She rings off and I watch the light in my phone die away. I walk over to the willow tree in the middle of the front lawn and sit on the old wooden bench. To be honest, I feel a bit unsettled. What’s going on with Luke? And how am I going to manage this party? I thought I was doing so well; I was so pleased with myself. But now I’m feeling panicky.
Security guards. Valet parking. Kosher food. Loos. Foot masseurs. Oh God, oh God. How am I going to afford all this? Why have I spent so long making stupid pom-poms? What else do I need to think about?
Suze would know. Suze goes to posh parties all the time. But I can’t ask her. Not now.
On impulse I open my BlackBerry and scroll down the acceptance list. The more names I read, the worse I feel. Why can’t Luke have normal friends? Why do they all have to be so posh and important? These people will be used to grand receptions in smart venues. They’re used to marble pillars and string quartets and waiters in white coats …
‘Becky?’ Mum is looking out of the front door with a concerned look. ‘Are you OK, love?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say brightly. ‘Just … thinking.’
There’s no way in a million years I’m admitting I’m worried about the party.
Mum disappears again and I nibble my thumbnail. Well, I don’t have any choice, do I? I’ll have to book the bouncers and the loos and the masseurs and everything else. And just pay for it … somehow.
I wince as I think over my finances. I can’t take the money out of the joint account because Luke will see. And I can’t take it out of my own account because there’s nothing to take out. There’s no way the bank will extend my overdraft. Not at the moment. And I’ve already maxed out half my cards. All the credit companies are so stingy these days.
Could I contact my old bank manager, Derek Smeath, and plead for a special emergency party overdraft? He’d understand, surely. And he always liked Luke, and I could invite him to the party …
I suddenly sit bolt upright. No. I’ve got it. I’ll ask Trevor for my Employee of the Year money in advance. He can’t refuse me, can he? Not after all those nice things he said about me.
In fact, while I’m at it … why don’t I ask him for a raise?
I’m so relieved, I almost laugh out loud. Why didn’t I think of that before? He’s just presented me with flowers, for God’s sake. My department is the best by miles. It’s bucking all the trends. It’s obvious I should get a raise. I’ll ask for a confidential meeting and I’ll calmly ask for a small yet significant raise, and together with the Employee of the Year money, that will pay for everything.
Maybe a medium-sized yet significant raise. Even better.
And meanwhile I’ll Google ‘expensive luxury-party planning details’, just to see what else I’ve forgotten.
Feeling a million times better I get up from the bench, and am heading inside as a text bleeps on my phone. I pull it out, to see it’s from Bonnie.
Becky dear. I have been torn by guilt. I feel you are right. Your friendship has come to mean a great deal to me and the major part of any friendship has to be trust. I will therefore trust you and send by separate text the name of the new client which Luke is keeping from you (for all the best reasons, I must assure you).
Please delete these texts straight away after reading. I hope and believe that you will respect the fact that I am risking a certain amount by divulging this information. Please try not to give away to Luke the fact that you know it. Some self-restraint may be required on your part.
Your affectionate friend
Bonnie
I feel so touched as I read the words. Bonnie is my friend. And I’m her friend. And that’s what’s important. I hardly even care about the name of the client any more. I mean, it’ll only be some boring bigshot finance type I’ve never heard of, probably.
As for saying I’ll need self-restraint … for God’s sake. I think sometimes people who work in PR start to believe their own hype. I press ‘Reply’ and start texting back:
Dear Bonnie, thank you so much. You are a great friend to me. Don’t worry, I will not give away to Luke by a smidgen that I know the name of this client, and I really don’t think self-restraint will be a problem—
A bleep interrupts me. Ooh, that might be Bonnie’s second text. I might as well have a look before I continue. I click on it and wait for the message to appear on the screen.
It consists of two words only. For a moment I stand stock still, blinking, not quite able to process what I’m seeing.
Sage Seymour.
Sage Seymour the movie star? She’s the new client? But … but … how on earth …
No. It can’t be true. It’s ridiculous. Luke doesn’t represent movie stars.
But then, Bonnie wouldn’t say it unless—
Sage Seymour?
How did this happen? How did he go from representing boring old banks to actresses? And why has he kept so quiet about it?
I’m almost hyperventilating. I keep looking up and then looking down at the screen again, just to check it still says the same thing.
Sage Seymour’s the coolest movie star ever. She was in that one about the Nazis. She wore that amazing nude beaded dress to the Oscars. I’ve always, always, always wanted to meet her.
And Luke’s met her? He’s working with her?
Why didn’t he TELL ME?
Sage Seymour – Google Search
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