was there for…another reason. To see a pregnancy hypnotherapist. Yes. Brilliant.

  By now I’ve reached our front door, and as I unlock it, my heart’s thumping with nerves.

  “Hi!” Luke appears in the hall, holding a huge bouquet, and I stare at him, transfixed. We both have flowers?

  Oh God. He knows.

  No. Don’t be stupid. How could he know? And why would that make him buy flowers?

  Luke seems a little puzzled too. “These are for you,” he says after a pause.

  “Right,” I say in a constricted voice. “Well…these are for you.”

  Awkwardly we exchange bouquets, and I hand Luke his chocolates and miniature whisky.

  “Let’s go…” Luke nods toward the kitchen, and I follow him to the area where we
have a sofa and a low table. Late afternoon sunshine is blazing in through the window, and it almost feels like summer.

  Luke sinks onto the sofa beside me and takes a swig from a bottle of beer on the table. “Becky, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He rubs his brow, as though marshaling his thoughts. “I know I’ve been distant these past few days. It’s been a strange time. But…I think I’ve managed to get rid of something that was bothering me.”

  He finally looks up, and I feel a dart of understanding. He’s talking in subtext! It couldn’t be clearer. Something that was bothering me. That’s her. Venetia came on to him—and he rejected her. That’s what he’s trying to tell me! He turned her down!

  And here I am, hiring private detectives, like I don’t trust him. Like I don’t love him.

  “Luke, I’m sorry too!” I say in a rush of remorse. “I really am.”

  “For what?” Luke looks taken aback.

  “For…er…” Do not blurt it all out, Becky. “For…that time I forgot to order the groceries. I’ve always felt really bad about it.”

  “Come here.” Luke laughs and pulls me close for a kiss. For a while we just sit there, the sun warm on our faces. It’s ages since we just sat like this. The baby is squirming energetically inside me, and we both watch as my dress jumps with the motion. It is pretty freaky, just like Suze said. But it’s exciting too.

  “So,” says Luke, putting a hand on my stomach. “When are we going to look at prams?”

  “Soon!” I put my arms round him and hug him tight in relief. Luke loves me. It’s all happy again. I knew it would be.

  TO: Dave Sharpness

  FROM: Rebecca Brandon

  SUBJECT: Luke Brandon

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Sharpness,

  Just to repeat the message I left on your answering machine, I would like you to CALL OFF the investigation on my husband. Repeat: CALL IT OFF. He is not having an affair after all.

  I will contact you in due course about the deposit I paid you.

  With best wishes,

  Rebecca Brandon

  * * *

  * * *

  FACULTY OF CLASSICS

  * * *

  OXFORD UNIVERSITY

  * * *

  OXFORD • OX1 6TH

  Mrs. R Brandon

  37 Maida Vale Mansions

  Maida Vale

  London NW6 0YF

  11 November 2003

  Dear Mrs. Brandon,

  I am delighted to enclose translations of the Latin text messages you sent me, and hope they put your mind at rest. They are all entirely innocuous: for instance, sum suci plena means “I’m full of life” rather than the more graphic meaning you ascribed to it.

  I also think you may have been unduly concerned by the phrases licitum dic, fac me, and sex, which in Latin means “six.”

  If I can be of any further assistance, please do not hesitate to let me know. Perhaps some Latin lessons?

  With very best wishes.

  Yours sincerely,

  Edmund Fortescue

  Professor of Classics

  * * *

  THIRTEEN

  THE WHOLE WORLD looks different when your husband isn’t having an affair.

  Suddenly a phone call is just a phone call. A text is just a text. A late night out isn’t a reason to have a row. It even turns out fac me doesn’t mean…what I thought it did.

  Thank God I canceled the private detective, is all I can say. I even burned all his paperwork and receipts, so there was no chance of Luke finding out. (And then quickly invented a story about defective hair tongs when the smoke alarm went off.)

  Luke is so much more relaxed these days, and he hasn’t even mentioned her for two weeks. Except when an invitation came to a Cambridge reunion party and he said casually, “Oh yes, Ven told me about this.” It’s a black-tie dance at the Guildhall in London, and I’m determined to look as fab and glam as I can, like Catherine Zeta-Jones at the Oscars. Yesterday I bought the best dress, all clingy and sexy in midnight-blue silk, and now I need some matching heels.(And Venetia can just choke on her chicken.)

  So everything’s going brilliantly. We’re exchanging contracts on the house next week, and last night we talked about throwing a massive housewarming-christening party, which would be so cool. And the really big news is that Danny arrives today! He flies in this morning and is coming straight to the store to meet everyone and announce his collaboration with The Look. Then he and I are having lunch, just the two of us. I’m so looking forward to it.

  As I arrive at The Look at nine thirty, the place is already bustling with excitement. A reception area has been set up on the ground floor, with a table of champagne glasses and a big screen showing footage from Danny’s latest catwalk show. A few journalists have arrived for the press conference, and all the PR department is milling around bright-eyed, handing out media packs.

  “Rebecca.” Eric advances on me before I’ve even taken my coat off. “A word, please. Any news on the design?”

  This is the only teeny little hitch. Danny said he’d submit a provisional design to us by last week. And he still hasn’t. I spoke to him a couple of days ago, and he said it was pretty much there, he just needed the final inspiration. Which could mean anything. It probably means he hasn’t even started. Not that I’ll let Eric know this.

  “It’s in the final stages,” I say as convincingly as I can.

  “Have you seen anything?”

  “Absolutely!” I cross my fingers behind my back.

  “So, what’s it like?” His brows narrow. “Is it a top? A dress? What?”

  “It’s…groundbreaking.” I wave my hands vaguely. “It’s a kind of…You’ll have to see it. When it’s ready.”

  Eric doesn’t look convinced.

  “Your friend Mr. Kovitz has just made yet another request,” he says. “Two tickets for Euro Disney.” He gives me a baleful stare. “Why is he going to Euro Disney?”

  I can’t help cursing Danny inside. Why can’t he buy his own bloody tickets to Euro Disney?

  “Inspiration!” I say at last. “He’s probably going to make some satirical comment on…modern culture.”

  Eric doesn’t look impressed.

  “Rebecca, this plan of yours is costing a lot more time and money than I anticipated,” he says heavily. “Money which could have gone into conventional marketing. It had better work.”

  “It will! I promise it will!”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  I feel a surge of frustration. Why does he have to be so negative ? “Then…I resign!” I say with a flourish. “OK? Satisfied?”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Rebecca,” Eric says with an ominous look.

  “You do that!” I say confidently, and hold his gaze till he walks away.

  Shit. I just offered to resign. Why on earth did I do that? I’m just wondering whether to run after Eric and say “Ha-ha, I was only joking!” when my phone starts ringing and I flip it open. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Becky? Buffy.”

  I stifle a sigh. Buffy is one of Danny’s assistants and she’s been calling every evening, just to check some tiny detail or other.

  “Hi, Buffy!” I force a cheerful tone. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to check Mr. Kovitz’s hotel room had been ordered as he wanted it? Eighty degrees, the TV tuned to MTV, three cans of Dr Pepper by the bed?”

  “Yes. I ordered it all.” Suddenly something occurs to me. “Buffy, what time is it in New York?”

  “It’s four A.M.,” she says brightly, and I stare at the phone, gobsmacked.

  “You’ve got up at four A.M. just to check that Danny has Dr Pepper in his hotel room?”

  “That’s OK!” She sounds totally breezy. “It’s all part of working in the fashion industry!”

  “He’s here!” comes a cry from the door. “Danny Kovitz is here!”

  “Buffy, I have to go,” I say hastily, and thrust my phone down. As I head toward the d
oors I glimpse a limo on the street outside and feel a prickle of excitement. It’s amazing how important Danny has got!

  Then the doors swing back, and there he is! He’s as skinny as ever, and dressed in old jeans and the coolest black jacket, with one sleeve made out of mattress ticking. He looks tired and his curly hair is disheveled, but his blue eyes light up as he sees me, and he comes running forward.

  “Becky! Oh my God, look at you.” He envelops me in an enormous hug. “You look fabulous!”

  “Look at you!” I retort. “Mr. Famous!”

  “C’mon. I’m not famous.…” Danny makes a two-second stab at being self-deprecating. “Well…OK. Yes, I am. Isn’t it wild?”

  I can’t help giggling. “So, is this your entourage?” I nod at the woman in a headset who has come in alongside a huge, bald secret-service–type guy.

  “That’s my assistant, Carla.”

  “I thought Buffy was your assistant.”

  “My second assistant,” Danny explains. “And that’s Stan, my bodyguard.”

  “You need a bodyguard?” I say in amazement. Even I didn’t realize Danny had got quite that famous.

  “Well, I don’t really need him,” Danny admits. “But I thought it would be cool. Hey, did you get them to put Dr Pepper in my room?”

  “Three cans.” I see Eric approaching and quickly steer Danny away, toward the champagne table. “So…how’s the design coming?” I ask casually. “Only I’m getting some pressure from my boss….”

  A familiar defensive look comes over Danny’s face.

  “I’m working on it, OK?” he says. “My team had some ideas but I’m not happy with them. I need to soak up the feel of the shop…the vibe of London…maybe take inspiration from some other European cities….”