Shopaholic & Sister (20 page)

“But that’s so . . . narrow-minded! Most people have probably got a criminal record these days!” I gesture widely with my arms. “I mean, who sitting round this table does not have some kind of criminal record?”

There’s a short silence.

“Well,” says Luke. “I don’t. Gary doesn’t. You don’t.”

I look at him, taken aback. I suppose he’s right. I don’t.

That’s quite a surprise, actually. I’d always thought of myself as living on the edge.

“Even so—”

“Becky, what’s brought this on, anyway?” Luke frowns. “Why are you so obsessed with Nathan Temple?”

“I’m not
obsessed
!” I say hurriedly. “I’m just . . . interested in your clients. And prospective clients.”

“Well, he’s not my client. Nor my prospective client,” says Luke with finality. “And neither will he ever be.”

“Right. Well . . . that’s pretty clear.”

We all study our menus. At least, the other two are studying their menus. I’m pretending to study mine, while my mind goes skittering round and round.

So I can’t persuade Luke. So I’ll just have to manage the situation. This is what supportive wives do. They deal with problems discreetly and efficiently. I bet Hillary Clinton’s done this kind of thing millions of times.

It’ll be fine. I’ll simply phone up Nathan Temple, thank him for his kind offer, and say that, unfortunately, Luke’s really, really busy—

No. I’ll say he
tried
to call but no one answered. . . .

“Becky? Are you OK?”

I look up to see both men looking at me with concern. Abruptly I realize I’m tapping the table harder and harder with one of Gary’s pencils.

“I’m great!” I say, and quickly put it down.

OK. I have a plan. What I will do is . . . I will say that Luke is ill.

Yes. No one can argue with that.

So as soon as we get home and Luke is closeted with Gary in the study, I hurry to the phone in our bedroom. I kick the bedroom door shut and quickly dial the number Nathan Temple gave me. To my huge relief, it clicks straight into voice mail.

And now that I’m listening properly, he sounds
exactly
like a motel king with a criminal past. Why on earth didn’t I hear it before? I must be deaf or something!

The beep goes, and I jump in fright.

“Hi!” I say, trying to keep my voice light and easy. “This is a message for Mr. Temple. It’s Becky Brandon here. Er . . . I told my husband all about your hotel, and he thought it sounded fab! But I’m afraid he’s not very well at the moment. So he won’t be able to do the launch after all. Which is a real shame! Anyway, I hope you find someone else! Bye!”

I put the phone down and sink onto the bed, my heart thumping. All this stress is going to give me a heart attack. Maybe I should try some of my yoga exercises from Sri Lanka. I cross my legs and close my eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out. I am a radiant being of white light. My body is a temple.

Temple. Oh God . . .

“Becky?” Luke opens the door, and I nearly fall off the bed in terror.

“What? What is it?”

“What’s wrong?” Luke looks alarmed. “Becky, are you hyperventilating?”

“Just doing a bit of relaxing yoga!” I say breathlessly. “I’m fine!”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you”—Luke smiles—“Jess is here.”

“SHE’S COMING UP in the lift,” says Luke, opening the front door. “Who were you on the phone with, by the way?”

“Nobody,” I say quickly. “I was just . . . er . . . checking the time.”

Gradually my pulse is slowing down. It’s fine, I tell myself firmly. It’s done. Everything’s sorted.

I can hear the lift moving, down below. Jess is on her way! Quickly I grab my crib sheet and skim it one last time. Border collies . . . hates avocados . . . math teacher was called Mr. Lewis . . .

“Becky, I’d put that away before she arrives,” says Luke, looking amused.

“Oh. Right.”

I stuff it into my pocket and take a few deep breaths to prepare myself.

“Listen, Becky,” says Luke, watching me. “Before she arrives . . . I sincerely hope you two hit it off this time. But you are keeping a sense of proportion? You don’t have all your hopes pinned on this visit, do you?”

“Really, Luke,” I say kindly. “Don’t you know me better than that?”

Of course
I have all my hopes pinned on this visit. Because I know it’s going to work out. Things will be different this time. For a start, we won’t do anything that Jess doesn’t want to do. I’m just going to follow her lead.

And the other thing I must remember is a tip that Luke gave me. He said it was great that I was so friendly toward Jess—but that she’s quite reserved, and maybe great big hugs weren’t her style. So he suggested I should be a bit more collected, just until we know each other better. Which is a fair point.

From the hall comes the noise of the lift getting closer. Why is this lift so
slow
? And then suddenly the doors are opening to reveal Jess in jeans and a gray T-shirt, holding her rucksack.

“Hi!” I cry, running forward. “Welcome! We can do whatever you want this weekend! Anything! Just name it! You’re the boss!”

Jess doesn’t move. In fact . . . she seems frozen to the spot.

“Hi, Jess,” Luke says more calmly. “Welcome to London.”

“Come on in!” I spread my arms. “Make yourself at home! No avocados here!”

Jess stares at me uncertainly, then glances at the buttons of the lift, almost like she wants to go back down again.

“Let me take your bag,” says Luke. “How was your conference?”

He ushers Jess into the flat, and she looks around warily.

“It was good, thanks,” she says. “Hi, Becky.”

“Hi! It’s so great you’re here! I’ll show you your room.”

I open the door of the guest room proudly, waiting for her to comment on the cave picture, or
Potholing Monthly
. But she says nothing, just “Thanks,” as Luke puts down her bag.

“Look,” I point out. “It’s a cave!”

“Er . . . yes,” says Jess, looking slightly bewildered.

There’s a pause—and I feel a tiny spasm of alarm.

“Let’s all have a drink!” I exclaim. “Let’s open a bottle of champagne!”

“Becky . . . it’s only four o’clock,” says Luke. “Maybe a cup of tea would be more appropriate?”

“I’d love a cup of tea,” says Jess.

“Tea, then!” I say. “Excellent idea!”

I lead the way into the kitchen, and Jess follows, peering all around the flat.

“Nice place,” she says.

“Becky’s done a great job on it,” Luke says pleasantly. “You should have seen it this time last week. We’d had a load of purchases delivered from our honeymoon . . . and you could not
move
for the stuff.” He shakes his head. “I still don’t know how you did it, Becky.”

“Oh, you know,” I say modestly. “Just a question of organization.”

I’m switching on the kettle as Gary comes into the kitchen.

“This is my associate, Gary,” says Luke. “This is Becky’s half sister, Jess. She comes from Cumbria.”

“Ah!” says Gary as he shakes Jess’s hand. “I know Cumbria! Beautiful part of the country. Whereabouts do you live?”

“A village called Scully,” replies Jess. “It’s pretty rural. Very different from this.”

“I’ve been to Scully!” says Gary. “Years ago. Isn’t there a famous walk nearby?”

“You probably mean Scully Pike.”

“That’s it! We tried to climb it, but the weather took a turn. Nearly fell off the bloody thing.”

“It can be dangerous,” says Jess. “You have to know what you’re doing. Idiots come up from the south and get in all sorts of trouble.”

“That’s me,” Gary says cheerfully. “But it’s worth it for the scenery. Those drystone walls are spectacular,” he adds to Luke. “Like works of art. Miles and miles of them, strung out across the countryside.”

I’m listening to the conversation in total fascination. I’d love to get to know a bit of rural England a bit better. I’d love to see some drystone walls. I mean, all I know is London and Surrey, which is practically London anyway.

“We should buy a cottage in Cumbria!” I say enthusiastically. “In Jess’s village! Then we could see you all the time,” I add to Jess. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

There’s quite a long silence.

“Yes,” says Jess at last. “Great.”

“I don’t think we’ll be buying any cottages in the near future,” says Luke. “We’re on a budget, remember?”

“Yes, I know,” I retort. “And I’m sticking to it, aren’t I?”

“Well, yes,” says Luke. “Incredibly, you are.” He looks at the tin of Fortnum biscuits on the counter. “Although, quite frankly, I have no idea how you’re managing it.” He opens the fridge. “Look at all this. Stuffed olives . . . smoked lobster . . . and this is supposed to be on a
budget
?”

I can’t help feeling a little glow of pride. All that food is courtesy of selling those Tiffany clocks! I was so delighted, I went straight out and bought a big hamperful of all Luke’s favorite things.

“Just a question of good household management,” I say nonchalantly.

“Hmm.” Luke gives me a suspicious look, then turns to Gary. “We must get on.”

The two men head out of the kitchen, and I’m left alone with Jess. I perch on a bar stool opposite her.

“So!” I say. “What would you like to do?”

“I’m easy,” Jess says with a shrug.

“It’s up to you! Totally!”

“I don’t really mind.” Jess sips her tea.

The kitchen is still and quiet, apart from the tap dripping slowly into the sink.

Which is fine. This is just one of those companionable, quiet moments you can have with members of your family. In fact, it
shows
we’re easy with each other. It’s not remotely awkward or anything—

Oh God,
speak
. Please.

“I’d like to do some weight training,” says Jess suddenly. “I normally work out every day. But I haven’t had time this week.”

“Right!” I say in delight. “That’s a brilliant idea! I’ll do it too!”

“Really?” Jess looks surprised.

“Of course!” I take a final sip of tea, then put my cup down. “I’ll just go and get ready!”

What a marvelous idea. Doing exercise together will be totally bonding! We can go to Taylor’s Health Club round the corner, where I’m a gold member, do a bit of a workout, and then head to the juice bar. I know the juice bar will be open, because I’ve been there loads of times before at about this hour of the day.

And I should think the gym bit will be open too, downstairs.

Or is it upstairs?

Anyway. Wherever it is.

I yank open my wardrobe doors and pull out my drawer full of gym kit. I could wear my Juicy tracksuit, except I might get too hot . . . or that really cool pink top, except I’ve seen a girl in the juice bar wearing the same exact one. . . .

At last I select some black leggings with retro piping up the sides, plus a white T-shirt and my fab hi-tech trainers that I got in the States. They cost quite a lot, but then, as the leaflet points out, they
are
biomechanically balanced with a dual-density midsole. Plus their advanced engineering means you can take them seamlessly from the marathon track to the outdoor terrain of the trail hike.

I quickly put on the whole outfit, tie my hair up in a ponytail, and add my cool Adidas sports watch. (Which just shows how wrong Luke is. I
knew
I would need a sports watch one day.) I hurry to the guest room and knock on the door.

“Hi!”

“Come in.” Jess’s voice sounds muffled and kind of weird. Cautiously I push open the door. She’s changed into old gray shorts and a cropped T-shirt and to my surprise is lying on the floor.

Doing sit-ups, I suddenly realize as her entire torso rises off the ground. Blimey. She’s quite good at them. And I’ve never
seen
such a muscled stomach, except in a Cindy Crawford video.

Now she’s doing those twisty ones that I’ve never been able to manage more than about three of.

“So . . . shall we go?” I say.

“Go where?” Jess says without missing a beat.

“To the gym! I thought you wanted to . . .” I trail off as she starts raising her legs off the ground too.

OK, now that’s just showing off.

“I don’t need to go anywhere. I can work out here.”

Here
? Is she serious? But there aren’t any mirrors. There isn’t any MTV. There isn’t a juice bar.

My gaze falls on a snakelike scar at the top of Jess’s shin. I’m about to ask how she did it, when she catches me looking and flushes red.

Maybe she’s sensitive. I’d better not mention it.

“Don’t you need weights?” I say instead.

“I’ve got them.” She reaches in her rucksack and pulls out two old water bottles filled with sand.

Those are her weights?

“I wouldn’t go near a gym,” she says, starting to raise the bottles above her head. “Waste of money. Half the people who join gyms never go, anyway. They buy expensive outfits and never even wear them. What’s the point in that?”

“Oh, absolutely!” I say quickly. “I totally agree.”

Jess stops and adjusts her grip on one of the weights. Then her eye falls on the back of my leggings.

“What’s that?” she says.

“Er . . .” I reach round with my hand.

Damn. It’s the price tag hanging out.

“Er . . . nothing!” I say, hastily tucking it in. “I’ll just go and get some . . . weights of my own.”

As I return from the kitchen with two bottles of Evian, I can’t help feeling a bit disconcerted. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind. I’d pictured the two of us running effortlessly along on adjacent machines, with some upbeat song playing and the spotlights making our hair look all shiny.

Anyway, never mind.

“So . . . I’ll follow you, shall I?” I say, joining Jess on the carpet.

“I’m going on to some biceps work,” says Jess. “It’s pretty straightforward.” She starts raising her arms up and down, and I copy what she’s doing. God, she exercises quite fast, doesn’t she?

“Shall I put on some music?” I say after a few moments.

“I don’t need music,” says Jess.

“No. Neither do I,” I say quickly.