He looks as grim as I feel—and for the first time this morning I feel tears pricking at my eyes.
“I know,” I say shakily. “It's awful. They must have been following me. They must have been there all along, watching me, spying on me . . .” I look at him for a response, but he's just staring straight ahead. “Luke, don't you have anything to say? Do you realize—”
“Becky, do you realize?” he interrupts. He turns toward me—and at his expression I feel the blood draining from my face. “Do you realize quite how bad this is for me?”
“I'm really sorry,” I gulp. “I know you hate being in the paper . . .”
“It's not a bloody question of—” He stops himself, and says more calmly, “Becky, do you realize how this is going to make me look? Today of all fucking days?”
“I . . . I didn't . . .” I whisper.
“I have to go into a meeting in an hour's time and convince a stuffy, conservative New York investment bank that I'm fully in control of every aspect of my business and personal life. They'll all have seen this. I'll be a joke!”
“But of course you're in control!” I say in alarm. “Luke, surely they'll realize . . . surely they won't—”
“Listen,” says Luke, turning round. “Do you know what the perception of me is in this city? The general perception here—for some inexplicable reason—is that I'm losing my touch.”
“Losing your touch?” I echo in horror.
“That's what I've heard.” Luke takes a deep, controlled breath. “What I've been doing over the last few days is working my fucking arse off to convince these people that their perception is wrong. That I'm on top of it. That I have the media taped. And now . . .” He hits the paper sharply and I wince.
“Maybe . . . maybe they won't have seen it.”
“Becky, they see everything,” says Luke. “That's their job. That's—”
He breaks off as the phone rings. After a pause, he picks it up.
“Hi, Michael. Ah. You've seen it. Yes, I know. Unfortunate timing. All right. See you in a sec.” He puts down the phone and reaches for his briefcase, without looking at me.
I feel cold and shivery. What have I done? I've wrecked everything. Phrases from the article keep popping into my mind, making me feel sick. Feckless Becky . . . hypocritical Becky . . . And they're right. They're all right.
When I look up, Luke's closing his briefcase with a snap.
“I have to go,” he says. “I'll see you later.” At the door he hesitates, and turns round, looking suddenly confused. “But I don't understand. If you weren't at the Guggenheim—where did you get the book you gave me?”
“At the museum shop,” I whisper. “On Broadway.”
“But the sparkle stuff on your face. You said it was—”
“I . . . I had a makeover. Luke, I'm so sorry . . . I . . .”
I tail away into a hideous silence. I can feel my heart thumping, the blood pulsing in my ears. I don't know what to say, how to redeem myself.
Luke stares at me blankly, then gives a brief nod, turns, and reaches for the door handle.
When the door has closed behind him, I sit quite still for a while, staring straight ahead. I can't quite believe all this is really happening. Just a few hours ago we were toasting each other with Bellinis. I was wearing my Vera Wang dress and we were dancing to Cole Porter and I was giddy with happiness. And now . . .
The phone starts to ring, but I don't move. Only on the eighth ring do I stir myself and pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello!” says a bright voice. “Is that Becky Bloomwood?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“Becky, it's Fiona Taggart from the Daily Herald. I'm so glad I've tracked you down! Becky, we'd be really interested in running a two-part feature on you and your . . . little problem, shall we call it?”
“I don't want to talk about it,” I mutter.
“Do you deny it, then?”
“No comment,” I say, and thrust the phone down with a trembling hand. Immediately it rings again, and I pick it up.
“No comment, all right?” I exclaim. “No comment! No—”
“Becky? Darling?”
“Mum!” At the sound of her voice I feel myself dissolving into tears. “Oh, Mum, I'm so sorry,” I gulp. “It's so awful. I've messed everything up. I just didn't know . . . I didn't realize . . .”
“Becky!” comes her voice down the line, familiar and reassuring. “Love! You don't have to be sorry! It's those scumbag reporters who should be sorry. Making up all those stories. Putting words in people's mouths. Poor Suzie phoned us up, very upset. You know, she gave that girl three bourbon biscuits and a KitKat, and this is the thanks she gets. A load of outlandish lies! I mean, pretending to be from the council tax. They should be prosecuted!”
“Mum . . .” I close my eyes, almost unable to say it. “It's not all lies. They . . . they didn't make everything up.” There's a short silence, and I can hear Mum breathing anxiously down the line. “I am kind of in a . . . a bit of debt.”
“Well,” says Mum after a pause—and I can hear her gearing herself up to be positive. “Well. So what? Even if you are, is it any of their business?” She pauses, and I hear a voice in the background. “Exactly! Dad says, ‘if the American economy can be in debt by billions and still survive, then so can you.' ”
God, I love my parents. If I told them I'd committed murder they'd soon find some reason why the victim had it coming to him.
“I suppose so,” I gulp. “But it's Luke's big meeting today, and all his investors will have seen it . . .”
“So what? There's no such thing as bad publicity. Now you keep your chin up, Becky! Best foot forward. Suzie told us you've got a screen test today. Is that right?”
“Yes. I just don't know what time. The producer's supposed to call me.”
“Well, then. You put a nice brave face on. Run yourself a bath and have a nice cup of tea and put three sugars in it. And a brandy, Dad says. And if any reporters ring up, just tell them to get lost.”
“Have you had any reporters bothering you?” I say in alarm.
“A chap came round asking questions this morning,” says Mum breezily. “But Dad went for him with the hedge trimmer.”
In spite of myself I giggle.
“I'd better go, Mum. But I'll call you later. And . . . thanks.”
As I put down the phone, I feel a million times better. Mum's right. I've just got to be positive and go to my screen test and do as well as I possibly can. And Luke probably did overreact a little bit. He'll probably come back in a much better mood.
I ring up the hotel reception and tell them to hold all calls except from HLBC. Then I run my bath, empty a whole bottle of Uplift bath oil from Sephora into it, and wallow for half an hour in rose geranium. As I dry myself I put on MTV and dance around the room to Janet Jackson—and by the time I'm dressed in my knock-'em-dead outfit from Barneys I'm feeling pretty positive, if a little wobbly around the knees. I can do this. I can.
They haven't called yet, so I pick up the phone and ring down to reception.
“Hi,” I say. “Just checking if HLBC have called for me this morning.”
“I don't believe so,” says the girl pleasantly.
“Are you sure? They didn't leave a message?”
“No, ma'am.”
“OK. Thanks.”
I put the phone down and think for a few moments. Well—that's all right, I'll just call them. I mean, I need to know what time the test is, don't I? And Kent told me to call her anytime, whatever I needed. She said, don't even hesitate.
I take her business card out of my bag and carefully punch in the number.
“Hello!” says a bright voice. “Kent Garland's office, this is her assistant, Megan. How can I help you?”
“Hello!” I say. “It's Rebecca Bloomwood here. Could I speak to Kent, please?”
“Kent's in a meeting right now,” says Megan pleasantly. “Could I take a message?”
 
; “Well, I'm just phoning to see what time my screen test is today,” I say. And just saying it gives me a surge of confidence. Who cares about the crappy Daily World, anyway? I'm going to be on American television. I'm going to be a huge celebrity.
“I see,” says Megan. “Rebecca, if you could just hold on a moment . . .”
She puts me on hold, and I find myself listening to a tinny version of “Heard It through the Grapevine.” It comes to an end, and a voice tells me how important my call is to the HLBC Corporation . . . and then it starts again . . . when suddenly Megan is back.
“Hi, Rebecca? I'm afraid Kent's going to have to postpone the screen test. She'll give you a call if she wants to rearrange.”
“What?” I say, staring blankly at my made-up face in the mirror. “Postpone? But . . . why? Do you know when it'll be rescheduled?”
“I'm not sure,” says Megan pleasantly. “Kent's very busy right now with the new series of Consumer Today.”
“But . . . but that's what the screen test is for! The new series of Consumer Today!” I take a deep breath, trying not to sound too anxious. “Do you know when she'll rearrange it for?”
“I really couldn't say. Her diary's very full at the moment . . . and then she has a two-week vacation . . .”
“Listen,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I'd really like to talk to Kent, please. It's quite important. Couldn't you get her for me? Just for a second.”
There's a pause—then Megan sighs.
“I'll see if I can fetch her.”
The tinny song begins again—then suddenly Kent is on the line.
“Hi, Becky. How are you?”
“Hi!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “I'm fine. I just thought I'd see what was happening today. About the screen test?”
“Right,” says Kent thoughtfully. “Tell the truth, Becky, a couple of issues have come up, which we need to think about. OK? So we'll be passing on the screen test until we're a little more decided about things.”
Suddenly I feel paralyzed by fear. Oh, please, no.
She's seen The Daily World, hasn't she? That's what she's talking about. I clutch the receiver tightly, my heart thudding, desperately wanting to explain it all; wanting to tell her that it all sounds far worse than it really is. That half of it isn't even true; that it doesn't mean I'm not good at what I do . . .
But I just can't bring myself to. I can't bring myself even to mention it.
“So we'll be in touch,” Kent says. “Apologies for putting you out today—I was going to have Megan call you later . . .”
“That's all right!” I say, trying to sound bright and easy. “So . . . when do you think we might reschedule?”
“I'm really not sure . . . Sorry, Becky. I'm going to have to run. There's a problem on the set. But thanks for calling. And enjoy the rest of your trip!”
The phone goes silent and I slowly put it down.
I'm not having my screen test. They don't want me, after all.
And I bought a new outfit and everything.
I can feel my breath coming quicker and quicker—and for an awful moment I think I might cry.
But then I think of Mum—and force myself to lift my chin. I'm not going to let myself collapse. I'm going to be strong and positive. HLBC aren't the only fish in the sea. There are plenty of other people who want to snap me up. Plenty! I mean, look at . . . look at Greg Walters. He said he wanted me to meet his head of development, didn't he? Well, maybe we can fix something up for today. Yes! Perhaps by the end of today, I'll have my own show!
Quickly I find the number and dial it with trembling hands—and to my joy, I get straight through. This is more like it. Straight to the top.
“Hi, Greg? It's Becky Bloomwood here.”
“Becky! Great to hear from you!” says Greg, sounding a little distracted. “How're you doing?”
“Erm . . . fine! It was really nice to meet you yesterday,” I say, aware that my voice is shrill with nerves. “And I was very interested in all your ideas.”
“Well, that's great! So—are you enjoying your trip?”
“Yes! Yes, I am.” I take a deep breath. “Greg, you were saying yesterday that I should meet up with your head of development—”
“Absolutely!” says Greg. “I know Dave would adore to meet you. We both think you have huge potential. Huge.”
Relief floods over me. Thank God. Thank—
“So next time you're in town,” Greg is saying, “you give me a call, and we'll set something up.”
I stare at the phone, prickly with shock. Next time I'm in town? But that could be months. It could be never. Doesn't he want to—
“Promise you'll do that?”
“Erm . . . OK,” I say, trying to keep the thickening dismay out of my voice. “That would be great!”
“And maybe we'll meet up when I next come over to London.”
“OK!” I say brightly. “I hope so. Well . . . see you soon. And good to meet you!”
“Great to meet you too, Becky!”
I'm still smiling my bright fake smile as the phone goes dead. And this time I just can't stop the tears from gathering in my eyes and dripping slowly down my face, taking my makeup with them.
I sit alone in the hotel room for hours. Lunchtime comes and goes, but I can't face any food. The only positive thing I do is listen to the messages on the phone and delete them all except one from Mum, which I listen to over and over again. It's the one she must have left as soon as she got The Daily World.
“Now,” she's saying. “There's a bit of fuss here over a silly article in the paper. Don't take any notice of it, Becky. Just remember, that picture will be going in a million dog baskets tomorrow.”
For some reason that makes me laugh each time I hear it. So I sit there, half-crying, half-laughing, letting a pool of wet tears gather on my skirt and not even bothering to wipe it away.
I want to go home. For what seems like an eternity I sit on the floor, rocking backward and forward, letting my thoughts circle round and round. Going over the same ground over and over again. How could I have been so stupid? What am I going to do now? How can I face anyone, ever again?
I feel as though I've been on a crazy roller coaster ever since I got to New York. Like some sort of magical Disney ride—except instead of whizzing through space, I've been whizzing through shops and hotels and interviews and lunches, surrounded by light and glitter and voices telling me I'm the next big thing.
And I believed every moment of it. I had no idea it wasn't real.
When, at long last, I hear the door opening, I feel almost sick with relief. I have a desperate urge to go and throw myself into Luke's arms, burst into tears, and listen to him tell me it's all right. But as he comes in, I feel my whole body contract in fear. His expression is taut and set; he looks as though his face is carved out of stone.
“Hi,” I say at last. “I . . . I wondered where you were.”
“I had lunch with Michael,” says Luke shortly. “After the meeting.” He takes off his coat and puts it carefully onto a hanger while I watch fearfully.
“So . . .” I hardly dare ask the question. “Did it go well?”
“Not particularly well, no.”
My stomach gives a nervous flip. What does that mean? Surely . . . surely it can't be . . .
“Is it . . . off?” I manage at last.
“Good question,” says Luke. “The people from JD Slade say they need more time.”
“Why do they need time?” I say, licking my dry lips.
“They have a few reservations,” says Luke evenly. “They didn't specify exactly what those reservations were.”
He pulls off his tie roughly and starts to unbutton his shirt. He's not even looking at me. It's as though he can't bring himself to see my face.
“Do you . . .” I swallow. “Do you think they'd seen the piece?”
“Oh, I think so,” says Luke. There's an edge to his voice which makes me flinch. “Yes, I'm pretty sure they'd seen it.
”
He's fumbling over the last shirt button. Suddenly, in irritation, he rips it off.
“Luke,” I say helplessly. “I'm . . . I'm so sorry. I . . . I don't know what I can do.” I take a deep breath. “I'll do anything I can.”
“There's nothing,” says Luke flatly.
He heads into the bathroom and after a few moments I hear the sound of the shower. I don't move. I can't even think. I feel paralyzed, as though I'm crouching on a ledge, trying not to slip.
Eventually Luke comes out and, without even acknowledging me, pulls on a pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck. He pours himself a drink and there's silence. Outside the window I can see right across Manhattan. The air is turning dusky and lights are coming on in windows everywhere, right into the distance. But I feel as though the world has shrunk to this room, these four walls. I haven't been out all day, I abruptly realize.
“I didn't have my screen test, either,” I say at last.
“Really.” Luke's voice is flat and uninterested, and in spite of myself, I feel a faint spark of resentment.
“Don't you even want to know why?” I say, tugging at the fringe of a cushion.
There's a pause—then Luke says, as though with tremendous effort, “Why?”
“Because no one's interested in me anymore.” I push my hair back off my head. “You're not the only one who's had a bad day, Luke. I've wrecked all my chances. No one wants to know me anymore.”
Humiliation creeps over me as I remember all the telephone messages I had to listen to this morning, politely canceling meetings and calling off lunches.
“And I know it's all my own fault,” I continue. “I know that. But even so . . .” My voice starts to wobble treacherously, and I take a deep breath. “Things really aren't great for me either.” I look up—but Luke hasn't moved an inch. “You could . . . you could show a little sympathy.”
“Show a little sympathy,” echoes Luke evenly.
“I know I brought it on myself . . .”
“That's right! You did!” Luke's voice explodes in pent-up frustration, and at last he turns to face me. “Becky, no one forced you to go and spend that money! I mean, I know you like shopping. But for Christ's sake. To spend like this . . . It's bloody irresponsible. Couldn't you have stopped yourself?”