“I love you,” he says again, more quietly. “And I don’t know what’s gone wrong here, but …”
I feel suddenly close to tears, which is just stupid.
“Nothing’s gone wrong,” I say, gulping. “Nothing.”
“OK. Well.” He shrugs and moves away. There’s a flat silence, which seems to weigh on my shoulders. I can’t bear it. Why doesn’t he understand?
Then Luke turns, and there’s a new animation in his face.
“Becky, listen. I have to go back to London for a few days. It’s the Treasury stuff I told you about. I’m flying tomorrow. Why don’t you come? We could pull Minnie out of preschool, spend some time together, regroup, talk things over, have breakfast at the Wolseley …”
I feel a little pang. He knows breakfast at the Wolseley is one of my favorite things in the world. “If your mother would have Minnie for the night, we could even take a room at the Ritz,” he adds, his eyes twinkling. “How about that?”
The Ritz is where we spent our first ever night together. It’s a fabulous idea. I have a sudden vision of us waking up in some beautiful, luxurious bed, all relaxed and content, as though none of these arguments had ever happened. Luke has put his hands on my shoulders. He gently pulls me toward him and his hands travel down my back.
“Maybe we could make that little sibling for Minnie,” he says, in that soft growly voice that normally makes me go weak. “So, shall I book three tickets for tomorrow?”
“Luke …” I gaze up at him, agonized. “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s this premiere, and I’ve said I’ll dress Sage, and it’s my—”
“I know.” Luke exhales sharply. “Your big chance.” I can see him making a supreme effort to stay good-natured. “OK, another time.” He steps away, and my skin feels cold where he’s let go of it. I wish he’d hold me again. I wish the premiere weren’t tomorrow. I wish …
Oh God, I don’t know what I wish.
“Anyway, there’s my father to think about,” I point out, relieved to have another reason to grab on to. “I can’t leave him with no warning.”
“Fair enough.” Luke has retreated into his detached, everyday mood. “Oh, I meant to tell you. Your mother called me. She asked what’s going on. Apparently you didn’t ring her back yesterday?”
I feel another guilty twinge. My mum’s left so many messages on my phone, I can’t keep track of them anymore.
“I’ll call her. She’s just stressing about my dad. She can’t stop.”
“Well, she’s got a point,” says Luke drily. “What’s up with your father? Why is he here anyway? Have you got to the bottom of it?”
“Not yet,” I admit. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.”
“You haven’t had a chance?” says Luke incredulously. “He’s staying with us, for God’s sake!”
“I’ve been really busy!” I say, stung. “I had my filming this morning, and I had to prepare for it, and I’ve got to put together some looks for Sage … I’ve been frantic. And it doesn’t help that he went out with Tarquin and got drunk! They made no sense at all when they got in last night.”
“Well, I’d talk to him when you have a chance.”
“I will. I’m totally planning to. Is he here?”
Luke shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him. Or Tarkie. They must have gone out.” He glances at his watch. “I must get some things ready. See you later.” He kisses me briefly and heads out. I slump into a chair, feeling totally and utterly deflated.
So far, today has been pretty much the opposite of what I hoped. I thought I’d do an amazing TV interview. I thought I’d arrive back from the studios in clouds of glory. I thought Luke would be waiting, proud and beaming, maybe toasting me with champagne. My phone bleeps with a text and I reach for it despondently. It’s probably Luke saying, And by the way, your outfit looked crap too.
But it’s not from Luke. It’s from Elinor.
I sit bolt upright, my heart suddenly beating fast. Elinor. I open the text and read the message:
Dear Rebecca, I have arrived in Los Angeles.
Oh my God. She’s here? Already?
A moment later, a whole load more text appears:
I look forward to my meeting with Luke and I trust you have prepared the ground with him. Perhaps you could contact me at your earliest convenience. I am staying at the Biltmore. Kind regards, Elinor Sherman
That’s so Elinor. She writes texts as though she’s using a quill pen on parchment.
