morning!” I say, trying to hide my agitation. “ ‘Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning’! I mean, this is anywhere, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” says Charlotte, “but nothing’s come. Was it very important?”
“Rebecca?” comes a voice from the stairs, and I turn to see Luke peering down at me. “Is something wrong?”
“No!” I say brightly. “Of course not! What on earth could be wrong?” Quickly I swivel away from the desk and, before Charlotte or the concierge can say anything, hurry toward the stairs.
“Everything all right?” he says as I reach him, and smiles at me.
“Absolutely!” I say, my voice two notches higher than usual. “Everything’s absolutely fine!”
I have no clothes. This cannot be happening.
I’m on holiday with Luke, in a smart hotel—and I have no clothes. What am I going to do?
I can’t tell him the truth. I just
can’t
admit that my dinky suitcase was only the tip of the clothes-berg. Not after having been so smug about it. I’ll just have to . . . improvise, I think wildly, as we turn a corner and start walking down another plushy corridor. Wear
his
clothes, like Annie Hall or . . . or rip down the curtains and find some sewing stuff . . . and quickly learn how to sew . . .
Calm down, I tell myself firmly. Just . . . calm down. The parcel is bound to arrive tomorrow morning, so I’ve only got to last one night. And at least I’ve got my makeup with me . . .
“Here we are,” says Luke, stopping at a door and opening it. “What do you think?”
Oh wow. For a moment all my worries are swept away as I gaze around the enormous airy room. Now I can see why Luke likes this hotel so much. It’s gorgeous—exactly like his flat, all huge white bed with an enormous waffle duvet, and a state-of-the-art music system and two suede sofas.
“Take a look at the bathroom,” says Luke, and I follow him through—and it’s stunning. A great sunken mosaic Jacuzzi, with the hugest shower I’ve ever seen above, and a whole rack of gorgeous-looking aromatherapy oils.
Maybe I could just spend the whole weekend in the bath.
“So,” he says, turning back into the room. “I don’t know what you’d like to do . . .” He walks over to his suitcase and clicks it open—and I can see serried rows of shirts, all ironed by his housekeeper. “I suppose we should unpack first . . .”
“Unpack! Absolutely!” I say brightly. I walk over to my own little suitcase and finger the clasp, without opening it. “Or else . . .” I say, as though the idea’s just occurring to me, “why don’t we go and have a drink—and unpack later!”
Genius. We’ll go downstairs and get really pissed, and then tomorrow morning I’ll just pretend to be really sleepy and stay in bed until my package comes. Thank God. For a moment there I was starting to—
“Excellent idea,” says Luke. “I’ll just get changed.” And he reaches into his case and pulls out a pair of trousers and a crisp blue shirt.
“Changed?” I say after a pause. “Is there . . . a strict dress code?”
“Oh no, not strict,” says Luke. “You just wouldn’t go down in . . . say, in what you’re wearing at the moment.” He gestures to my denim cutoffs with a grin.
“Of course not!” I say, laughing as though the idea’s ridiculous. “Right. Well. I’ll just . . . choose an outfit, then.”
I turn to my case again, snap it open, lift the lid, and look at my makeup bag.
What am I going to do? Luke’s unbuttoning his shirt. He’s calmly reaching for the blue one. In a minute he’s going to look up and say, “Are you ready?”
I need a radical plan of action here.
“Luke—I’ve changed my mind,” I say, and close the lid of my case. “Let’s not go down to the bar.” Luke looks up in surprise, and I give him the most seductive smile I can muster. “Let’s stay up here, and order room service, and . . .” I take a few steps toward him, loosening my wrap top, “. . . and
“I’m sorry,” says Charlotte, “but nothing’s come. Was it very important?”
“Rebecca?” comes a voice from the stairs, and I turn to see Luke peering down at me. “Is something wrong?”
“No!” I say brightly. “Of course not! What on earth could be wrong?” Quickly I swivel away from the desk and, before Charlotte or the concierge can say anything, hurry toward the stairs.
“Everything all right?” he says as I reach him, and smiles at me.
“Absolutely!” I say, my voice two notches higher than usual. “Everything’s absolutely fine!”
I have no clothes. This cannot be happening.
I’m on holiday with Luke, in a smart hotel—and I have no clothes. What am I going to do?
I can’t tell him the truth. I just
can’t
admit that my dinky suitcase was only the tip of the clothes-berg. Not after having been so smug about it. I’ll just have to . . . improvise, I think wildly, as we turn a corner and start walking down another plushy corridor. Wear
his
clothes, like Annie Hall or . . . or rip down the curtains and find some sewing stuff . . . and quickly learn how to sew . . .
Calm down, I tell myself firmly. Just . . . calm down. The parcel is bound to arrive tomorrow morning, so I’ve only got to last one night. And at least I’ve got my makeup with me . . .
“Here we are,” says Luke, stopping at a door and opening it. “What do you think?”
Oh wow. For a moment all my worries are swept away as I gaze around the enormous airy room. Now I can see why Luke likes this hotel so much. It’s gorgeous—exactly like his flat, all huge white bed with an enormous waffle duvet, and a state-of-the-art music system and two suede sofas.
“Take a look at the bathroom,” says Luke, and I follow him through—and it’s stunning. A great sunken mosaic Jacuzzi, with the hugest shower I’ve ever seen above, and a whole rack of gorgeous-looking aromatherapy oils.
Maybe I could just spend the whole weekend in the bath.
“So,” he says, turning back into the room. “I don’t know what you’d like to do . . .” He walks over to his suitcase and clicks it open—and I can see serried rows of shirts, all ironed by his housekeeper. “I suppose we should unpack first . . .”
“Unpack! Absolutely!” I say brightly. I walk over to my own little suitcase and finger the clasp, without opening it. “Or else . . .” I say, as though the idea’s just occurring to me, “why don’t we go and have a drink—and unpack later!”
Genius. We’ll go downstairs and get really pissed, and then tomorrow morning I’ll just pretend to be really sleepy and stay in bed until my package comes. Thank God. For a moment there I was starting to—
“Excellent idea,” says Luke. “I’ll just get changed.” And he reaches into his case and pulls out a pair of trousers and a crisp blue shirt.
“Changed?” I say after a pause. “Is there . . . a strict dress code?”
“Oh no, not strict,” says Luke. “You just wouldn’t go down in . . . say, in what you’re wearing at the moment.” He gestures to my denim cutoffs with a grin.
“Of course not!” I say, laughing as though the idea’s ridiculous. “Right. Well. I’ll just . . . choose an outfit, then.”
I turn to my case again, snap it open, lift the lid, and look at my makeup bag.
What am I going to do? Luke’s unbuttoning his shirt. He’s calmly reaching for the blue one. In a minute he’s going to look up and say, “Are you ready?”
I need a radical plan of action here.
“Luke—I’ve changed my mind,” I say, and close the lid of my case. “Let’s not go down to the bar.” Luke looks up in surprise, and I give him the most seductive smile I can muster. “Let’s stay up here, and order room service, and . . .” I take a few steps toward him, loosening my wrap top, “. . . and
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