Shopaholic & Baby (Shopaholic #5)

Shopaholic & Baby (Shopaholic #5) Page 100

I’ll just put a dash, like they used to in old-fashioned books.

I know you’ve had an——. But it doesn’t have to ruin everything. I’m prepared to put the past behind us, Luke, because I believe above anything else that we belong together. You, me, and the baby.

We can be a happy family. I know we can. Please don’t give up on us. Maybe you’re secretly scared of parenthood, but we can do it together! Like you said, it’s the biggest adventure we’ll ever have.

I break off from writing to wipe my eyes. I need to finish this now. I need some way for him to show me…to answer…to let me know…

Suddenly it comes to me. We need a great big tall tower, just like in romantic movies. And we’ll meet at the top at midnight….

No. I get too tired by midnight. We’ll meet at the top at…six o’clock. The wind will be blowing and Gershwin will be playing and I’ll see from his eyes that he’s put Venetia behind him forever. And I’ll say simply, “Are you coming home?” And he’ll say—

“Are you OK, Becky?” The nurse pops her head round the door. “How’s it going?”

“Nearly finished.” I blow my nose. “Where’s a tall tower in London? If I wanted to meet someone.”

“Dunno.” The nurse wrinkles her nose. “The Oxo Tower’s pretty tall. I went there the other day. They’ve got a viewing platform and a restaurant….”

“Thanks!”

Luke, if you love me and want to save our marriage, meet me at the top of the Oxo Tower at six o’clock on Friday. I will be waiting at the viewing platform.

Your loving wife,

Becky.

I put my pen down, feeling totally drained, as though I’ve just composed a Beethoven symphony. All I have to do now is FedEx the letter to his Geneva office…and then just wait till Friday night.

I fold the seventeen pages in half, and am trying unsuccessfully to cram them into the matching Basildon Bond envelope, when my mobile rings on the cabinet.

Luke! Oh my God. But he hasn’t read the letter yet!

With trembling hands I grab the phone, but it’s not Luke after all. It’s a number I don’t recognize. It isn’t Elinor calling to lecture me, is it?

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Hello, Becky? It’s Martha here.”

“Oh.” I push my hair back off my face, trying to place the name. “Er…hi.”

“Just checking you’re still all set for the shoot on Friday?” she says chattily. “I can’t wait to see your house!”

Vogue. Shit. I’d totally forgotten about it.

How could I forget about a Vogue photo shoot? God, my life must really be in pieces.

“So, is everything OK?” Martha’s voice is trilling gaily down the phone. “You haven’t had the baby yet, or anything?”

“Well, no…” I hesitate. “But I am in hospital.” As I say the words I realize I shouldn’t really have my mobile on in a hospital. But this is Vogue on the phone. There must be an exemption for Vogue, surely.

“Oh no!” Her voice falls in dismay. “You know, we’re having such bad luck with this piece! One of the yummy mummies had her twins early, which was really annoying, and the other has had pre-eclampy-something and is on bed rest! We can’t do the interview or anything! Are you on bed rest?”

“I…hang on a minute….”

I put the phone down on the bed, trying to galvanize my spirits. I have never felt less like having my picture taken in my life. I’m fat, I’m tear-stained, my hair is terrible, my marriage is crumbling away…. I give a deep, shuddery sigh, and then catch sight of my blurry reflection in a nearby glass-fronted cupboard. Hunched over, head drooping. I look defeated. I look awful.

In an immediate reflex action I sit up straighter. What am I saying? Is my life over too? Just because my husband had an affair?

No way. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I’m not going to give up. Maybe my life is in pieces. But I can still be yummy. I’ll be the yummiest bloody mummy-to-be they’ve ever seen.

I lift the phone to my ear again. “Hi, Martha?” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Sorry about that. It’s all fine for the shoot on Friday. I’m coming out of hospital today, so I’ll be there!”

“Great!” I can hear the relief in Martha’s voice. “Can’t wait! It’ll only take two or three hours, and I promise we won’t exhaust you! I’m sure you have lots of lovely clothes, but our stylist will bring along some pieces too…. Now let me just check your address. You live at thirty-three Delamain Road?”