Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

It’s nearly three by the time I arrive at Heathrow Airport. I’m still a little flushed from the farewell lunch I had in the pub with Suze, Tarquin, and my parents. To be honest, there’s a small part of me that feels like bursting into tears and running back to them all. But at the same time, I’ve never felt so confident in my life. I’ve never been so sure I’m doing the right thing.

There’s a promotional stand in the center of the terminus, giving away free newspapers, and as I pass it, I reach for a Financial Times. Just for old times’ sake. Plus, if I’m carrying the FT, I might get upgraded. I’m just folding it up to place it neatly under my arm, when I notice a name which makes me stop dead.

Brandon in bid to save company. Page 27.

With slightly shaky fingers, I unfold the paper, find the page, and read the story.

Financial PR entrepreneur Luke Brandon is fighting to keep his investors on board after severe loss of confidence following the recent defection of several senior employees. Morale is said to be low at the formerly groundbreaking PR agency, with rumors of an uncertain future for the company causing staff to break ranks. In crisis meetings to be held today, Brandon will be seeking to persuade backers to approve his radical restructuring plans, which are said to involve…

I read to the end of the piece, and gaze for a few seconds at Luke’s picture. He looks as confident as ever — but I remember Michael’s remark about him being hurled across the paddock. His world’s crashed around him, just like mine did. And chances are, his mum won’t be on the phone telling him not to worry.

For a moment I feel a twinge of pity for him. I almost want to call him up and tell him things’ll get better. But there’s no point. He’s busy with his life — and I’m busy with mine. So I fold the paper up again, and resolutely walk forward to the checkin desk.

“Anything to check?” says the checkin girl, smiling at me.

“No,” I say. “I’m traveling light. Just me and my bag.” I casually lift my FT to a more prominent position. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an upgrade?”

“Not today, sorry.” She pulls a sympathetic face. “But I can put you by the emergency exit. Plenty of legroom there. If I could just weigh your bag, please?”

“Sure.”

And I’m just bending down to put my little case on the belt, when a familiar voice behind me exclaims, “Wait!”

I feel a lurch inside as though I’ve just dropped twenty feet. I turn disbelievingly — and it’s him.

It’s Luke, striding across the concourse toward the checkin desk. He’s dressed as smartly as ever, but his face is pale and haggard. From the shadows under his eyes he looks as though he’s been existing on a diet of late nights and coffee.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he demands as he gets nearer. “Are you moving to Washington?”

“What are you doing here?” I retort shakily. “Aren’t you at some crisis meeting with your investors?”

“I was. Until Mel came in to hand round tea, and told me she’d seen you on the television this morning. So I called Suze and got the flight number out of her—”

“You just left your meeting?” I stare at him. “What, right in the middle?”

“She told me you’re leaving the country.” His dark eyes search my face. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” I say, and clutch my little suitcase more tightly. “Yes, I am.”

“Just like that? Without even telling me?”

“Yes, just like that,” I say, plonking my case on the belt. “Just like you came back to Britain without even telling me.” There’s an edge to my voice, and Luke flinches.

“Becky—”

“Window or aisle seat?” interrupts the checkin girl.

“Window, please.”

“Becky—”

His mobile phone gives a shrill ring, and he switches it off irritably. “Becky… I want to talk.”

“Now you want to talk?” I echo disbelievingly. “Great. Perfect timing. Just as I’m checking in.” I hit the FT with the back of my hand. “And what about this crisis meeting?”

“It can wait.”

“The future of your company can wait?” I raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little… irresponsible, Luke?”

“My company wouldn’t have a fucking future if it weren’t for you,” he exclaims, almost angrily, and in spite of myself I feel a tingling all over my body. “I’ve just been on the phone to Michael. He told me what you did. How you cottoned on to Alicia. How you warned him, how you sussed the whole thing.” He shakes his head. “I had no idea. Jesus, if it hadn’t been for you, Becky…” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">