“I can’t go, Suze,” I say, thrusting the letter down. “I’ve. . I’ve got plans that night.”
“But what about poor Tarkie?” says Suze, crestfallen. “He’s so keen on you. .”
“I know,” I say, and take a deep breath. “But I’m not keen on him. I’m really sorry, Suze. . but that’s the truth. If I could change the way I felt. .”
There’s a short silence.
“Oh well,” says Suze at last. “Never mind. You can’t help it.” She disappears into the kitchen and emerges a minute later with two mugs of coffee. “So,” she says, handing me one, “what are you up to tonight? Shall we go out together?”
“Sorry, I can’t,” I say, and clear my throat. “I’ve got a business meeting.”
“Really?” Suze pulls a face. “What a bummer!” She sips at her coffee and leans against the door frame. “Who on earth has business meetings in the evening, anyway?”
“It’s. . it’s with Luke Brandon,” I say, trying to sound unconcerned. But it’s no good, I can feel myself starting to blush.
“Luke Brandon?” says Suze puzzledly. “But what—” She stares at me, and her expression slowly changes. “Oh no. Bex! Don’t tell me. .”
“It’s just a business meeting,” I say, avoiding her eye. “That’s all. Two businesspeople meeting up and talking about business. In a. . in a business situation. That’s all.”
And I hurry off to my room.
Business meeting. Clothes for a business meeting. OK, let’s have a look.
I pull all my outfits out of the wardrobe and lay them on the bed. Blue suit, black suit, pink suit. Hopeless. Pinstriped suit? Hmm. Maybe overdoing it. Cream suit. . too weddingy. Green suit. . isn’t that bad luck or something?
“So what are you going to wear?” says Suze, looking in through my open bedroom door. “Are you going to buy something new?” Her face lights up. “Hey, shall we go shopping?”
“Shopping?” I say distractedly. “Ahm. . maybe.”
Somehow today. . Oh, I don’t know. I almost feel too tense to go shopping. Too keyed up. I don’t think I’d be able to give it my full attention.
“Bex, did you hear me?” says Suze in surprise. “I said, shall we go shopping?”
“Yes, I know.” I glance up at her, then reach for a black top and look at it critically. “Actually, I think I’ll take a rain check.”
“You mean. .” Suze pauses. “You mean you don’t want to go shopping?”
“Exactly.”
There’s silence, and I look up, to see Suze staring at me.
“I don’t understand,” she says, and she sounds quite upset. “Why are you being all weird?”
“I’m not being weird!” I give a little shrug. “I just don’t feel like shopping.”
“Oh God, there’s something wrong, isn’t there?” wails Suze. “I knew it. Maybe you’re really ill.” She hurries into the room and reaches for my head. “Have you got a temperature? Does anything hurt?”
“No!” I say, laughing. “Of course not!”
“Have you had a bump on the head?” She wiggles her hand in front of my face. “How many fingers?”
“Suze, I’m fine,” I say, thrusting her hand aside. “Honestly. I’m just. . not in a shopping mood.” I hold a gray suit up against myself. “What do you think of this?”
“Honestly, Bex, I’m worried about you,” says Suze, shaking her head. “I think you should get yourself checked out. You’re so. . different. It’s frightening.”
“Yes, well.” I reach for a white shirt and smile at her. “Maybe I’ve changed.”
It takes me all afternoon to decide on an outfit. There’s a lot of trying on, and mixing and matching, and suddenly remembering things at the back of my wardrobe. (I must wear those purple jeans sometime.) But eventually I go for simple and straightforward. My nicest black suit (Jigsaw sale, two years ago), a white T-shirt (M&S), and knee-high black suede boots (Dolce & Gabbana, but I told Mum they were from BHS. Which was a mistake, because then she wanted to get some for herself, and I had to pretend they’d all sold out). I put it all on, screw my hair up into a knot, and stare at myself in the mirror.
“Very nice,” says Suze admiringly from the door. “Very sexy.”
“Sexy?” I feel a pang of dismay. “I’m not going for sexy! I’m going for businesslike.”
“Can’t you be both at once?” suggests Suze. “Businesslike and sexy?”
“I. . no,” I say after a pause, and look away. “No, I don’t want to.”
I don’t want Luke Brandon to think I’ve dressed up for him, is what I really mean. I don’t want to give him the slightest chance to think I’ve misconstrued what this meeting is about. Not like last time.
With no warning, a surge of fresh humiliation goes through my body as I remember that awful moment in Harvey Nichols. I shake my head hard, trying to clear it; trying to calm myself. Why the hell did I agree to this bloody dinner, anyway?
“I just want to look as serious and businesslike as possible,” I say, and frown sternly at my reflection.
“I know, then,” says Suze. “You need some accessories. Some businesswoman-type accessories.”
“Like what? A Filofax?”
“Like. .” Suze pauses thoughtfully. “OK. Wait there—”
I arrive at the Ritz that evening five minutes after our agreed time of seventy-thirty, and as I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I see Luke there already, sitting back looking relaxed and sipping something that looks like a gin and tonic. He’s wearing a different suit from the one he was wearing this morning, I can’t help noticing, and he’s put on a fresh, dark green shirt. He actually looks. . Well. Quite nice. Quite good-looking.
Not that businessy, in fact.
And, come to think of it, this restaurant isn’t very businessy, either. It’s all chandeliers and gold garlands and soft pink chairs, and the most beautiful painted ceiling, all clouds and flowers. The whole place is sparkling with light, and it looks. .
Well, actually, the word that springs to mind is romantic.
Oh God. My heart starts thumping with nerves, and I glance quickly at my reflection in a gilded mirror. I’m wearing the black Jigsaw suit and white T-shirt and black suede boots as originally planned. But now I also have a crisp copy of the Financial Times under one arm, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses (with clear glass) perched on my head, my clunky executive briefcase in one hand and — Suze’s piece de resistance — an AppleMac laptop in the other.
Maybe I overdid it.
I’m about to back away and see if I can quickly deposit the briefcase in the cloakroom (or, to be honest, just put it down on a chair and walk away), when Luke looks up, sees me, and smiles. Damn. So I’m forced to go forward over the plushy carpet, trying to look as relaxed as possible, even though one arm is clamped tightly to my side, to stop the FT from falling on the floor.
“Hello,” says Luke as I arrive at the table. He stands up to greet me, and I realize that I can’t shake his hand, because I’m holding the laptop. Flustered, I plunk my briefcase on the floor, transfer the laptop to the other side — nearly dropping the FT as I do so — and, with as much poise as possible, hold out my hand.
A flicker of amusement passes over Luke’s face and he solemnly shakes it. He gestures to a chair, and watches politely as I put the laptop on the tablecloth, all ready for use.
“That’s an impressive machine,” he says. “Very. . high tech.”
“Yes,” I reply, and give him a brief, cool smile. “I often use it to take notes at business meetings.”
“Ah,” says Luke, nodding. “Very organized of you.”
He’s obviously waiting for me to switch it on, so experimentally I press the return key. This, according to Suze, should make the screen spring to life. But nothing happens.
Casually I press the key again — and still nothing. I jab at it, pretending my finger slipped by accident — and still nothing. Shit, this is embarrassing. Why do I ever listen to Suze?
“Is there a problem?” says Luke.
