Mini Shopaholic (20 page)

Whereas Elinor … about anything.

Half of me wants to say, ‘You know what, Elinor? Forget it, you’ll never understand.’ But the other half wants to rise to the challenge. I want to try and
make
her understand, even if it turns out to be impossible. I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. I feel like I’m about to explain a foreign language to her.

‘Annabel loved Luke,’ I say at last, folding my napkin into pleats. ‘Unconditionally. She loved him for all his good points and all his flaws. And she didn’t want anything in return.’

In all the time I’ve known Luke, Elinor has only been interested in him when he could do something for her or raise money for her stupid charity, or cast her some reflected glory. Even the wedding she put on for us in the Plaza was all about her and
her
position in society.

‘Annabel would have done anything for Luke.’ I’m staring determinedly down at my napkin. ‘And she would never have expected any reward or result. She was proud of his success, of course she was, but she would have loved him whatever he’d done.
Whatever
he’d achieved. He was just her boy and she loved him. And she never switched that love off. I don’t think she could.’

I’m feeling a bit tight around the throat. Even though we hardly ever saw her, Annabel’s death hit me, too. Sometimes I can’t quite believe she isn’t here any more.

‘And by the way, just so you know, she
was
elegant and refined,’ I can’t help adding, a little savagely. ‘Because when Luke started spending more time in New York, and getting to know you, she never said anything but positive things about you. She loved Luke so much, she’d rather do that and have him happy than ever let him know she was hurt. That’s a pretty elegant and refined way to behave, if you ask
me.’

To my horror my eyes are damp. I shouldn’t have got into this. I wipe them furiously and take Minnie’s hand.

‘We’ve got to go, Min. Thanks for the tea, Elinor.’

I’m scrabbling for my bag. I have to get out of here. I don’t bother putting Minnie’s coat on but just grab it, and we’re nearly at the door when Elinor’s voice hits the back of my head.

‘I would like to see Minnie again.’

In spite of myself, I turn to look at her. She’s sitting bolt upright in the chair, her face as pale and expressionless as ever. I can’t tell if she even heard anything I just said, let alone whether it went in.

‘I would …’ She seems to be speaking with a struggle. ‘I would appreciate your kindness if you were to arrange another meeting between me and Minnie.’

She would ‘appreciate my kindness’. God, how the tables have turned.

‘I don’t know,’ I say after a pause. ‘Maybe.’

Thoughts are jumbling round my head. This wasn’t supposed to be the beginning of some regular arrangement. It was supposed to be a one-off. I already feel like I’ve betrayed Luke. And Annabel. And everyone. What am I even
doing
here?

But at the same time I can’t rid myself of that image: Minnie and Elinor staring silently at each other with the same mesmerized gaze.

If I don’t ever let them see each other, am I just repeating what happened with Luke? Will Minnie get a complex and blame me for not ever letting her see her grandmother?

Oh God, it’s all too complicated. I can’t cope. I want a normal, straightforward family where grannies are kindly creatures who sit by the fire and do knitting.

‘I just don’t know,’ I say again. ‘We have to go.’

‘Goodbye, Minnie.’ Elinor stiffly lifts a hand like the Queen.

‘Bye-bye, Lady,’ says Minnie brightly.

The little pocket of Minnie’s dress is stuffed with jigsaw pieces, I suddenly notice. I should take them out and give them back to Elinor, because otherwise she might spend ages trying to do a jigsaw that’s incomplete. And that would be really annoying and frustrating for her, wouldn’t it?

So as a mature, adult person, I really should give them back.

‘Bye, then,’ I say, then head out of the door and pull it shut.

All the way home I’m swamped with guilt and paranoia. I cannot tell a
soul
where I was today. No one would understand and Luke would be devastated. Or furious. Or both.

As I head into the kitchen, I’m braced for an instant quiz on where Minnie and I have been all afternoon, but Mum just looks up from her seat at the table and says, ‘Hello, love.’ There’s something about her high-pitched, edgy tone which makes me give her a second glance. Her cheeks are a suspect pink colour, too.

‘Hi, Mum. Everything OK?’ My eyes drop to the navy-blue sock in her hand. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Well!’ Clearly she’s just been waiting for me to ask. ‘I would have thought it was obvious! I’m darning your father’s socks, since we’re too
impecunious
to afford any new clothes …’

‘I didn’t say that!’ Dad strides into the kitchen behind me.

‘… but now he says they’re unwearable!’ Mum finishes. ‘Does that look unwearable to you, Becky?’

‘Er …’

I examine the sock she thrusts at me. Not to be rude about Mum’s darning, but it does look a bit lumpy, with great big stitches in bright-blue wool.
I
wouldn’t fancy putting it on.

‘Couldn’t you get some new socks at the pound shop?’ I suggest.

‘New socks? And who’s supposed to pay for those, may I ask?’ demands Mum shrilly, as though I’ve suggested Dad gets the finest bespoke monogrammed socks from Jermyn Street.

‘Well … er … they only cost a pound …’

‘I’ve ordered some from John Lewis,’ says Dad with an air of finality.

‘John Lewis!’ Mum’s voice shrills even higher. ‘We can afford John Lewis now, can we? I see, it’s one rule for you, Graham, and another for me. Well, as long as I know where I stand …’

‘Jane, don’t be
ridiculous
. You know as well as I do that a pair of socks isn’t going to ruin us …’

Surreptitiously I take Minnie by the hand and lead her out of the kitchen.

Mum and Dad are so scratchy at the moment, Mum in particular. Luckily, I gave Minnie supper at Pizza Express on the way home, so she just needs to have her bath and some milk. Then, when she’s in bed I can log on to my secret email account and see if there are any replies yet …

‘Becky.’ Luke’s voice makes me jump like a scalded cat. There he is, coming down the stairs. What’s he doing home this early? Does he know about Elinor? What does he suspect?

Stop it. Stay calm, Becky. He doesn’t suspect anything. He had a meeting with a client in Brighton, that’s all.

‘Oh, hi there!’ I say brightly. ‘Minnie and I were just … out.’

‘That would make sense.’ Luke gives me a quizzical glance. ‘How’s my girl?’ He reaches the bottom of the stairs and swings Minnie up into his arms.

‘Lady,’ says Minnie seriously.

‘Lady?’ Luke tickles her chin. ‘Which lady, poppet?’

‘Lady.’ Her eyes are huge and reverent. ‘Puzz-le.’

Aargh! Since when did Minnie know how to say ‘puzzle’? Why does she have to expand her vocabulary
now?
What other words will she suddenly come out with? ‘Elinor’? ‘Ritz Hotel’? ‘Guess what, Daddy, I went to see my other grandmother today’?

‘Puzz-le.’ She suddenly plucks the puzzle pieces out of her pocket and presents them to Luke. ‘Lady.’

‘How funny!’ I laugh quickly. ‘We were looking at puzzles in a toy shop and there was one of the Mona Lisa.
That
must be why she’s saying “puzzle” and “lady”.’

‘Tea,’ adds Minnie.

‘And we had tea,’ I chime in desperately. ‘Just us. Just the two of us.’

Don’t say ‘Grand-muff’, for God’s sake don’t say ‘Grand-muff’ …

‘Sounds good.’ Luke drops Minnie to the floor. ‘By the way, I just had a phone message from Michael’s assistant.’

‘Michael!’ I say absently. ‘That’s great. How is he?’

Michael is one of our oldest friends and lives in the States. He was Luke’s business partner for ages, but now he’s more or less retired.

‘I don’t know. It was a bit strange.’ Luke takes out a Post-it and gives it a puzzled glance. ‘It was a bad line, but I
think
the assistant said something about 7 April? About not being able to make a party?’

Party?

Party?

The world seems to freeze. I’m pinioned, staring at Luke in horror. My heart seems to be thumping loudly inside my head.

What was Michael’s assistant doing
phoning?
She was supposed to
email
. It’s supposed to be a
secret
. Did I not write that big enough? Did I not make it clear?

‘Has he invited us to something?’ Luke looks perplexed. ‘I don’t remember getting an invitation.’

‘Me neither,’ I manage, after what seems like six hours. ‘Sounds like the message got garbled.’

‘We couldn’t make it out to the States anyway.’ Luke is frowning at the message. ‘It’s just not feasible. And I think I’ve got something on that day. A training conference or something.’

‘Right.’ I’m nodding frantically. ‘Right. Well, why don’t
I
get back to Michael about it?’ I take the Post-it from Luke, trying very hard not to snatch it. ‘Just leave it to me. I want to ask after his daughter, anyway. She sometimes comes to The Look, when she’s in town.’

‘Of course she does. Where else would she go?’ Luke gives me a disarming smile, but I can’t return it.

‘So … would you mind giving Minnie her bath?’ I try to speak calmly. ‘I’ve just got a quick call I need to make.’

‘Sure.’ Luke heads for the stairs. ‘C’mon, Min, bath time.’

I wait until they’ve reached the landing, then leg it outside to the drive, speed-dialling Bonnie’s number.

‘Disaster! Catastrophe!’ I barely even wait for her to say hello. ‘One of the guests’ assistants rang up about the party! She left a message with Luke! I mean, I managed to save the situation … but what if I hadn’t?’

‘Oh, goodness.’ Bonnie sounds shocked. ‘How unfortunate.’

‘I wrote on the invitation, “Don’t call”!’ I’m gabbling almost hysterically. ‘How much clearer could I have been? What if other people start calling? What do I do?’

‘Becky, don’t panic,’ says Bonnie. ‘I’ll have a think about this. How about we have breakfast tomorrow to formulate a plan? I’ll tell Luke I’m coming in late.’

‘OK. Thanks so much, Bonnie. See you tomorrow.’

Slowly my pulse-rate starts subsiding. Honestly, organizing a surprise party is like doing sudden hundred-metre sprints with no warning the whole time. They should offer it instead of personal training.

Ooh, maybe I’ll end up super-fit with no effort.
That
would be cool.

I put my phone away and am heading back into the house when I become aware of the grinding sound of an engine. A big white van is pulling into the drive, which is weird.

‘Hi.’ I approach hesitantly. ‘Can I help you?’

A guy in a T-shirt leans out of the cab of the van. He’s in his late forties, with dark stubble and a massive tattooed forearm.

‘You the bartering girl? Becky?’

‘What?’ I peer at him in surprise. What’s going on? I haven’t even put any ads in recently. Unless he’s got those latest Prada shades and wants to swap them for a blue Missoni scarf.

Which somehow I doubt.

‘My daughter promised you a marquee? Nicole Taylor? Sixteen-year-old?’

This is Nicole’s
dad?
I suddenly notice a nasty frown between his eyes. Shit. He looks quite scary. Is he going to tell me off for bartering with someone under-age?

‘Well yes, but—’

‘Whole story came out last night. My wife wanted to know where she got them bags you gave her. Nicole should never have done it.’

‘I didn’t realize she was so young,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘You think a marquee costs the same as a couple of handbags?’ he says menacingly.

Oh God. Does he think I was trying to pull some kind of scam?

‘No! I mean … I don’t know!’ My voice jumps with nerves. ‘I was just hoping someone might just have a spare marquee they didn’t want, you know, lying around the place—’

I break off as I suddenly realize my voice might be carrying up to the bathroom window. Shit.

‘Can we whisper, please?’ I edge nearer the cab. ‘It’s all supposed to be a secret. And if my husband comes out … I’m buying fruit off you, OK?’

Nicole’s dad shoots me an incredulous look, then says, ‘How much are them bags worth, anyway?’

‘They cost about a thousand pounds new. I mean, it depends how much you like Marc Jacobs, I suppose …’

‘Thousand quid.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘She’s a bloody little
lunatic.’

I don’t dare chime in, either to agree or disagree. In fact, now I think about it, he might be talking about me.

Abruptly Nicole’s dad focuses on me again. ‘All right,’ he says heavily. ‘If my daughter promised you a marquee, I’ll supply a marquee. I can’t lay on the full monty, you’ll have to put it up yourself. But we’re quiet at the moment. I’ll sort you something.’

For an instant I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.

‘You’ll get me a
marquee?’
I clap a hand over my mouth. ‘Oh my God. Do you know that you have just saved my life?’

Nicole’s dad gives a short laugh and hands me a card. ‘One of the lads’ll be in touch. Tell him the date, say Cliff knows about it, we’ll sort you out.’ He grinds the van into gear and starts reversing out of the drive.

‘Thanks, Cliff!’ I call after him. ‘Tell Nicole I hope she’s enjoying the bags!’

I want to dance around. I want to whoop. I’ve got a marquee! And it didn’t cost thousands, and it’s all sorted. I
knew
I could do it.

CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1

Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey

28 February 2006

Dear Rebecca

Thank you for your prompt reply. It is most kind of you to issue permission so readily.

Unfortunately
The British Journal of Monetary Economics
is not an illustrated periodical and does not have a ‘photo-editor’ or ‘stylist’ as you suggest. I will therefore be unable to use the photographs of the Missoni coat, belt and boots that you so kindly enclosed and return them with thanks.

Yours sincerely

Edwin Tredwell
Director of Policy Research