I retort boldly. “Call it a dressing gown, call it a smoking jacket—”
“It’s not a smoking jacket,” Hamish interrupts me. “It’s a dressing gown.”
“All the old rules are over,” I continue, ignoring him. “My client might sling this garment casually over his black tie…he might go for the dress-down look…he might layer it over a coat….”
“Layer a dressing gown over a coat?” says Hamish, looking repulsed.
“Why not?” I say defiantly, trying not to picture the moment where I tell Luke he has to layer a dressing gown over his coat.
“That’s a very expensive garment,” says Hamish, removing the dressing gown from my arms. “Please don’t touch it anymore. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Luke Brandon of Brandon Communications,” I say proudly, and something clicks in Hamish’s eyes.
“So this guy’s your husband?”
Drat. I should have taken a pseudonym.
“Perhaps he is,” I say, lifting my chin. “But that’s irrelevant. We’re utterly professional—”
“And you’re just trying to score some free clothes,” he continues, unmoved.
I stare at him, offended. Free clothes? What a nerve! They should be delighted that Luke would wear their clothes.
“It seems you fatally misunderstand the principles of the brand-ambassador concept,” I say loftily.
“No, I think I understand exactly.” Hamish seems amused. “Nice try.”
Hmph. He’s not going to give me the dressing gown, is he? I might as well quit while I’m ahead.
“Well, if that’s what you think,” I say with my most dignified air, “then I will leave you, always wondering what could have been. Always thinking: Was Luke Brandon our perfect brand ambassador…? You will repent at leisure for giving up this opportunity; I can only pity you.”
Tossing my hair back, I head for the exit, half-hoping he might exclaim, “Wait! You’re right! Here’s the dressing gown!”
But he doesn’t. Pah.
I close the door behind me and stomp along the street, feeling quite grumpy. What am I going to do now? I’ll go to Fortnum’s and have a cup of tea, I decide. I probably need a bit more blood sugar or something. I’ll have a scone too.
I’ve been walking without paying much attention to where I’m going, so I turn my steps back toward Piccadilly. And I’m striding along, glancing automatically into shop windows as I go—when something catches my eye. I stop dead and my heart leaps in amazement.
Yessss! I’ve found the perfect thing! First of all, it’s luggage.
Luggage.
I’ve always had a soft spot for luggage, ever since the day that Luke and I tried out suitcases together when we hardly knew each other. (They were actually for Sacha de Bonneville, it turned out, but let’s not go there, and, anyway, who married him? Exactly.)
Second of all, it’s beautiful. It’s like a suitcase that opens up into a wardrobe with all hangers and compartments and things. (I feel like it has a special name, but I can’t think of it right now.) It’s made out of amazing dark brown leather and is so elegant.
Then, as I lean closer, I feel a jab of disbelief. It’s lined with silky material with a repeat pattern of “LB.” Luke’s initials! And there’s “LB” engraved on the side. And—oh my God—a brass “LB” charm dangling from the handle.
I gaze at it in bewilderment. How can something so perfect just be waiting for me? Did the Christmas-present gods see me coming?
I raise my head to see which shop I’m at, but it’s not a shop. It’s in the window display of…what on earth is this place? I stare confusedly at the façade of what seems to be a house. It’s a white stucco building with a large painted front door.
Then I spot a discreet metal sign to one side of the front door: LONDON BILLIARDS. And underneath in smaller writing: The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club, Est. 1816. Oh, right, of course. It’s a club. This entire area of London is stuffed with posh clubs. Luke is a member of one, actually, and he’s taken me along a few times, but it’s deathly. There’s no music and they don’t even do mojitos.
(To be fair, Luke finds it quite deathly, too, but he says it can be useful for business. Why it’s useful to sit in an ancient armchair and eat potted shrimp, I don’t know, but there you go.)
Anyway. Doesn’t matter what it is. The point is, I want to buy their suitcase-thingy. Without further hesitation, I press the metal doorbell and a moment later I’m buzzed in. As I push the door open, I find myself in a hall with