Other European cities ?
“Right. And…how long do you think that will take? About?”
“Let me introduce myself,” cuts in Eric, who has finally caught up with us. “Eric Wilmot. Head of marketing here at The Look. Welcome to Britain.” He shakes Danny’s hand with a grim smile. “We’re delighted to be collaborating with such a talented young designer on such an exciting fashion project.”
That sentence came word-for-word out of the press release. I know, because I wrote it.
“Danny was just telling me how he’s really close to coming up with a final design!” I say to Eric, praying that Danny keeps his mouth closed. “Isn’t that exciting? Although no exact time scale yet…”
“Mr. Kovitz?” A girl of about twenty, wearing green boots and a very strange coat made out of what looks like cellophane, is shyly approaching. “I’m from Fashion Student Gazette. I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan. We all are, in my year at Central Saint Martins. Could I ask you a few questions about your inspiration?”
Ha. You see? I shoot a triumphant look at Eric, who just scowls back.
It’s pretty exciting, being part of a major fashion launch at a major department store! Even if it is a failing, empty department store.
Everybody gives a speech, even me. Brianna announces the initiative and thanks all the journalists for coming. Eric says again how excited we are to be working with Danny. I explain that I’ve known Danny ever since he was first stocked at Barneys (I don’t mention that all his T-shirts fell to bits and I nearly got the sack). Danny says how thrilled he is to be designer in residence at The Look, and how he’s sure within six months this will be the only place to shop in London.
By the end, everyone’s in a brilliant mood. Everyone except Eric.
“Designer in residence?” he says as soon as he gets me alone. “What does that mean, ‘designer in residence’? Does he think we’re putting him up all bloody year?”
“No!” I say. “Of course not!”
I may have to have a little chat with Danny.
At last, after draining all the champagne, the fashion journalists melt away. Brianna and Eric disappear off to their offices and I’m left alone with Danny. Or at least, with Danny and his people.
“So, shall we go for lunch?” I suggest.
“Sure!” Danny says, and glances at Carla, who immediately speaks into her headset. “Travis? Travis, it’s Carla. Could you bring the car around, please?”
Cool! We’re going in the limo!
“There’s quite a nice place round the corner—” I begin, but Carla cuts me off.
“Buffy has made reservations at three Zagat-recommended restaurants. Japanese, French, and I believe the third was Italian….”
“How about…Moroccan?” Danny says as the driver opens the door.
“I’ll give Buffy a call,” Carla says without batting an eyelid. She speed-dials as we all get into the limo. “Buffy, Carla. Could you please hold the reservations you’ve made and research a Moroccan restaurant for lunch? That’s Moroccan,” she repeats, enunciating clearly. “London West One. Thanks, hon.”
“I feel like a latte,” says Danny suddenly. “A mocha latte.”
Without missing a beat, Carla speaks into her phone again. “Hello, Travis, this is Carla,” she says. “Could we please pull over at a Starbucks. That’s Starbucks.”
Thirty seconds later, the limo draws up beside a Starbucks. Carla opens the door.
“Just a mocha latte?” she says.
“Uh-huh,” Danny says, stretching out lazily.
“Anything for you, Stan?” Carla looks at the bodyguard, who is sunk in his seat, plugged into his iPod.
“Huh?” He opens his eyes. “Oh, right, Starbucks. Get me a cappuccino. Real foamy.”
The car door closes and I turn to Danny in disbelief. Does he have people running after him like this all day?
“Danny…”
“Uh-huh?” Danny looks up from flipping through Cosmo Girl. “Hey, are you cold in here? I feel cold.” He switches on his phone and speed-dials. “Carla, the car’s a little cold. OK, thanks.”
That does it.
“Danny, this is ridiculous!” I exclaim. “Can’t you talk to the driver yourself? Can’t you get your own latte?”
Danny looks genuinely perplexed.
“Well…I could,” he says. “I guess.” His phone rings and he switches it on. “Yes, cinnamon. Oh, that’s too bad.” He puts his hand over the phone. “Buffy can’t find a Moroccan restaurant for us. How about Lebanese fusion?”
“Danny…” I feel like I’m on another planet. “There’s a really nice restaurant right here.” I gesture outside. “Can’t we just go there? The two of us, no one else?”
“Oh.” Danny seems to be getting his head round this idea. “Well…sure. Let’s do it.”
We get out of the car just as Carla approaches holding a Starbucks take-out tray.
“Is something wrong?” She surveys us in alarm.
“We’re going for lunch,” I say. “Just Danny and me. In there.” I point at the restaurant, which is called Annie’s.
“Right.” Carla nods vigorously, as though taking in the situation. “Great! I’ll just make you a reservation….” To my utter astonishment she speed-dials her phone again. “Hi, Buffy, could you please reserve a table at a restaurant called Annie’s, let me spell that for you….”
Buffy is in New York. We are standing ten feet away from the place. How does this make any sense?
“Honestly, we’re fine, thanks!” I say to Carla. “See you later!” And I drag Danny across the pavement and into the restaurant.
We do have to wait a bit for a table. But I stick out my stomach as far as it will go and sigh wistfully at the maître d’—and a few minutes later we’re ensconced in a corner banquette, dipping bread into yummy olive oil. Which is a relief. I was going to have to admit defeat and call Buffy.
“This is so great, being here,” Danny says, as a waiter pours him a glass of wine. “Here’s to you, Becky!”
“Here’s to you!” I clink his wineglass with my water glass. “And here’s to your fabulous design for The Look!” I force myself to leave a natural pause. “So, you were going to tell me when you thought you might have something to show us?”
“Was I?” Danny looks surprised. “Hey, you want to come to Paris with me next week? There is the best gay scene there—”
“Fab!” I nod. “The thing is, Danny, we kind of…sort of…need to have something quite…quickly.”
“Quickly?” Danny opens his eyes wide, looking betrayed. “What do you mean, ‘quickly’?”
“Well, you know! As soon as you can manage, really. We’re trying to save the store, so the sooner we can get something going, the better….” I trail off as Danny fixes a reproachful gaze on me.
“I could be ‘quick,’” he says, uttering the word with disdain. “I could throw together a few crap ideas in five minutes. Or I could do something meaningful. Which may take time. That’s the creative process—excuse me for being an artist.” He takes a gulp of wine and puts his glass down.
I can’t say that a few crap ideas in five minutes sound great to me.
Can I?
“Is there a middle road?” I venture at last. “Like…some fairly good ideas in about…a week?”
“A week ?” Danny looks almost more offended than before.
“Or…whatever.” I back down. “You’re the creative person; you know how you work best. So! What do you want to eat?”
We order penne (me) and lobster (Danny) and the special quail’s-egg salad (Danny) and a champagne cocktail (Danny).
“So, how’ve you been?” Danny asks as the waiter eventually retreats. “I’ve been having a total nightmare with my boyfriend, Nathan. I thought he was seeing someone else.”
“Me too,” I confess.
“What?” Danny drops his roll in astonishment. “You thought Luke was…”
“Having an affair.”
I nod.
“You’re kidding.” He seems genuinely shocked. “But you guys are so perfect.”
“It’s fine now,” I reassure him. “I know nothing’s going on. But I nearly had him followed by a private detective.”
“Get out.” Danny is leaning forward, his eyes alight. “So, what happened?”
“I canceled it.”
“Jesus.” Danny chews his roll, taking this all in. “So, why did you think he was cheating?”
“There’s this woman. She’s our obstetrician. And she’s Luke’s ex-girlfriend.”
“Ooh.” Danny winces. “The ex-girlfriend. Harsh. And what’s she like?”
I have a sudden flashback to Venetia making me put on those revolting surgical stockings, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
“She’s a red-haired bitch and I hate her,” I say, more vehemently than I meant to. “I call her Cruella de Venetia.”
“And she’s delivering the baby?” Danny starts laughing. “Is this for real?”
“It’s not funny!” I can’t help giggling too.
“I have to see this birth.” Danny skewers an olive on a cocktail stick. “‘Push!’ ‘I won’t, you bitch!’ You should sell tickets.”
“Stop it!” My stomach’s hurting from laughing. On the table my phone beeps with a text and I pull it over to have a look. “Hey, it’s Luke! He’s stopping by to say hello!” I texted Luke while we were ordering, to let him know where we were having lunch.
“Great.” Danny takes a swig of his champagne cocktail. “So, you guys are cool now?”
“We’re great. In fact, things are wonderful. We’re going to look at prams together tomorrow.” I give Danny a beatific smile.
“He doesn’t even know you thought he was cheating?”
“I brought it up a couple of times,” I say slowly, buttering another roll. “But he always denied anything was going on. I’m not going to mention it again.”
“Or the private detective.” Danny’s eyes gleam.
“Obviously not the private detective.” I narrow my eyes. “And don’t say a word, Danny.”
“I wouldn’t!” Danny exclaims innocently, and takes another slurp of champagne cocktail.
“Hi, guys!” I turn to see Luke making his way through the crowded restaurant. He’s wearing his new Paul Smith suit and has his BlackBerry in his hand. He gives me a tiny wink, and I force myself to stay composed, even though I want to smile wickedly as I remember this morning. And no, I’m not explaining. Let’s just say that if I’m so “unattractive” and “unsexy” like Venetia said, then why did Luke…
Anyway. Moving on.
“Danny! Long time.”
“Luke!” Danny leaps up and claps him on the back. “Great to see you!”
“Congratulations on all your success!” Luke pulls out a chair from a neighboring table. “I can’t stay long, but I wanted to say welcome to London.”
“Cheers, mate.” Danny puts on the worst cockney accent I have ever heard. He drains his champagne cocktail and gestures to a waiter to bring him another one. “And congratulations to you guys!” He runs a hand lightly over my tummy, then flinches as the baby kicks. “Jesus. Was that it ?”
“It’s exciting!” Luke nods with a smile. “Only a few weeks to go!”
“Jesus.” Danny’s still staring at my stomach. “What if it’s a girl in there? Another little Becky Bloomwood. You better get back to the office, Luke, and earn some money. You’re gonna need it.”
“Shut up!” I hit him on the arm. But Luke’s already getting up from his seat. “I was only passing, anyway. Iain’s waiting for me in the car. See you again, Danny. Bye, sweetheart.” He kisses me on the forehead, then peers out the restaurant window as though searching for something.
“What is it?” I say, following his gaze.
“It’s…” Luke frowns. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but for the last few days I’ve felt as though I’m being followed.”
“Followed?”
“I’m seeing the same guy around the place all the time.” Luke shrugs. “He was outside the office yesterday, and I saw him just now.”
“But who on earth—” I come to a halt.
Shit. No. It can’t be.
I canceled them. I know I did. I phoned and left a message on Dave Sharpness’s answering machine. And I sent an e-mail.
I look up to see Danny’s delighted gaze on me.
“You think someone’s following you, Luke?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Like…a private detective, maybe?”
I will kill him.
“It’s probably nothing!” My voice is a bit strangled. “Just coincidence!”
“Probably.” Luke nods. “Strange, though. See you later.” He touches my hand, and we both watch him wend his way between the tables.
“Trust is a beautiful thing between a married couple,” observes Danny. “You two are very lucky.”
“Shut up!” I’m scrabbling for my phone. “I have to call them off!”
“I thought you already did.”
“I did! Days ago! It’s all a mistake!” I find Dave Sharpness’s card and jab in the number, my fingers fumbling in agitation.
“How do you think Luke will react when he finds out you’re having him trailed?” asks Danny conversationally. “I’d be quite pissed if it were me.”
“You are really not helping.” I glare at him. “And thanks for mentioning private detectives!”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Danny claps his hand over his mouth in mock apology. “Because he would never have worked it out on his own.”
I’m through to voice mail, and I take a deep breath.
“Mr. Sharpness. It’s Becky Brandon here. There seems to have been some confusion. I would like you to stop following my husband, Luke. I do not want any investigation. Please call off your operatives at once. Thank you.” I switch off the phone and take a gulp of Danny’s champagne cocktail, breathing hard. “There. Done.”
* * *
KENNETH PRENDERGAST
Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers
Forward House
394 High Holborn
London WC1V 7EX
Mrs. R Brandon
37 Maida Vale Mansions
Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
20 November 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
Thank you for your letter.
I have noted your new shareholding in the London Cappuccino Company.
I would recommend you do not make any further share purchases simply because of “fab shareholder perks” such as free coffee. You should be looking for solid, long-term growth prospects.
In answer to your other query, I am not aware of any jewelry companies which give away free diamonds to their shareholders.
Yours sincerely,
Kenneth Prendergast
Family Investment Specialist
* * *
FOURTEEN
I JUST HOPE they got my message. Or the one I left last evening. Or the one I left this morning. I must have blocked Dave Sharpness’s voice mail completely, telling him to stop the investigation. But until I speak to him myself, I can’t be positive the message has got through.
Which means the surveillance could still be on.
As we leave the flat together the next morning to go to the pram center, all my senses are on high alert. I feel sure someone’s watching us. But where? Hiding in the trees? Sitting in a parked car with a long lens trained on us? I edge down the steps of the building, my eyes darting from side to side. There’s an electronic clicking sound to my left, and I instinctively shield my face with my hand—until I realize it’s not a camera, it’s someone opening their car.
“Are you all right, darling?” Luke is watching me, bemused.
The postman comes by, and I shoot a suspicious glance at him. Is he really the postman?
Oh, yes. He is.
“OK.” I hurry to Luke. “Let’s get in the car. Now.”
 
; We should have bought a car with blacked-out windows. I told Luke all along. And a built-in fridge.
My mobile rings just as we reach the gates of our block, and I jump a mile. That timing is too coincidental. It’ll be the private detective, telling me he’s in the boot of the car. Or he’s in the building opposite, with a sniper rifle aimed at Luke….
Stop it. I didn’t hire an assassin. It’s fine.
Even so, as I get my phone out, my hands are trembling. “Er…hello?” I say nervously.
“Hi, it’s me!” comes Suze’s breezy voice, with the clamor of children’s voices in the background. “Listen, if they have a twin Urban Baby cozy-toes in red trim, will you get it for me? I’ll pay you back.”
“Oh. Er…of course.” I grab a pen and scribble it down. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. I’d better go! Talk later!”
I put my phone away, still feeling jumpy. We’re being followed—I just know we are.
“So, where is this place?” Luke consults the leaflet and starts pressing buttons on his sat nav. The map pops up and he pulls a face. “It’s bloody miles away. Do we have to go here?”
“It’s the best place in London! Look!” I read from the leaflet. “You get to try all the top-quality prams on a variety of terrains and a consultant will help guide you through the maze.”
“The maze of pram-buying or a literal maze?” inquires Luke.
“I don’t know,” I admit, after searching through the leaflet. “But anyway, it’s got the widest choice and Suze said we should go there.”
“Fair enough.” Luke raises his eyebrows and does a U-turn. Then he frowns at the rearview mirror. “That car looks familiar.”
Shit.
Trying to appear casual, I swivel my head to see. It’s a brown Ford and a guy is driving it. A dark-haired, pockmarked, private detective kind of guy.
Shit shit shit.
“Let’s listen to the radio!” I say. I start tuning into different stations, turning the volume up, trying to distract him. “And anyway, so what if it’s familiar? There are lots of brown Fords in the world. Who knows how many? Probably…five million. No, ten…”