Elated, I lean back in my chair and take a big slurp of Happy Juice. This honeymoon just gets better and better!
Two
OK, I CANNOT believe Luke was planning to come to Milan without me. How could he come here without me? I was made for Milan.
No. Not Milan, Milano.
I haven’t actually seen much of the city yet except for a taxi and our hotel room — but for a world traveler like me, that doesn’t actually matter. You can pick up the vibe of a place in an instant, like bushmen in the wild. And as soon as I looked round the hotel foyer at all those chic women in Prada and D&G, kissing each other while simultaneously downing espressos, lighting cigarettes, and flinging their shiny hair about, I just knew, with a natural instinct: this is my kind of city.
I take a gulp of room-service cappuccino and glance across at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Honestly, I look Italian! All I need is some capri pants and dark eyeliner. And maybe a Vespa.
“Ciao,” I say casually, and flick my hair back. “Si. Ciao.”
I could so be Italian. Except I might need to learn a few more words.
“Si.” I nod at myself. “Si. Milano.”
Maybe I’ll practice by reading the paper. I open the free copy of Corriere della Sera, which arrived with our breakfast, and start perusing the lines of text. The first story is all about the president washing his piano. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what presidente and lavoro pieno must mean.
“You know, Luke, I could really live in Italy,” I say as he comes out of the bathroom. “I mean, it’s the perfect country. It has everything! Cappuccinos… yummy food… Everyone’s so elegant… You can get Gucci cheaper than at home… ”
“And the art,” says Luke, deadpan. “Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, for instance.”
I was just about to mention the art.
“Well, obviously the art,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I mean, the art goes without saying.”
I flick over a page of Corriere della Sera and briskly skim the headlines. Then my brain suddenly clicks.
I put the paper down and stare at Luke again.
What’s happened to him?
I’m looking at the Luke Brandon I used to know back when I was a financial journalist. He’s completely clean-shaven, and dressed in an immaculate suit, with a pale green shirt and darker green tie. He’s wearing proper shoes and proper socks. His earring is gone. His bracelet is gone. The only vestige of our travels is his hair, which is still in tiny plaits.
I can feel a bubble of dismay growing inside. I liked him the way he was, all laid-back and disheveled.
“You’ve… smartened up a bit!” I say. “Where’s your bracelet?”
“In my suitcase.”
“But the woman in the Masai Mara said we must never take them off!” I say in shock. “She said that special Masai prayer!”
“Becky…” Luke sighs. “I can’t go into a meeting with an old bit of rope round my wrist.”
Old bit of rope? That was a sacred bracelet, and he knows it.
“You’ve still got your plaits!” I retort. “If you can have plaits, you can have a bracelet!”
“I’m not keeping my plaits!” Luke looks incredulous. “I’ve got a haircut booked in”—he consults his watch —“ten minutes.”
A haircut?
This is all too fast. I can’t bear the idea of Luke’s sun-bleached hair being snipped off and falling to the floor. Our honeymoon hair, all gone.
“Luke, don’t,” I say, before I can stop myself. “You can’t.”
“What’s wrong?” Luke turns and looks at me more closely. “Becky, are you OK?”
No. I’m not OK.
“You can’t cut off your hair,” I say desperately. “Then it will all be over!”
“Sweetheart… it is over.” Luke comes over and sits down beside me. He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. “You know that, don’t you? It’s over. We’re going home. We’re going back to real life.”
“I know!” I say, after a pause. “It’s just… I really love your hair long.”
“I can’t go into a business meeting like this.” Luke shakes his head so the beads in his hair click together. “You know that as well as I do!”
“But you don’t have to cut it off!” I say, suddenly inspired. “Plenty of Italian men have long hair. We’ll just take the plaits out!”
“Becky…”
“I’ll do it! I’ll take them out! Sit down.”
I push Luke down onto the bed and carefully edge out the first few little beads, then gently start to unbraid his hair. As I lean close, I can smell the business-y smell of Luke’s expensive Armani aftershave, which he always wears for work. He hasn’t used it since before we got married.
I shift round on the bed and carefully start unbraiding the plaits on the other side of his head. We’re both silent; the only sound in the room is the soft clicking of beads. As I pull out the very last one, I feel a lump in my throat — which is ridiculous.
I mean, we couldn’t stay on our honeymoon forever, could we? And I am looking forward to seeing Mum and Dad again, and Suze, and getting back to real life…
But still. I’ve spent the last ten months with Luke. We haven’t spent more than a few hours out of each other’s sight. And now that’s all ending.
Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll be busy with a new job… and all my friends…
“Done!”
I reach for my Paul Mitchell Gloss Drops, put some on Luke’s hair, and carefully brush it out. It’s a bit wavy, but that’s OK. He just looks European.
“You see?” I say at last. “You look brilliant!”
Luke surveys his reflection doubtfully and for an awful moment I think he’s going to say he’s still getting a haircut. Then he smiles.
“OK. Reprieved. But it will have to come off sooner or later.”
“I know,” I say, suddenly feeling light again. “But just not today.”
I watch as Luke gathers some papers together and puts them in his briefcase.
“So… who exactly are you meeting with today?”
Luke did tell me, on the flight from Colombo — but they were serving free champagne at the time, and I’m not entirely sure I took it all in.
“We’re going after a new client. The Arcodas Group.”
“That’s right. Now I remember. So what are they? Fund managers?”
Luke’s company is called Brandon Communications, and it’s a PR agency for financial institutions like banks and building societies and investment houses. That’s kind of how we met, actually, during my days on Successful Saving magazine.
“Nope.” Luke snaps his briefcase shut. “We want to broaden out of finance.”
“Really?” I look at him in surprise.
“It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. The company’s successful as it is, but I want to go bigger. Wider. The Arcodas Group is a very large corporation with lots of different interests. They own property developments… sports centers… shopping malls…”
“Shopping malls?” I say, suddenly alert. “Do you get a discount?”
“If we get the account. Maybe.”
