Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4)

Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) Page 60

“I take it we’ll decline,” Gary adds.

Decline? My head jerks up.

“Can you think what it would do to our reputation?” Luke says with a short laugh. “Turn down the job. But tactfully,” he adds with a frown. “If he’s buying the Daily World, we don’t want to offend him.”

“Don’t decline!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Both men turn to me in surprise, and I force a lighthearted laugh. “I mean… shouldn’t you look at both sides of the argument? Before you make your decision.”

“Becky, as far as I’m concerned there is only one argument,” says Luke crisply. “Nathan Temple is not the sort of character I want associated with my company.” He opens his menu. “We should order.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit judgmental?” I say desperately. “ ‘Cast not the first clout’ and all that.”

“What?” Luke sounds astonished.

“It’s in the Bible!”

Luke gives me a look.

“Do you mean stone?” he says.

“Er…”

Oh. Maybe he’s right. But stone… clout… what’s the difference?

“The point is—” I begin.

“The point is,” Luke interrupts, “Brandon Communications does not want to be associated with someone who has a criminal record. Let alone the rest of it.”

“But that’s so… narrow-minded! Most people have probably got a criminal record these days!” I gesture widely with my arms. “I mean, who sitting round this table does not have some kind of criminal record?”

There’s a short silence.

“Well,” says Luke. “I don’t. Gary doesn’t. You don’t.”

I look at him, taken aback. I suppose he’s right. I don’t.

That’s quite a surprise, actually. I’d always thought of myself as living on the edge.

“Even so—”

“Becky, what’s brought this on, anyway?” Luke frowns. “Why are you so obsessed with Nathan Temple?”

“I’m not obsessed!” I say hurriedly. “I’m just… interested in your clients. And prospective clients.”

“Well, he’s not my client. Nor my prospective client,” says Luke with finality. “And neither will he ever be.”

“Right. Well… that’s pretty clear.”

We all study our menus. At least, the other two are studying their menus. I’m pretending to study mine, while my mind goes skittering round and round.

So I can’t persuade Luke. So I’ll just have to manage the situation. This is what supportive wives do. They deal with problems discreetly and efficiently. I bet Hillary Clinton’s done this kind of thing millions of times.

It’ll be fine. I’ll simply phone up Nathan Temple, thank him for his kind offer, and say that, unfortunately, Luke’s really, really busy—

No. I’ll say he tried to call but no one answered…

“Becky? Are you OK?”

I look up to see both men looking at me with concern. Abruptly I realize I’m tapping the table harder and harder with one of Gary’s pencils.

“I’m great!” I say, and quickly put it down.

OK. I have a plan. What I will do is… I will say that Luke is ill.

Yes. No one can argue with that.

So as soon as we get home and Luke is closeted with Gary in the study, I hurry to the phone in our bedroom. I kick the bedroom door shut and quickly dial the number Nathan Temple gave me. To my huge relief, it clicks straight into voice mail.

And now that I’m listening properly, he sounds exactly like a motel king with a criminal past. Why on earth didn’t I hear it before? I must be deaf or something!

The beep goes, and I jump in fright.

“Hi!” I say, trying to keep my voice light and easy. “This is a message for Mr. Temple. It’s Becky Brandon here. Er… I told my husband all about your hotel, and he thought it sounded fab! But I’m afraid he’s not very well at the moment. So he won’t be able to do the launch after all. Which is a real shame! Anyway, I hope you find someone else! Bye!”

I put the phone down and sink onto the bed, my heart thumping. All this stress is going to give me a heart attack. Maybe I should try some of my yoga exercises from Sri Lanka. I cross my legs and close my eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out. I am a radiant being of white light. My body is a temple.

Temple. Oh God…

“Becky?” Luke opens the door, and I nearly fall off the bed in terror.

“What? What is it?”