Read Page 12

“Well, what are we going to do, then?” I close the Barbados Web page crossly. “There’s nothing on the market. It’ll be Christmas and we’ll be out on the streets, and we’ll have to go to a homeless shelter with the baby, and eat soup….”

“Becky.” Luke lifts a hand to stop me. “We won’t have to eat soup.” He clicks one of his e-mails, opens an attachment, and presses Print. A moment later the printer springs into action.Advertisement

“What?” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Here.” He collects the pages and hands them to me. “This is why Giles rang. In case we were ‘still considering London,’ as he put it. It’s just come on the market, round the corner from here. Delamain Road. But we need to be quick.”

I scan the first page, taking in the words as fast as I can.

Elegant family house…ideal for entertaining…grand entrance hall…magnificent luxury kitchen…

Wow. I have to admit, this looks amazing.

Garden with architect-designed play area…six bedrooms…dressing room with walk-in shoe cupboard…

I catch my breath. A walk-in shoe cupboard! But surely that’s just another way of saying—

“It’s even got a Shoe Room.” Luke is watching me with a grin. “Giles was pretty pleased about that. Shall we go and see it?”

I am so excited about this house! And not just because of the Shoe Room. I’ve read the details over and over, and I can just see Luke and me living there. Taking a shower in the frameless limestone RainJet cubicle…making coffee in the Bulthaup kitchen with its state-of-the-art appliances…and then maybe strolling out into the secluded west-facing garden with its range of mature specimen shrubs. Whatever they are.

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It’s later that day and we’re walking along the leafy Maida Vale road on the way to our appointment to view it. I’m clutching the printout of the details in my hand, but I barely need to; I practically know them by heart.

“Twenty-four…twenty-six…” Luke is squinting at the numbers as we pass. “It’ll be on the other side of the road….”

“There it is!” I stop dead and point across the street. “Look, there’s the impressive pillared entrance and double doors with attractive fanlight! It looks fab! Let’s go!”

Luke’s hand holds me back as I’m about to hurry across the road. “Becky, before we go in, just a word.”

“What?” I’m tugging at his hand like a dog trying to get off the leash. “What is it?”

“Try to play it cool, OK? We don’t want to look too keen. First rule of business dealing, you should always look as though you could walk away.”

“Oh.” I stop yanking his hand. “All right.”

Cool. I can play it cool.

But as we head across the road and up to the front door, my heart’s hammering. This is our house, I just know it is!

“I love the front door!” I exclaim, ringing the bell. “It’s so shiny!”

“Becky…cool, remember,” says Luke. “Try not to look so impressed.”

“Oh, right, yes.” I adopt the best unimpressed expression I can muster, just as the door swings open.

A very slim woman in her forties is standing on black-and-white marble tiles. She’s wearing white D&G jeans, a casual top which I know cost her £500, and a diamond ring so huge, I’m amazed she can lift her arm.

“Hi.” Her voice is a husky mockney drawl. “Are you here to see the house?”

“Yes!” At once I realize I sound too excited. “I mean…yeah.” I affect a similar nonchalance. “We thought we’d have a look.”

“Fabia Paschali.” Her handshake is like wet cotton wool.

“Becky Brandon. And this is my husband, Luke.”

“Well, come on through.”

We follow her in, our feet echoing on the tiles, and as I look around I have to suppress a loud intake of breath. This hall is huge. And the sweeping staircase is like something out of Hollywood! I immediately have an image of myself trailing down it in a fantastic evening dress while Luke waits admiringly at the bottom.

“We’ve had fashion shoots here,” says Fabia, gesturing at the staircase. “The marble is imported from Italy and the chandelier is antique Murano. It’s included.”

I can see she’s waiting for a reaction.

“Very nice,” says Luke. “Becky?”

Cool. I must be cool.

“It’s all right.” I give a little yawn. “Can we see the kitchen?” pqdm.com