Shopaholic & Sister (26 page)

Which I know doesn’t sound
that
profound—but maybe it was the last straw in the haystack. And besides, I read an article in
Marie Claire
yesterday which said it’s the little, niggling things which count in a relationship.

I hurry to the sitting room and head straight for the jumbled pile of CDs by the music system. As I sort them out I feel a kind of lightness. A liberation. This will be the turning point in our marriage.

I stack them neatly and wait till Luke walks past the door on his way to the bedroom.

“Look!” I call out with a note of pride in my voice. “I’ve organized the CDs! They’re all back in their proper boxes!”

Luke glances into the room.

“Great,” he says with an absent nod, and carries on walking.

Is that all he can say?

Here I am, mending our troubled marriage, and he hasn’t even
noticed
.

Suddenly the buzzer goes in the hall, and I leap to my feet. This must be Mum and Dad. I’ll have to get back to our marriage later.

I knew that Mum and Dad had really got into their counseling, but somehow I wasn’t expecting them to turn up with slogans on their sweatshirts. Mum’s reads I AM WOMAN, I AM GODDESS and Dad’s says DON’T LET THE PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE BASTARDS GET YOU DOWN.

“Wow!” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “Those are great!”

“We got them at the center,” says Mum, beaming. “Aren’t they fun?”

“So you must be really enjoying your therapy.”

“It’s marvelous!” exclaims Mum. “
So
much more interesting than bridge. And so sociable! We did a group session the other day and who do you think should have turned up? Marjorie Davis, who used to live across the road!”

“Really?” I say in surprise. “Did she get married, then?”

“Oh no!” Mum lowers her voice tactfully. “She has
boundary issues
, poor thing.”

I can’t quite get my head round all this. What on earth are boundary issues?

“So . . . er . . . do
you
have issues?” I say as we go into the kitchen. “Has it all been really hard going?”

“Oh, we’ve been to the abyss and back,” says Mum, nodding. “Haven’t we, Graham?”

“Right to the edge,” says Dad agreeably.

“But the rage and guilt are behind us now. We’re both empowered to live and love.” She beams at me and roots around in her holdall. “I brought a nice Swiss roll. Shall we put the kettle on?”

“Mum’s found her inner goddess,” says Dad proudly. “She walked on hot coals, you know!”

I gape at her.

“You walked on hot coals? Oh my God! I did that in Sri Lanka! Did it hurt?”

“Not at all! It was painless!” says Mum. “I kept my gardening shoes on, of course,” she adds as an afterthought.

“Wow!” I say. “That’s brilliant.” I watch as Mum briskly slices the Swiss roll. “So what kind of things do you talk about?”

“Everything!” She starts arranging the slices on a plate. “I had resentment issues, of course . . .”

“You were in denial,” Dad chimes in.

“Oh, I found it hard at first.” Mum nods. “The fact that Daddy had another woman in his life. And a daughter, no less. But then . . . it was all before he met me. And the truth is, a man as handsome as your father was bound to have a few escapades.” Mum looks at Dad with a coquettish smile. “I could never resist him . . . so why should other women?”

Is Mum
fluttering her eyelashes
?

“I could never resist
you
,” Dad replies with a flirty lift to his voice.

They’re gazing at each other adoringly over the plate of Swiss roll slices. I might as well not be in the room.

“Ahem.” I clear my throat and they both come to.

“Yes! Well. We still have a lot to learn,” says Mum, offering me the plate. “That’s why we’re going on this cruise.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Yes. The . . . therapy cruise.” The first time Mum told me about this I thought she had to be joking. “So the idea is you sail round the Mediterranean and everyone has therapy sessions.”

“It’s not
just
therapy!” says Mum. “There are sightseeing expeditions too.”

“And entertainment,” puts in Dad. “Apparently they have some very good shows. And a black-tie dinner dance.”

“All our chums from the center are going,” adds Mum. “We’ve already organized a little cocktail party for the first night! Plus . . .” She hesitates. “One of the guest speakers specializes in reunions with long-lost family members. Which should be particularly interesting for us.”

I feel an uncomfortable twinge. I don’t want to think about long-lost family members. Mum and Dad are exchanging looks.

“So . . . you didn’t really hit it off with Jess,” ventures Dad at last.

Oh God. I can tell he’s disappointed.

“Not really,” I say, looking away. “We’re just . . . not very similar people.”

“And why should you be?” says Mum, putting a supportive hand on my arm. “You’ve grown up totally apart. Why should you have anything more in common with Jess than with . . . say . . .” She thinks for a moment. “Kylie Minogue.”

“Becky’s got far more in common with Jess than with Kylie Minogue!” exclaims Dad at once. “Kylie Minogue’s Australian, for a start.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” says Mum. “We’re all in the Commonwealth, aren’t we? Becky would probably get on very well with Kylie Minogue. Wouldn’t you, darling?”

“Er . . .”

“They’d have nothing to say to each other,” says Dad, shaking his head. “I’m telling you.”

“Of course they would!” retorts Mum. “They’d have a lovely conversation! I expect they’d become great friends!”

“Now, Cher,” says Dad. “
That’s
an interesting woman.”

“Becky doesn’t want to be friends with Cher!” Mum says indignantly. “Madonna, maybe . . .”

“Yes, well, the day I meet Kylie Minogue, Cher,
or
Madonna, I’ll let you know, OK?” I say, a little more snappily than I meant to.

Mum and Dad turn to survey me. Then Mum glances at Dad.

“Graham, go and give Luke his coffee.” She hands a mug to Dad, and as soon as he’s gone, she gives me a searching look.

“Becky, love!” she says. “Are you all right? You seem a bit tense.”

Mum’s sympathetic face makes my composure crumble. Suddenly all the worries I’ve been trying so hard to bury start rising to the surface.

“Don’t worry about Jess,” she says kindly. “lt doesn’t matter in the least if you two girls don’t get on. Nobody will mind!”

I busy myself with the coffeepot, hoping to stem the tears I can feel right behind my eyes.

“It’s not Jess,” I say. “At least, it’s not just Jess. It’s . . . Luke.”

“Luke?” says Mum in astonishment.

“Things aren’t going too well at the moment. In fact . . .” My voice starts to wobble. “In fact . . . I think our marriage is in trouble.”

Oh God. Now I’ve said it aloud it sounds totally true.
Our marriage is in trouble
.

“Are you sure, love?” Mum looks perplexed. “You both seem very happy to me!”

“Well, we’re not! We’ve just had this horrible huge row!”

Mum bursts into laughter.

“Don’t laugh!” I say indignantly. “It was awful!”

“Of course it was, love!” she says. “You’re coming up to your first anniversary, aren’t you?”

“Er . . . yes.”

“Well, then. That’s the time for your First Big Row! You knew that, didn’t you, Becky?”

“What?” I say blankly.

“Your First Big Row!” She tuts at my expression. “Dear me! What do the women’s magazines teach you girls nowadays!”

“Er . . . how to put on acrylic nails?”

“Well! They should be teaching you about happy marriages! All couples have a First Big Row at around a year. A big argument, then the air is cleared, and everything’s back to normal.”

“I never knew that,” I say slowly. “So . . . our marriage isn’t in trouble after all?”

This makes a lot of sense. A First Big Row—and then everything’s calm and happy again. Like a thunderstorm. Clear air and renewal. Or one of those forest fires that seem awful but in fact are
good
because all the little plants can grow again. Exactly. But the real point is . . . Yes! This means none of it was my fault! We were going to have a row anyway, whatever I did! I’m really starting to cheer up again. Everything’s going to be lovely again. I beam at Mum and take a huge bite of Swiss roll.

“So . . . Luke and I won’t have any more rows,” I say, just to be on the safe side.

“Oh no!” says Mum reassuringly. “Not until your Second Big Row, which won’t be until—”

She’s interrupted by the kitchen door banging open and Luke appearing in the doorway. He’s holding the phone and his face is elated.

“We got it. We’ve got the Arcodas Group!”

I knew everything was going to be all right! I
knew
it. It’s all lovely! In fact, it’s been like Christmas all day long!

Luke canceled his meeting and went straight into the office to celebrate—and after seeing Mum and Dad off in a taxi I joined him there. God, I love the Brandon Communications office. It’s all chic, with blond wood and spotlights everywhere, and it’s such a happy place. Everyone just mills around, merrily swigging champagne all day! Or at least, they do when they’ve just won an enormous pitch. All day long, there’s been the sound of laughter and excited voices everywhere, and someone’s programmed all the computers to sing “Congratulations” every ten minutes.

Luke and his senior people held a quick celebration/strategy meeting, which I sat in on. At first they were all saying things like “The work starts here” and “We need to recruit” and “There are huge challenges ahead.” But then Luke suddenly exclaimed, “Fuck it. Let’s party. We’ll think about the challenges tomorrow.”

So he got his assistant on the phone to some caterers, and at five o’clock loads of guys in black aprons appeared in the offices with more champagne, and canapés arranged on cool Perspex boxes. All the employees piled into the biggest conference room, and there was music on the sound system, and Luke made a little speech in which he said it was a great day for Brandon C, and well done, and everyone cheered.

And now a few of us are going out to dinner for
another
celebration! I’m in Luke’s office redoing my makeup, and he’s changing into a fresh shirt.

“Congratulations,” I say for the millionth time. “It’s fantastic.”

“It’s a good day.” Luke grins at me, doing up his cuffs. “This could pave the way for a lot.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Ditto.” Luke’s face suddenly softens. He comes over and wraps his arms round me. “I know I’ve been distracted lately. And I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” I say, looking down. “And I’m . . . I’m sorry I sold the clocks.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Luke strokes my hair. “I know things haven’t been easy for you. What with coming home . . . your sister . . .”

“Yes, well,” I say at once. “Let’s not think about her. Let’s think about
us
. The future.” I pull his head down and kiss him. “It’s all going to be great.”

For a while we’re both quiet. But in a good way. It’s just us, in each other’s arms, relaxed and content and together, like we used to be on our honeymoon. I feel a great swell of relief. Mum was so right! That First Big Row totally cleared the air! We’re closer than ever!

“I love you,” I murmur.

“I love
you
.” Luke kisses my nose. “We should get going.”

“OK. I’ll go down and see if the car’s here yet.”

I head along the corridor, floating on a cloud of joy. Everything’s perfect. Everything! As I pass the caterers’ trays, I pick up a glass of champagne and take a few sips. Maybe we’ll go dancing tonight. After dinner. When everyone else has gone home, Luke and I will go on to a club and celebrate properly, just the two of us.

I trip happily down the stairs, still holding my glass, and open the door into reception. Then I stop, puzzled. A few yards away, a thin-faced guy in a chalk-striped suit is talking to Janet, the receptionist. He seems kind of familiar, somehow, but I can’t quite place him. . . .

Yes. I can.

It’s that guy from Milan. The one who carried Nathan Temple’s bags out of the shop. What’s he doing here?

Cautiously I take a few steps forward so I can hear their conversation.

“So, Mr. Brandon’s
not
ill?” he’s saying.

Oh no.

I retreat behind a door and slam it shut. What do I do now?

I take a gulp of champagne to calm my nerves—and then another. A couple of guys from IT saunter past and give me an odd look, and I smile gaily back.

OK. I can’t cower behind this door forever. I inch my head above the glass panel in the door until I can see into reception—and thank God. Chalk-stripe guy has gone. With a whoosh of relief I push the door open and stride nonchalantly into the reception area.

“Hi!” I say casually to Janet, who’s typing busily on her computer. “Who was that just now? That man talking to you.”

“Oh, him! He works for a man called . . . Nathan Temple?”

“Right. And . . . what did he want?”

“It was weird!” she says, pulling a face. “He kept asking if Luke was ‘better.’ ”

“And what did you tell him?” I say, trying to depress the tone of urgency in my voice.

“Well, I said he’s fine, of course! Never better!” She laughs gaily, then as she sees my face she suddenly stops typing. “Oh my God. He isn’t fine, is he?”

“What?”

“That was a doctor, wasn’t it?” She leans forward, looking stricken. “You can tell me, Becky. Did Luke catch some tropical disease while you were away?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Is it his heart, then? His kidneys?” Her eyes are watering. “You know . . . I lost my dear aunt this year. It really hasn’t been easy for me. . . .”

“I’m sorry,” I say, flustered. “But honestly, don’t worry! Luke’s fine! Everything’s fine, it’s all fine. . . .”

I glance up—and the words wither on my lips.

Please, no.

This can’t be happening.

Nathan Temple himself is walking into the building.

He’s bigger and more barrel-chested than I remember, and is wearing the same leather-trimmed coat he was wearing in Milan. He exudes power and money and a smell of cigars. And his sharp blue eyes are looking right at me.