Part 13 (1/2)

”Look, darling,” I say hurriedly. ”It's our dining table from Sri Lanka. Remember? Our personalized table! Our symbol of married love.” I give him an affectionate smile, but he's shaking his head.

”Becky-”

”Don't spoil the moment!” I put an arm round him. ”It's our special honeymoon table! It's our heirloom of the future! We have to watch it being delivered!”

”OK,” Luke says at last. ”Whatever.”

The men are carefully carrying the table down the ramp, and I have to say, I'm impressed. Bearing in mind how heavy it is, they seem to be managing it quite easily.

”Isn't it exciting?” I clutch Luke's arm as it comes into sight. ”Just think! There we were in Sri Lanka-”

I break off, a little confused.

This isn't the wooden table after all. It's a transparent gla.s.s table, with curved steel legs. And another guy behind is carrying a pair of trendy red felt-covered chairs.

I stare at it in horror. A cold feeling is creeping over me.

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t.

The table I bought at the Copenhagen Design Fair. I had totally forgotten about that.

How could I forget I bought a whole dining table? How?

”Hold on,” Luke's calling, his hand raised. ”Guys, that's the wrong table. Ours is wooden. A big carved-wood table from Sri Lanka.”

”There's one of them an' all,” says the delivery guy. ”In the other lorry.”

”But we didn't buy this!” says Luke.

He gives me a questioning look and I quickly rearrange my features as though to say ”I'm as baffled as you are!”

Inside, my mind is working frantically: I'll deny I've ever seen it; we'll send it back; it'll all be fine- ” 's.h.i.+pped by Mrs. Rebecca Brandon,' ” the guy reads aloud from the label. ”Table and ten chairs. From Denmark. Here's the signature.”

f.u.c.k.

Very slowly, Luke turns toward me.

”Becky, did you buy a table and ten chairs in Denmark?” he says almost pleasantly.

”Er . . .” I lick my lips nervously. ”Er . . . I-I might have.”

”I see.” Luke closes his eyes for a moment as though weighing up a math problem. ”And then you bought another table-and ten more chairs-in Sri Lanka?”

”I forgot about the first one!” I say desperately. ”I totally forgot! Look, it was a very long honeymoon. . . . I lost track of a few things. . . .”

Out of the corner of my eye I can see a guy picking up the bundle of twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns. s.h.i.+t.

I think I have to get Luke away from these lorries as soon as possible.

”We'll sort it all out,” I say quickly. ”I promise. But now, why don't you go upstairs and have a nice drink? You just relax! And I'll stay down here and do the supervising.”

An hour later it's all finished. The men close up the lorries and I hand them a hefty tip. As they roar away I look over to see Luke coming out the front door of the building.

”Hi!” I say. ”Well, that wasn't too bad, was it?”

”Do you want to come upstairs a minute?” Luke says in a strange voice.

As we travel up in the lift I smile at Luke a couple of times, but he doesn't smile back.

”So . . . did you put all the stuff in the sitting room?” I say as we approach the front door. ”Or in the-”

My voice dies away as the door swings open.

Oh my G.o.d.

Luke's flat is totally unrecognizable.

The beige carpet has disappeared under a sea of parcels, trunks, and pieces of furniture. The hall is crammed with boxes which I recognize from the outlet in Utah, plus the batik paintings from Bali and the two Chinese urns. I edge past them into the sitting room, and gulp as I look around. There are packages everywhere. Rolled-up kilims and dhurries are propped up in one corner. In another, the Indonesian gamelan is jostling for s.p.a.ce with a slate coffee table turned on its side and a Native American totem pole.

I'm sensing it's my turn to speak.

”Gos.h.!.+” I give a little laugh. ”There are quite a lot of . . . rugs, aren't there?”

”Seventeen,” says Luke, still in the same strange voice. ”I've counted.” He steps over a bamboo coffee table which I got in Thailand and looks at the label of a large wooden chest. ”This box apparently contains forty mugs.” He looks up. ”Forty mugs?”

”I know it sounds like a lot,” I say quickly. ”But they were only about 50p each! It was a bargain! We'll never need to buy mugs ever again!”

Luke regards me for a moment.

”Becky, I never want to buy anything ever again.”

”Look . . .” I try to step toward him but b.u.mp my knee on a painted wooden statue of Ganesh, the G.o.d of wisdom and success. ”It's . . . it's not that bad! I know it seems like a lot. But it's like . . . an optical illusion. Once it's all unpacked, and we put it all away . . . it'll look great!”

”We have five coffee tables,” says Luke, ignoring me. ”Were you aware of that?”

”Er . . . well.” I clear my throat. ”Not exactly. So we might have to . . . rationalize a bit.”

”Rationalize?” Luke looks around the room incredulously. ”Rationalize this lot? It's a mess!”

”Maybe it looks a bit of a mishmash at the moment,” I say hurriedly. ”But I can pull it all together! I can make it work! It'll be our signature look. If we just do some mood boards-”

”Becky,” Luke interrupts. ”Would you like to know what mood I'm in right now?”

”Er . . .”

I watch nervously as Luke s.h.i.+fts two packages from Guatemala aside and sinks down on the sofa.