Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (12 page)

“So are we OK?” says Luke, and there’s a warm, teasing note to his voice. “Are we back on course?”

“What about New York?” I say, hating myself. “Is that all a mistake, too?”

There’s a long, horrible silence.

“What have you heard about New York?” says Luke at last—and to my horror, he sounds all businesslike and distant.

Oh God.
Why
couldn’t I keep my mouth closed?

“Nothing really!” I stammer. “I . . . I don’t know. I just . . .”

I tail off feebly, and for what seems like hours, neither of us says anything. My heart is pounding hard, and I’m clutching the receiver so hard, my ear’s starting to hurt.

“Becky, I need to talk to you about a few things,” says Luke finally. “But now is not the time.”

“Right,” I say, feeling a pang of fright. “What . . . sort of things?”

“Not now. We’ll talk when I get back, OK? Saturday. At the wedding.”

“Right,” I say again, talking brightly to hide the nerves in my voice. “OK! Well, I’ll . . . I’ll see you then, then . . .”

But before I can say any more, he’s gone.

Finance is very

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD

12 September 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Further to my letter of 8 September, I have conducted a thorough examination of your account. Your current overdraft limit vastly exceeds the bank’s approved ratios. I cannot see any need for this excessive level of debt, nor that any genuine attempts have been made to reduce it. The situation is little short of a disgrace.

Whatever special status you have enjoyed in the past will not be continuing in the future. I will certainly not be increasing your overdraft limit as you request, and would ask as a matter of urgency that you make an appointment with me to discuss your position.

Yours sincerely,

John Gavin
Overdraft Facilities Director

I ARRIVE AT MY PARENTS’ house at ten o’clock on Saturday, to find the street full of festivity. There are balloons tied to every tree, our drive is full of cars, and a billowing marquee is just visible from next door’s garden. I get out of my car, reach for my overnight bag, then just stand still for a few moments, staring at the Websters’ house. God, this is strange. Tom Webster getting married. I can hardly believe it. To be honest—and this may sound a bit mean—I can hardly believe that anyone would
want
to marry Tom Webster. He has smartened up his act recently, admittedly. He’s got a few new clothes, and a better hairstyle. But his hands are still all huge and clammy—and frankly, he’s not Brad Pitt.

Still, that’s the point of love, I think, closing my car door with a bang. You love people despite their flaws. Lucy obviously doesn’t mind that Tom’s got clammy hands—and he obviously doesn’t mind that her hair’s all flat and boring. It’s quite romantic, I suppose.

As I’m standing there, gazing at the house, a girl in jeans with a circlet of flowers in her hair appears at the Websters’ front door. She gives me an odd, almost aggressive look, then disappears inside the house again. One of Lucy’s bridesmaids, obviously. I expect she’s a bit nervous, being seen in her jeans.

Lucy’s probably in there too, it occurs to me—and instinctively I turn away. I know she’s the bride and everything, but to be honest, I’m not desperately looking forward to seeing Lucy again. I’ve only met her a couple of times and we’ve never jelled. Probably because she had the idea I was in love with Tom. Still, at least when Luke arrives I’ll finally be able to prove them all wrong.

At the thought of Luke, there’s a painful stab in my chest, and I take a deep, slow breath to calm myself. I’m determined I’m not going to put the cart before the horse this time. I’m going to keep an open mind, and see what he says today. And if he does tell me he’s moving away to New York then I’ll just . . . deal with it. Somehow.

Anyway. Don’t think about it now. Briskly I head for the front door and let myself in. I head for the kitchen and find my dad drinking coffee in his waistcoat, while Mum, dressed in a nylon cape with her hair in curlers, is buttering a round of sandwiches.

“I just don’t think it’s right,” she’s saying as I walk in. “It’s not right. They’re supposed to be leading our country, and look at them. They’re a mess! Dowdy jackets, dreadful ties . . .”

“You really think the ability to govern is affected by what you wear, do you?”

“Hi, Mum,” I say, dumping my bag on the floor. “Hi, Dad.”

“It’s the principle of the thing!” says Mum. “If they’re not prepared to make an effort with their dress, then why should they make any effort with the economy?”

“It’s hardly the same thing!”

“It’s exactly the same thing. Becky,
you
think the chancellor should dress more smartly, don’t you? All this lounge suit nonsense.”

“I don’t know,” I say vaguely. “Maybe.”

“You see? Becky agrees with me. Now, let me have a look at you, darling.” She puts down her knife and surveys me properly, and I feel myself glowing a little, because I know I look good. I’m wearing a shocking pink dress and jacket, a Philip Treacy feathered hat, and the most beautiful black satin shoes, each decorated with a single gossamer butterfly. “Oh, Becky,” says Mum at last. “You look lovely. You’ll upstage the bride!” She reaches for my hat and looks at it. “This is very unusual! How much did it cost?”

“Erm . . . I can’t remember,” I say vaguely. “Maybe . . . fifty quid?”

This is not quite true. It was actually more like . . . Well, anyway, quite a lot. Still, it was worth it.

“So, where’s Luke?” says Mum, popping my hat back on my head. “Parking the car?”

“Yes, where’s Luke?” says my father, looking up, and gives a jocular laugh. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting this young man of yours at last.”

“Luke’s coming separately,” I say—and flinch slightly as I see their faces fall.

“Separately?” says Mum at last. “Why’s that?”

“He’s flying back from Zurich this morning,” I explain. “He had to go there for business. But he’ll be here, I promise.”

“He does know the service starts at twelve?” says Mum anxiously. “And you’ve told him where the church is?”

“Yes!” I say. “Honestly, he’ll be here.”

I’m aware that I sound slightly snappy, but I can’t help it. To be honest, I’m a bit stressed out myself about where Luke’s got to. He was supposed to be ringing me when he landed at the airport—and that was supposed to be half an hour ago. But so far I haven’t heard anything.

Still. He said he’d be here.

“Can I do anything to help?” I ask, to change the subject.

“Be a darling, and take these upstairs for me,” says Mum, cutting the sandwiches briskly into triangles. “I’ve got to pack away the patio cushions.”

“Who’s upstairs?” I say, picking up the plate.

“Maureen’s come over to blow-dry Janice’s hair,” says Mum. “They wanted to keep out of Lucy’s way. You know, while she’s getting ready.”

“Have you seen her yet?” I ask interestedly. “Has she got a nice dress?”

“I haven’t seen it,” says Mum, and lowers her voice. “But apparently it cost £3,000. And that’s not including the veil!”

“Wow,” I say, impressed. And for a second I feel ever so slightly envious. A £3,000 dress. And a party . . . and loads of presents . . . I mean, people who get married have it all.

As I go up the stairs, there’s the sound of blow-drying coming from Mum and Dad’s bedroom—and as I go in, I see Janice sitting on the dressing-room stool, wearing a dressing gown, holding a sherry glass, and dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. Maureen, who’s been doing Mum’s and Janice’s hair for years now, is brandishing a hair dryer at her, and a woman I don’t recognize with a mahogany tan, dyed blond curly hair, and a lilac silk suit is sitting on the window seat.

“Hello, Janice,” I say, going over and giving her a hug. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, dear,” she says, and gives a sniff. “A little wobbly. You know. To think of Tom getting married!”

“I know,” I say sympathetically. “It doesn’t seem like yesterday that we were kids, riding our bikes together!”

“Have another sherry, Janice,” says Maureen comfortably, and sloshes a deep brown liquid into her glass. “It’ll help you relax.”

“Oh, Becky,” says Janice, and squeezes my hand. “This must be a hard day for you, too.”

I knew it. She does still think I fancy Tom, doesn’t she?
Why
do all mothers think their sons are irresistible?

“Not really!” I say, as brightly as I can. “I mean, I’m just pleased for Tom. And Lucy, of course . . .”

“Becky?” The woman on the window seat turns toward me, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “This is Becky?”

And there’s not an ounce of friendliness in her face. Oh God, don’t say
she
thinks I’m after Tom, too.

“Erm . . . yes.” I smile at her. “I’m Rebecca Bloomwood. And you must be Lucy’s mother?”

“Yes,” says the woman, still staring at me. “I’m Angela Harrison. Mother of the bride,” she adds, emphasizing “the bride” as though I don’t understand English.

“You must be very excited,” I say politely. “Your daughter getting married.”

“Yes, well, of course, Tom is devoted to Lucy,” she says aggressively. “Utterly devoted. Never
looks
in any other direction.” She gives me a sharp glance and I smile feebly back.

Honestly, what am I supposed to do? Throw up all over Tom or something? Tell him he’s the ugliest man I’ve ever known? They’d all still just say I was jealous. They’d say I was in denial.

“Is . . . Luke here, Becky?” says Janice, and gives me a hopeful smile. And suddenly—which is rather bizarre—everyone in the room is completely still, waiting for my answer.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” I say. “I think he must have been held up.”

There’s silence, and I’m aware of glances flying around the room.

“Held up,” echoes Angela, and there’s a tone to her voice that I don’t much like. “Is that right? Well, there’s a surprise.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“He’s coming back from Zurich,” I explain. “I should think the flight’s been delayed or something.” I look at Janice and, to my surprise, she flushes.

“Zurich,” she says, nodding a little too emphatically. “I see. Of course. Zurich.” And she shoots me an embarrassed, almost sympathetic look.

What’s wrong with her?

“This
is
Luke Brandon we’re talking about here,” says Angela, taking a puff on her cigarette. “The famous entrepreneur.”

“Well—yes,” I say, a bit surprised. I mean, I don’t
know
any other Lukes.

“And he’s your boyfriend.”

“Yes!”

There’s a slightly awkward silence—and even Maureen seems to be gazing at me curiously. Then, suddenly, I see a copy of this month’s
Tatler
lying on the floor by Janice’s chair. Oh God.

“That article in
Tatler
, by the way,” I say hastily, “is all wrong. He didn’t say he was single. He said no comment.”

“Article?” says Janice unconvincingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.”

“I . . . I don’t read magazines,” says Maureen, who blushes bright red and looks away.

“We just look forward to meeting him,” says Angela, and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Don’t we, Janice?”

I stare at her in confusion—then turn to Janice, who will barely meet my eye, and Maureen, who’s pretending to root about in a beauty case.

Hang on a minute.

They surely don’t think—

“Janice,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You know Luke’s coming. He even wrote you a reply!”

“Of course he did, Becky!” says Janice, staring at the floor. “Well—as Angela says, we’re all looking forward to meeting him.”

I feel a swoosh of humiliated color fill my cheeks. What does she think? That I’ve just
made up
that I’m going out with Luke?

“Well, enjoy your sandwiches, won’t you?” I say, trying not to sound as flustered as I feel. “I’ll just . . . see if Mum needs me.”

When I find Mum, she’s on the top-floor landing, packing patio cushions into transparent plastic bags, then suctioning all the air out with the nozzle of her vacuum cleaner.

“I’ve some of these bags on order for you, by the way,” she shouts over the noise of the vacuum. “From Country Ways. Plus some turkey foil, a casserole dish, a microwave egg poacher . . .”

“I don’t want any turkey foil!” I yell.

“It’s not for you!” says Mum, turning off the vacuum. “They had a special offer—introduce a friend and receive a set of earthenware pots. So I nominated you as the friend. It’s a very good catalogue, actually. I’ll give it to you to have a browse.”

“Mum—”

“Lovely duvet covers. I’m sure you could do with a new—”

“Mum, listen!” I say agitatedly. “Listen. You do believe I’m going out with Luke, don’t you?”

There’s a slightly too long pause.

“Of course I do,” she says eventually.

I stare at her in horror.

“You don’t, do you? You all think I’ve just made it up!”

“No!” says Mum firmly. She puts down her hoover and looks me straight in the eye. “Becky, you’ve told us you’re going out with Luke Brandon, and as far as Dad and I are concerned, that’s enough.”

“But Janice and Martin. Do they think I’ve made it up?”

Mum gazes at me—then sighs, and reaches for another patio cushion.

“Oh, Becky. The thing is, love, you have to remember, they once believed you had a stalker. And that turned out to be . . . well. Not quite true. Didn’t it?”