“Yes. Enjoy yourself.” I pull the duvet over my head and feel my tears drenching the pillow.
“Bye, sweetheart.” I can feel Luke patting the duvet. “Get some rest.”
There’s some muffled talking, and then in the distance I hear the door slam. That’s it. They’ve gone.
It’s about half an hour before I even move. I push back the duvet and wipe my wet eyes. I get out of bed, stagger into the bathroom, and look at myself. I’m a fright. My eyes are red and puffy. My cheeks are tear-stained. My hair is all over the place.
I splash my face with water and sit down on the edge of the bathtub. What am I going to do? I can’t just stay here all night, wondering and worrying and imagining the worst. I’d rather just catch them. I’d rather just see it for my own eyes.
I’ll go there. The thought hits me like a bullet.
I’ll go to the reunion right now, this minute. What’s to stop me? I’m not ill. I’m fine.
I head back into the bedroom with a fresh determination. I fling open my wardrobe doors and pull out a black chiffon maternity kaftan that I bought in the summer and never wore because it felt too tentlike. OK. Accessories. A few long, glittery necklaces…a pair of sparkly heels…diamond earrings…I wrench open my makeup case and apply as much as I can, as quickly as I can.
I take a step back and look at myself head to foot in the mirror. I look…fine. Not exactly my most polished outfit ever, but fine.
Adrenaline is beating through me as I grab an evening bag and stuff my keys, mobile, and purse into it. I wrap a shawl around myself and head out the front door, my chin jutting with resolve. I’ll show them. Or I’ll catch them. Or…something. I’m not some helpless victim who’s tamely going to lie in bed while her husband’s with another woman.
I manage to catch a cab straight outside our building, and as it zooms off I sit back and practice my confrontation lines. I need to hold my head high and be sarcastic yet noble. And not burst into tears or hit Venetia.
Well, maybe I could hit Venetia. A ringing slap on her cheek, after I’ve laid into Luke.
“You’re still married, by the way,” I rehearse under my breath. “Forget something, Luke? Like your wife ?”
We’re getting near now, and I feel light-headed with nerves…but I don’t care. I’m still going to do it. I’m going to be strong. As the taxi draws up, I hand a wodge of crumpled money to the driver and get out. It’s started to rain, and a cold breeze is cutting right through my chiffon kaftan. I need to get inside.
I totter over the open square toward the grand stone entrance of the Guildhall and through the heavy oak doors. Inside, the reception area is full of pale blue helium balloons in bunches, and banners reading CAMBRIDGE REUNION, and a huge pin board covered in old photographs of students. In front of me a group of four men are slapping each other on the back and exclaiming things like “I can’t believe you’re still alive, you bastard!” As I hesitate, wondering where to go, a girl in a red ball gown sitting behind a cloth-draped table smiles up at me.
“Hello! Do you have your invitation?”
“My husband has it.” I try to sound calm, like any normal guest. “He arrived earlier than me. Luke Brandon?” The girl runs a finger down her list, then stops.
“Of course!” She smiles at me. “Do go in, Mrs. Brandon.”
I follow the group of bantering guys into the great hall and accept a glass of champagne on autopilot. I’ve never been here before and I didn’t realize how huge it was. There are massive stained-glass windows and ancient stone statues, and an orchestra is playing in the gallery, amplified over the roar of chatter. People in evening dress are milling and chatting and collecting food from a buffet, and some are even dancing old-fashioned waltzes, like something out of a film. I look around, trying to spot Luke or Venetia, but the room is so busy with women in beautiful dresses, and men in black tie, and even a few particularly dashing men in tails….
And then I see them. Dancing together.
Luke was right, he does waltz as well as Fred Astaire. He’s skimming Venetia around the floor like an expert. Her skirt is twirling, and her head is thrown back as she smiles up at Luke. They’re perfectly in time with each other. The most glamorous couple in the room.
I’m rooted to the spot as I watch them, my kaftan clinging damply to my shins. All the sarcastic, feisty phrases I prepared have shriveled on my lips. I’m not sure I can breathe, let alone speak.
“Are you all right?” A waiter is addressing me, but his voice seems to be coming from miles away and his face is out of focus.
I never once waltzed with Luke. And now it’s too late.
“She’s falling!” I can feel hands grabbing at me as my legs give way beneath me. My arm bashes against something and there’s a ringing in my ears and the sound of a woman shouting “Get some water! There’s a pregnant woman here!”
And then everything goes dark.
SIXTEEN
I THOUGHT MARRIAGE was forever. I really did. I thought Luke and I would grow old and gray together. Or at least old. (I’m not intending to go gray, ever. Or wear those gross dresses with elastic waistbands.)
But we’re not going to grow old together. We’re not going to sit on benches together, or watch our grandchildren play. I’m not even going to make it past thirty with him. Our marriage has failed.
Every time I try to speak I think I’ll cry, so I’m not really speaking. Luckily there’s no one here to speak to. I’m in a private room at the Cavendish Hospital, which is where they brought me last night. If you want attention at a hospital, just arrive with a celebrity doctor in black tie. I’ve never seen so many nurses running around. First they thought I might be in labor, and then they thought I might have preeclampsia, but in the end they decided I was just a bit overtired and dehydrated. So they put me in this bed, with a saline drip. I should be going home today, after I’ve been checked out.
Luke stayed with me all night too. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him. So I pretended I was asleep, even this morning when he quietly said, “Becky? Are you awake?”
Now he’s gone off to take a shower and I’ve opened my eyes. It’s a really nice room, with soft green walls and even a little sofa. But who cares, when my life is over? What does anything matter anymore?
I know two out of three marriages fail, or whatever it is. But I honestly thought…
I thought we were…
Roughly, I brush a tear away. I’m not going to cry.
“Hello?” The door opens and a nurse pushes in a trolley. “Breakfast?”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice croaky, and I sit up as she plumps my pillows around me. I take a sip of tea and eat a piece of toast, just so the baby has something to keep it going. Then I check my reflection in my compact mirror. God, I look like crap. I’ve still got on the remnants of last night’s makeup, and my hair has frizzed from the rain. And the so-called “hydrating” drip has done nothing for my skin.
I look like a reject.
I gaze at myself, feeling bitter. It’s what happens to everyone. You get married and you think everything’s great, but all the time your husband was having an affair and then he leaves you for another woman with red swishy hair. I should have seen it coming. I never should have relaxed.
I gave that man the best years of my life, and now I’m tossed aside for a newer model.
Well, OK, I gave him a year and a half of my life. And she’s older than me. But still.
There’s another movement at the door and I stiffen. A moment later it opens and Luke cautiously makes his way in. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, I notice, and he’s cut himself shaving.
Good. I’m glad he did.
“You’re awake!” he says. “How are you feeling?”
I nod, clamping my lips together. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. I’m going to keep my dignity, even if it means I can only talk in monosyllables.
“You look better.” He sits down on the bed. “I was worried abo
ut you.”
Again I hear Venetia’s cool, assured voice: Luke’s just playing along to keep you happy. I look up and meet his gaze, willing him to give himself away, searching for some chink in his façade. But he’s putting on the best act I’ve ever seen. A concerned, loving husband at his wife’s bedside.
I’ve always known Luke was good at PR. It’s his job. It’s made him a millionaire. But I never realized he could be this good. I never knew he could be this…double-faced.
“Becky?” Now he’s searching my face. “Is everything OK?”
“No. It’s not.” There’s silence as I summon up all my strength. “Luke…I know.”
“You know?” Luke’s tone is easy but at once there’s a guarded look in his eyes. “Know what?”
“Don’t pretend, OK?” I swallow hard. “Venetia told me. She told me what’s been going on.”
“She told you?” Luke gets to his feet, his face aghast. “She had no right—” He breaks off and turns away. And I feel a sickening thud deep inside me. Everything is suddenly hurting. My head, my eyes, my limbs.
I hadn’t realized how hard I was clinging to a last shred of hope. That somehow Luke would sweep me up in his arms, explain everything away, and tell me he loved me. But the shred’s melted away. It’s all over.
“Maybe she thought I ought to know.” Somehow I muster tones of cutting sarcasm. “Maybe she thought I’d be interested!”
“Becky…I was trying to protect you.” Luke turns, and he looks genuinely miserable. “The baby. Your blood pressure.”
“So, when were you planning to tell me?”
“I don’t know.” Luke exhales, pacing to the window and back again. “After the baby. I was going to see how things…played out.”
“I see.”
Suddenly I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be dignified and grown-up. I want to yell and scream at him. I want to burst into sobs and throw things.
“Luke, please…just go.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about this. I’m tired.”
“Right.” He doesn’t move an inch. “Becky…”
“What?”
Luke rubs his face hard, as though trying to scrub away his problems. “I’m supposed to be going to Geneva. The De Savatier Investment Fund launch. It could not have come at a worst time. I can cancel….”
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
“Becky…”
“Go to Geneva.” I turn away and stare at the green hospital wall.
“We have to talk about this,” he perseveres. “I have to explain.”
No. No no no. I’m not listening to him tell me all about how he fell for Venetia, and he never meant to hurt me but he just couldn’t help himself, and he still sees me as a good friend.
I’d rather not know anything about it, ever.
“Luke, just leave me alone!” I spit it out without turning my head. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. And anyway, I’m supposed to stay calm for the baby. You’re not supposed to upset me.”
“Right. Fine. Well, I’ll go then.”
Luke sounds pretty upset himself now. Well, tough luck.
I’m aware of him walking across the room, his tread slow and reluctant.
“My mother’s in town,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’ve told her to leave you alone.”
“Fine,” I mumble into the pillow.
“I’ll see you when I get back. Should be around Friday lunchtime. OK?”
I don’t respond. What does he mean, he’ll see me? When he comes round to move all his stuff into Venetia’s flat? When he summons a meeting with his divorce lawyers?
There’s a long silence and I know Luke’s still there, waiting. But then, at last, I hear the door open and close, and the faint sound of his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
I wait ten minutes before I lift my head. I feel surreal and kind of blurry, as though I’m in the middle of a dream. I can’t quite believe this is all really happening. I’m eight months pregnant and Luke’s having an affair with our obstetrician and our marriage is over.
Our marriage is over. I repeat the words to myself, but they don’t ring true. I can’t make them register. It seems only five minutes ago that we were on honeymoon, blissfully lazing on the beach. That we were dancing at our wedding in Mum’s back garden, me in Mum’s old frilly wedding dress and a lopsided flower garland. That a whole press conference was stopping still for him to pass me a twenty-quid note so I could buy a Denny and George scarf. Back in the days when I barely knew him, when he was the sexy mysterious Luke Brandon and I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.
I feel a wrenching pain deep inside, and all of a sudden tears are spilling onto my cheeks, and I’m burying my sobbing head in the sheets. How can he leave me? Hasn’t he enjoyed being married to me? Haven’t we had fun together?
Before I can stop it, Venetia’s voice slides into my head. You were a refreshing change, Becky. You make him laugh. But you’re hardly on the same level.
Stupid…stupid…cow. Bitch. Skinny…horrible…pretentious…
I wipe my eyes and sit up and take three long breaths. I’m not going to think about her. Or any of it.
There’s a knocking at the door. “Mrs. Brandon?” It sounds like one of the nurses.
“Er…hang on….” I hastily splash some water onto my face from my drinking jug, and wipe it with the sheet. “Yes?”
The door opens and the pretty nurse who brought me my breakfast smiles at me. “You have a visitor.”
My mind leaps in one joyous bound to Luke. He’s come back, he’s sorry, it was all a mistake….
“Who is it?” I grab my compact from the cabinet, grimace at my reflection, and tug at my frizzy hair.
“A Mrs. Sherman?”
I nearly drop the compact in dismay. Elinor? Elinor’s here ? I thought Luke told her to leave me alone.
I haven’t seen Elinor since our wedding in New York. Or at least…our “wedding” in New York.(It was all a bit complicated in the end.) We’ve never really got on, mainly on account of her being a snobby, ice-cold bitch, who abandoned Luke when he was tiny and totally screwed him up. And the way she was rude to Mum. And the way she didn’t let me into my own bloody engagement party! And—
“Are you OK, Rebecca?” The nurse looks at me in slight alarm, and I realize I’m breathing harder and harder. “I can tell her you’re asleep if you like.”
“Yes, please. Tell her to go away.”
I’m in no state to see anyone right now. Not with my face all pink and my eyes still teary. And why should I make any effort to see Elinor? Surely the only advantage of splitting up with your husband is that you don’t need to see your mother-in-law anymore. I won’t miss her, and she won’t miss me.
“Fine.” The nurse comes over and squints at my drip. “A doctor will be along soon to check you over, then I should think you’ll be going home. Should I tell Mrs. Sherman that you’ll be leaving?”
“Actually…”
A new thought has just struck me. There’s an even bigger advantage to splitting up with your husband. You don’t have to be polite to your mother-in-law anymore.
I can say what I like to Elinor. I can be as rude as I like. For the first time in days, I feel a streak of cheer.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see her after all. Just let me get ready….” I reach for my makeup bag and clumsily knock it to the floor. The nurse picks it up and gives me an anxious look.
“Are you OK? You seem very on edge.”
“I’m fine. I was just a bit…upset earlier. I’ll be fine.”
The nurse disappears, and I open my makeup bag. I dab on some eye gel and brush myself with bronzer. I am not going to look like a victim here. I’m not going to look like some poor pathetic wronged wife. I have no idea what Elinor knows, but if she even mentions Luke and me splitting up, or dares to look pleased about it, I’ll…I’ll tell her the baby isn’t Luke’s, that it was fathered by my prison penpal Wayne
and the whole scandal’s going to hit the papers tomorrow. That’ll freak her out.
I spray myself with perfume and quickly slick on some lip gloss as I hear footsteps approaching. There’s a knock at the door and I call, “Come in.” A moment later it swings open—and there she is.
She’s wearing a mint-green suit and the same Ferragamo pumps she buys every season, and she’s carrying a crocodile Kelly bag. She’s thinner than ever, her hair a lacquered helmet, her face pale and stretched-looking. Which figures. When I worked in Barneys in New York, I saw women like Elinor every single day. But over here she looks…Well, there’s no other word for it: weird.
Her mouth moves a millimeter, and I realize this is her greeting. “Hi, Elinor.” I don’t bother trying to smile. She’ll just assume I’ve had Botox too. “Welcome to London.”
“London is so tawdry these days,” she says with disapproval. “So tasteless.”
She’s just unbelievable. The whole of London is tasteless?
“Yeah, especially the Queen,” I say. “She has no idea.”
Ignoring me, Elinor stalks to a chair and sits down on the edge of it. She surveys me stonily for a few moments. “I gather you left the doctor I recommended, Rebecca. Who are you seeing now?”
“Her name’s…Venetia Carter.” I feel a knife of pain as I say the name. But Elinor doesn’t react a smidgen. She can’t know.
“Have you seen Luke?” I venture.
“Not yet.” She pulls off a pair of calfskin gloves and runs her eyes over my hospital-gowned frame. “You’ve put on a lot of weight, Rebecca. Does this new doctor approve?”
You see? This is what she’s like. Not “How are you?” or “Don’t you look blooming?”
“I’m pregnant,” I snap. “And I’m having a big baby.”
Elinor’s expression doesn’t soften. “Not too large, I hope. Oversize babies are vulgar.”
Vulgar ? How dare she call my lovely baby vulgar?
“Yes, well, I’m glad it’s going to be big,” I say in defiance. “That way there’ll be more room for…the tattoos.”
I can just about see a jolt of shock pass across her practically immobile face. That’ll bust her stitches. Or staples. Whatever’s holding her together.