Tarquin… has… 25… million… pounds?
I think I'm going to pass out, if I can ever ungrip my hand from this page. I'm staring at the fifteenth-richest bachelor in Britain – and I know him.
Not only do I know him, he's asked me out on a date.
I'm having dinner with him tomorrow night.
OH-MY-GOD.
I'm going to be a millionairess. A multimillionairess. I knew it. Didn't I know it? I knew it. Tarquin's going to fall in love with me and ask me to marry him and we'll get married in a gorgeous Scottish castle just like in Four Weddings (except with nobody dying on us). And I'll have ?25 million.
And what will Derek Smeath say then? Hah!
Hah!
'D'you want a cup of tea?' says Suze, putting down the phone. 'Charlie's such a poppet. He's going to feature me in Britain's Up-And-Coming-Talent.'
'Excellent,' I say vaguely, and clear my throat. 'Just… just looking at Tarquin here.'
I have to check. I have to check there isn't some other Tarquin Cleath-Stuart, some cousin I don't know about. Please God, please let me be going out with the rich one.
'Oh yes,' says Suze casually. 'He's always in those things.' She runs her eyes down the text and shakes her head. 'God, they always exaggerate everything. ?25 million!'
My heart stops.
'Hasn't he got ?25 million, then?' I say carelessly.
'Oh no!' She laughs as though the idea's ridiculous.
'The estate's worth about… Oh, I don't know. ?18 million.'
?18 million. Well, that'll do. That'll do nicely.
'These magazines!' I say, and roll my eyes sympathetically.
'Earl Grey?' says Suze, getting up. 'Or normal?'
'Earl Grey,' I say, even though I actually prefer Typhoo. Becaus I'd better start acting posh, hadn't I, if I'm going to be the girlfriend of someone called Tarquin Cleath-Stuart.
Rebecca Cleath-Stuart.
Becky Cleath-Stuart.
Hi, it's Rebecca Cleath-Stuart here. Yes, Tarquin's wife. We met at… Yes, I was wearing Chanel. How clever of you!
'By the way,' I add, 'did Tarquin say where I should meet him?'
'Oh, he's going to come and pick you up,' says Suze. But of course he is. The fifteenth-richest bachelor in Britain doesn't just meet you at a tube station, does he? He doesn't just say, 'See you under the big clock at Waterloo'. He comes and picks you up.
Oh, this is it. This is it! My new life has finally begun.
I have never spent so long on getting ready for a date in my life. Never. The process starts at eight on Saturday morning when I look at my open wardrobe and realize that I don't have a single thing to wear – and only ends at 7.30 that evening when I give my lashes another layer of mascara, spray myself in Coco Chanel and walk into the sitting room for Suze's verdict.
'Wow!' she says, looking up from a frame she is upholstering in distressed denim. 'You look… bloody amazing!'
And I have to say, I agree. I'm wearing all black – but expensive black. The kind of deep, soft black you fall into. A simple sleeveless dress from Whistles, the highest of Jimmy Choos, a pair of stunning uncut amethyst earrings. And please don't ask how much it all cost, because that's irrelevant. This is investment shopping. The biggest investment of my life.
I haven't eaten anything all day so I'm nice and thin, and for once my hair has fallen perfectly into shape. I look… well, I've never looked better in my life.
But of course, looks are only part of the package, aren't they? Which is why I cannily stopped off at Waterstone's on the way home and bought a book on Wagner. I've been reading it all afternoon, while I waited for my nails to dry, and have even memorized a few little passage to throw into the conversation.
I'm not sure what else Tarquin is into, apart from Wagner. Still, that should be enough to keep us going. And anyway, I expect he's planning to take me some where really glamorous with a jazz band, so we'll be too busy dancing cheek to cheek to make conversation.
The doorbell rings and I give a little start. I have to admit, my heart is pounding with nerves. But at the same time I feel strangely cool. This is it. Here begins my new multimillion-pound existence. Luke Brandon, eat your heart out.
'I'll get it,' says Suze, grinning at me, and disappears out into the hall. A moment later I hear her saying, 'Tarkie!'
'Suze!'
I glance at myself in the mirror, take a deep breath and turn to face the door, just as Tarquin appears. His head is as bony as ever, and he's wearing another of his ancient, odd-looking suits. But somehow none of that seems to matter any more. In fact, I'm not really taking in the way he looks. I'm just staring at him. Staring and staring at him, unable to speak; unable to flame any thought at all except: twenty-five million pounds.
Twenty-five million pounds. The sort of thought that makes you feel dizzy and elated, like a fairground ride. I suddenly want to run around the room, yelling 'Twenty-five million! Twenty-five million!' throwing banknotes up in the air as if I were in some Hollywood comedy caper.
But I don't. Of course I don't. I say, 'Hi Tarquin,' and give him a dazzling smile.
'Hi, Becky,' he says. 'You look wonderful.'
'Thanks,' I say, and look bashfully down at my dress.
'D'you want to stay for a titchy?' says Suze, who is looking on fondly – as if she's my mother and this is senior prom night" and I'm dating the most popular boy in school.
'Ermm… no, I think we'll just get going,' says Tarquin, meeting my eye. 'What do you think, Becky?'
'Absolutely,' I say. 'Let's go.'
Fourteen
A taxi is chugging outside in the road, and Tarquin ushers me inside. To be honest, I'm a bit disappointed it isn't a chauffeur-driven limousine – but still. This is pretty good, too. Being whisked off in a taxi by one of Britain's most eligible bachelors to… "who knows where? The Savoy? Claridges? Dancing at Annabel's?
Tarquin hasn't told me yet where we're going. Oh God, maybe it'll be one of those mad places where everything is served under a silver dome and there's a million knives and forks and snooty waiters looking on, just waiting to catch you out. But that's OK. As long as I don't panic. Just keep calm and remember the rules. Right. What are they, again? Cutlery: start from the outside and work your way in. Bread: do not slice your bread roll but break into little bits and butter each one individually. Tomato ketchup: do not ask for under any circumstances.
What if it's lobster? I've never eaten a lobster in my life. Shit. It's going to be lobster, isn't it? And I won't know what to do and it'll be hideously embarrassing. Why haven't I ever eaten lobster? Why? It's all my parents' fault. They should have taken me to expensive restaurants from an early age so I would develop a nonchalant savoir-faire with tricky food.
'I thought we'd just have a nice quiet supper,' says Tarquin, looking over at me.
'Lovely,' I say. 'Nice quiet supper. Perfect.'
Thank God. That probably means we're not heading for lobster and silver domes. We're going to some tiny tucked-away place that hardly anyone knows about. Some little private club where you have to knock on an anonymous-looking door in a back street, and you get inside and it's packed with celebrities sitting on sofas, behaving like normal people. Yes! And maybe Tarquin knows them all!
But of course he knows them all. He's a multimillionaire, isn't he?
I look out of the window and see that we're driving past Harrods. And for just a moment, my stomach tightens painfully as I remember the last time I was here. Bloody suitcases. Bloody Luke Brandon. Huh. In fact, I wish he was walking along the road right now, so I could give him a careless, I'm-with-the-fifteenth-richest-man-in-Britain wave.