Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (125 page)

And Jess and I will have a fab time tonight.
Better
than I ever had with Suze.

I throw on some jeans and a T-shirt with
SISTERHOOD
emblazoned in silver, then turn on my dressing table lightbulbs and get out every single item of makeup I own. I rummage in a box under the bed and retrieve my three wigs, four hairpieces, false eyelashes, spray glitter, and temporary tattoos. Then I open up my special cupboard, where all my shoes are stored.

I love my shoe cupboard.

I mean, I
love
my shoe cupboard. It is the best thing in the entire world! All my shoes are arranged in gorgeous rows, and there’s even a built-in light so you can see them properly. I look with satisfaction along the rows of L.K. Bennetts and Jimmy Choos for a few moments, then choose all the most fun, spangly high-heeled ones and toss them onto the bed.

Ready for the makeovers!

Next the sitting room. I spread all my favorite videos out in a fan on the floor, and add piles of magazines. Back in the kitchen I empty crisps, popcorn, and sweets into bowls, light some candles, and get out the champagne. As I look around the kitchen the granite is gleaming, and the stainless steel sparkles in the light. It looks so pretty!

It’s nearly six o’clock. Jess must have finished working out by now. I head to the guest room and tap on the door.

“Jess?” I say tentatively.

No answer. She must be in the shower or something.

But as I head to the kitchen, I suddenly hear her voice coming from the study. That’s weird. I gently push open the door—and there’s Jess, sitting at the computer with Luke and Gary on either side of her, peering at the screen, where I can see Luke’s head, talking against a green background.

“You can superimpose the graphics like this,” she’s saying, tapping at the keyboard. “And synchronize with the sound track. I can do it for you, if you like.”

“What’s going on?” I say in surprise.

“It’s our new corporate CD,” says Luke. “The guys who did it had no bloody idea. The whole thing needs reediting.”

“Your sister is a real whiz at this software!” says Gary.

“I just know it backwards,” says Jess, clicking rapidly. “The whole university went over to it a year ago. And I’m a bit of a techie. I like this kind of stuff.”

“That’s fantastic!” I say. I hover at the door for a few moments as Jess taps at the keyboard some more. “So . . . do you want to come and have a drink? I’ve got everything ready for our girls’ night in.”

“I’m sorry,” says Luke, looking at me in sudden realization. “I’m keeping you, Jess. We’ll be OK from here. But thanks!”

“Thanks!” echoes Gary.

They’re both looking at her with such admiration, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit jealous.

“Come on!” I say brightly. “There’s champagne waiting.”

“Thanks again, Jess,” says Luke. “You’re a star!”

“No problem.” Jess gets up and follows me out of the room.

“Men!” I say as soon as I’m out of earshot. “All they think about is computers!”

“I like computers,” says Jess.

“Er . . . me too,” I backtrack hastily. “Absolutely!”

Which is kind of true.

I mean, I love eBay.

As I lead Jess into the kitchen I feel a rush of excitement. I reach for the CD remote control, and a moment later, Sister Sledge belts through the kitchen speakers at top volume. I bought the album especially for this!

“ ‘We are family!’ ” I sing along, while taking the champagne bottle out of its ice bucket. I pop the cork. “Have some champagne!”

“I’d prefer something soft, if you’ve got it,” she says, looking at the bottle without enthusiasm. “Champagne gives me a headache.”

“Oh,” I say, halted. “Well . . . OK!”

I pour her out a glass of Aqua Libra and quickly put the bottle away before she can see the price and start talking about potatoes again.

“I thought tonight we could just relax,” I say over the music. “Just enjoy ourselves . . . talk . . . have fun . . .”

“Sounds good,” says Jess, nodding.

“So, my idea was, we could do makeovers!”

“Makeovers?” Jess looks as though she’s never even heard the word.

“Come with me!” I pull her along the corridor and into the bedroom. “We can do each other’s makeup . . . try on all different clothes . . . I could blow-dry your hair if you like. . . .”

“I don’t know.” Jess’s shoulders are hunched uncomfortably.

“It’ll be fun! Look, sit down in front of the mirror. Try on one of my wigs!” I pull the blond Marilyn one onto my own head. “Isn’t that fab?”

Jess flinches.

“I hate mirrors,” she says. “And I never wear makeup.”

I stare at her, a bit nonplussed. How can anyone hate mirrors?

“Besides, I’m happy with the way I look,” she adds a bit defensively.

“Of course you are!” I say in astonishment. “That’s not the point! It’s just supposed to be . . . you know. Fun.”

Jess doesn’t reply.

“But anyway!” I say, trying to hide my deflation. “It was just an idea. We don’t have to do it.”

I take off the Marilyn wig and switch off the dressing table lightbulbs. The room is immediately plunged into semi-gloom, which is kind of how I feel. I was really looking forward to doing Jess up. I had all these great ideas for her eyes.

But never mind. We can still have a good time!

“So! Shall we . . . watch a movie?” I suggest.

“Sure.” Jess nods.

And anyway, a movie is
better
. Everyone likes movies, plus we can chat during all the boring bits. I lead the way into the sitting room and gesture enthusiastically at the fanned-out videos on the floor. “Take your pick. They’re all here!”

“Right.” Jess starts looking through the videos.

“Are you a
Four Weddings
girl?” I prompt her. “Or
Sleepless in Seattle . . . When Harry Met Sally . . .
”

“I don’t mind,” says Jess at last, looking up. “You choose.”

“You must have a favorite!”

“These aren’t really my kind of thing,” says Jess, with a little grimace. “I prefer something a bit more heavyweight.”

“Oh,” I say. “Oh, right. Well . . . I can go and get a different video from the rental shop if you like! It won’t take me five minutes. Tell me what you’d like to watch—”

“It’s OK. I don’t want to put you out.” She shrugs. “Let’s just watch one of these.”

“Don’t be silly!” I say with a laugh. “Not if you don’t like any of them! We can do . . . something else! No problem!”

I smile at Jess, but inside I’m a bit disquieted. I don’t quite know what else to suggest. My backup plan was the
Dancing Queen
karaoke tape—but something tells me she won’t want to do that either. Plus we’re not wearing the wigs.

Why is everything so
awkward
? I thought we’d be laughing hysterically together by now. I thought we’d be having fun.

Oh God. We can’t just sit here in silence all night. I’m going to come clean.

“Look, Jess,” I say, leaning forward. “I want to do whatever
you
want to do. But you’ll have to guide me. So . . . be honest. Suppose I hadn’t invited you here for the weekend. What would you be doing right now?”

“Well . . .” Jess thinks for a moment. “I was supposed to be at an environmental meeting this evening. I’m an activist for a local group. We raise awareness, organize pickets and protest marches . . . that kind of thing.”

“Well, let’s do that!” I say eagerly. “Let’s organize a picket! It’d be fun! I could make some banners . . .”

Jess looks nonplussed.

“A picket of what?”

“Er . . . I don’t mind! Anything. You’re the guest—you choose!”

Jess is just staring at me in disbelief.

“You don’t just
organize pickets
. You have to start with the issues. With the environmental concerns. They’re not supposed to be
fun
.”

“OK,” I say hastily. “Let’s forget the picket. How about if you
hadn’t
been at the meeting? What would you be doing now? And whatever it is . . . we’ll do it. Together!”

Jess frowns in thought, and I watch her face with hope. And a sudden curiosity. For the first time I feel like I’m actually going to learn something about my sister.

“I’d probably be doing my accounts,” she says at last. “In fact, I brought them with me, in case I had time.”

Her accounts. On a Friday night. Her accounts.

“Right!” I manage at last. “Fab! Well, then . . . let’s do our accounts!”

OK. This is fine. This is good.

We’re both sitting in the kitchen, doing our accounts. At least, Jess is doing her accounts. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing.

I’ve written
Accounts
at the top of a sheet of paper and underlined it twice.

Every so often Jess glances up, and I quickly scribble something down, just to look like I’m into it. So far my page reads:

20 pounds . . . budget . . . 200 million pounds . . . Hello, my name is Becky. . . .

Jess is frowning over a pile of what look like bank statements, leafing backwards and forwards and consulting a small bankbook.

“Is something wrong?” I say sympathetically.

“I’m just tracking down a bit of lost money,” she says. “Maybe it’s in one of my other cashbooks.” She gets up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

As she leaves the kitchen I take a sip of champagne and glance toward the pile of bank statements.

Obviously I’m not going to look at them or anything. They’re Jess’s private property and I respect that. It’s none of my business. None at all. The only thing is, my leg is feeling itchy. It genuinely is. I lean over to scratch it . . . then casually lean a bit farther . . . and a bit more . . . until I can glimpse the bottom figure on the top statement.

£30,002.

I hastily sit up again, nearly knocking over my champagne glass. Thirty thousand pounds?
Thirty thousand pounds?

That’s a bigger overdraft than I’ve ever had.
Ever!

Now it’s all starting to make sense. It’s falling into place. No wonder she makes her own weights. No wonder she takes her coffee flask everywhere. She’s probably on an economy drive, just like I went on once. She’s probably read
Controlling Your Cash
by David E. Barton!

God, who would have thought it?

As Jess comes back into the room, I can’t help looking at her with new eyes. She picks up one of her bank statements and sighs heavily—and I feel a sudden wave of affection for her. How many times have
I
picked up a bank statement and sighed? We’re kindred spirits!

She’s perusing the figures, still looking hassled. Well, no wonder, with a whopping great overdraft like that!

“Hi,” I say, with an understanding smile. “Still trying to track down that bit of money?”

“It must be here somewhere.” She frowns and turns to another statement.

God, maybe the bank’s about to foreclose on her or something. I should give her a few tips.

I lean forward confidingly.

“Banks are a nightmare, aren’t they?”

“They’re useless,” she replies, nodding.

“I sometimes wonder why they give people overdrafts if they’re going to be so unsympathetic . . .”

“I don’t have an overdraft,” she says, looking puzzled.

“But—”

I stop as her words hit my brain. She doesn’t have an overdraft. Which means—

I feel a bit faint.

That thirty thousand pounds is actual . . .

It’s actual
money
?

“Becky, are you OK?” Jess gives me an odd look.

“I’m . . . fine!” I say in a strangled voice and take several gulps of my champagne, trying to regain my cool. “So . . . you’re not overdrawn. That’s good! That’s great!”

“I’ve never been overdrawn in my life,” Jess says firmly. “I just don’t think it’s necessary. Anyone can stay within their means if they really want to. People who get into debt just lack self-control. There’s no excuse.” She begins to straighten her papers, then stops. “But you used to be a financial journalist, didn’t you? Your mum showed me some of your articles. So you must know all this.”

Her hazel eyes meet mine expectantly and I feel a ridiculous tweak of anxiety. I’m suddenly not sure I want her to know the truth about my finances. Not the
exact
truth.

“I . . . er . . . absolutely!” I say. “Of course I do. It’s all a question of . . . of planning ahead and careful management.”

“Exactly!” says Jess with approval. “When any money comes in, the first thing I do is put half aside to save.”

Half?
Even my dad doesn’t save that much.

“Excellent!” I manage. “It’s the only sensible option.”

I’m in total shock. When I was a financial journalist, I used to write articles telling people to save a percentage of their money all the time. But I never thought anyone would actually save
half
.

Jess is looking at me with a fresh interest and maybe even affection.

“So . . . you do the same, do you, Becky?”

For a few seconds I can’t quite formulate a response.

“Er . . . well!” I say at last, and clear my throat. “Maybe not exactly half
every
month . . .”

“I’m just the same.” Her face relaxes into a smile. “Sometimes I only manage twenty percent.”

“Twenty percent!” I echo feebly. “Well . . . never mind. You shouldn’t feel bad.”

“But I do,” says Jess, leaning forward across the table. “You must understand that.”

I’ve never seen her face look so open.

Oh my God. We’re bonding.

“Twenty percent of what?” comes Luke’s voice as he and Gary enter the kitchen, both looking in good spirits.

Maybe now is the time to move the conversation on.

“Er . . . nothing!” I say.

“We’re just talking about finances,” says Jess to Luke. “We’ve both been doing our accounts.”

“Your
accounts
?” says Luke, giving a small shout of laughter. “What accounts would those be, Becky?”

“You know!” I say brightly. “My financial affairs and so forth.”

“Ah.” Luke nods, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. “So . . . have you called out the SWAT teams yet? And the Red Cross?”

“What do you mean?” says Jess, puzzled.