“No. As long as they’re doing their jobs.”
“People are more than just their jobs,” I say reprovingly. But Luke isn’t even listening. He’s got that faraway, cutoff look which comes over him when he’s concentrating on business.
“Oh well,” I say, and roll my eyes. “See you later.”
As I come out, Mel is not at her desk — but Alicia is standing there in a smart black suit, staring at some papers. Her face seems more flushed than usual, and I wonder with an inward giggle if she’s just been canoodling with Ben.
“Hi, Alicia,” I say politely. “How are you?”
Alicia jumps, and she quickly gathers up whatever it is she’s reading — then looks at me with a strange expression, as though horns have sprouted from my head.
“Becky,” she says slowly. “Well, I never. The financial expert herself. The money guru!”
What is it about Alicia? Why does everything she say sound like she’s playing some stupid game?
“Yes,” I say. “It’s me. Where’s Mel gone?”
As I approach Mel’s desk, I feel sure I left something on it. But I can’t quite think what. Did I have an umbrella?
“She’s gone to lunch,” says Alicia. “She showed me the present you bought her. Very stylish.”
“Thanks,” I say shortly.
“So.” She gives a faint smile. “I gather you’re tagging along with Luke to New York. Must be nice to have a rich boyfriend.”
God, she’s a cow! She’d never say that in front of Luke.
“I’m not ‘tagging along,’ actually,” I retort pleasantly. “I’ve got lots of meetings with television executives. It’s a completely independent trip.”
“But…” Alicia frowns thoughtfully. “Your flight’s on the company, is it?”
“No! I paid for it myself!”
“Just wondering!” Alicia lifts her hands apologetically. “Well, have a great time, won’t you?” She gathers up some folders and pops them into her briefcase, then snaps it shut. “I must run. Ciao.”
“See you later,” I say, and watch as she walks briskly off to the lifts.
I stand there by Mel’s desk for a few seconds longer, still wondering what on earth it was that I put down. Oh, I don’t suppose it can be important.
I get home to find Suze in the hall, talking on the phone. Her face is all red and shiny and her voice is trembling, and at once I’m seized by the terror that something awful has happened. Fearfully, I raise my eyebrows at her — and she nods frantically back, in between saying “Yes,” and “I see,” and “When would that be?”
I sink onto a chair, feeling weak with worry. What’s she talking about? A funeral? A brain operation? As soon as I decide to go away — this happens.
“Guess what’s happened?” she says shakily as she puts down the phone, and I leap up.
“Suze, I won’t go to New York,” I say, and impulsively take her hands. “I’ll stay here and help you get through whatever it is. Has someone… died?”
“No,” says Suze dazedly, and I swallow hard.
“Are you ill?”
“No, no, Bex, this is good news! I just… don’t quite believe it.”
“Well — what, then? Suze, what is it?”
“I’ve been offered my own line of home accessories in Hadleys. You know, the department store?” She shakes her head disbelievingly. “They want me to design a whole line! Frames, vases, stationery… whatever I want.”
“Oh my God!” I clap a hand over my mouth. “That’s fantastic!”
“This guy just rang up, out of the blue, and said his scouts have been monitoring sales of my frames. Apparently they’ve never seen anything like it!”
“Oh, Suze!”
“I had no idea things were going so well.” Suze still looks shell-shocked. “This guy said it was a phenomenon! Everyone in the industry is talking about it. Apparently the only shop that hasn’t done so well is that one which is miles away. Finchley or somewhere.”
“Oh, right,” I say vaguely. “I don’t think I’ve ever even been to that one.”
“But he said that had to be a blip — because all the other ones, in Fulham and Notting Hill and Chelsea, have all soared.” She gives an embarrassed smile. “Apparently in Gifts and Goodies, around the corner, I’m the number-one bestseller!”
“Well, I’m not surprised!” I exclaim. “Your frames are easily the best thing in that shop. Easily the best.” I throw my arms around her. “I’m so proud of you, Suze. I always knew you were going to be a star.”
“Well, I never would have done it if it weren’t for you! I mean, it was you who got me started making frames in the first place…” Suddenly Suze looks almost tearful. “Oh, Bex — I’m really going to miss you.”
“I know,” I say, biting my lip. “Me too.”
For a while, we’re both silent, and I honestly think I might start crying any second. But instead, I take a deep breath and look up. “Well, you’ll just have to launch a New York branch.”
“Yes!” says Suze, brightening. “Yes, I could do that, couldn’t I?”
“Of course you could. You’ll be all over the world soon.” I give her a hug. “Hey, let’s go out tonight and celebrate.”
“Oh, Bex, I’d love to,” says Suze, “but I can’t. I’m going up to Scotland. In fact—” She looks at her watch, and pulls a face. “Oh, I didn’t realize how late it was. Tarquin’ll be here any moment.”
“Tarquin’s coming here?” I say in shock. “Now?”
Tarquin is Suze’s cousin and is one of the richest people in Britain. (He’s also one of the worst-dressed.) He’s very sweet, and I never used to take much notice of him — until, a few months ago, we spent a truly toe- curling evening together. Even the memory of it makes me feel uncomfortable. Basically, the date was going fine (at least, fine given that I didn’t find him attractive or have anything in common with him) — until Tarquin caught me flicking through his checkbook. Or at least, I think he did. I’m still not quite sure what he saw — and to be honest, I’m not keen to find out.
“I’m driving him up to my aunt’s house for this dreary family party thing,” says Suze. “We’re going to be the only ones there under ninety.”
As she hurries off to her room, the doorbell rings and she calls over her shoulder, “Could you get that, Bex? It’s probably him.”
Oh God. Oh God. I really don’t feel prepared for this.
Trying to assume an air of confident detachment I swing open the front door and say brightly, “Tarquin!”
“Becky,” he says, staring at me as though I’m the lost treasure of Tutankhamen.
And he’s looking as bony and strange as ever, with an odd green hand-knitted jersey stuffed under a tweed waistcoat, and a huge old fob watch dangling from his pocket. I’m sorry, but surely the fifteenth richest man in England, or whatever he is, should be able to buy a nice new Timex?
“Well — come on in,” I say overheartily, throwing my hand out like an Italian restaurant owner.
“Great,” says Tarquin, and follows me into the sitting room. There’s an awkward pause while I wait for him to sit down; in fact, I start to feel quite impatient as he hovers uncertainly in the middle of the room. Then suddenly I realize he’s waiting for me to sit down, and hastily sink down onto the sofa.
“Would you like a titchy?” I ask politely.
“Bit early,” says Tarquin, with a nervous laugh.
(“Titchy” is Tarquin-speak for drink, by the way. And trousers are “tregs” and… you get the picture.)
We lapse into another dreadful silence. I just can’t stop remembering awful details from our date — like when he tried to kiss me and I pretended to be absorbed in a nearby picture. Oh God. Forget. Forget.
“I… I heard you were moving to New York,” Tarquin says suddenly, staring at the floor. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” I say, unable to stop myself smiling. “Yes, that’s the plan.”
“I went to New York once myself,” Tarquin says. “Didn’t really get on with it.”
