Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (38 page)

“So, did I have you on the hop, too?” I say, giving a careless little shrug.

There’s silence, and after a while I look up. Luke’s gazing at me with an unsmiling expression, which makes me feel suddenly light-headed and breathless.

“You’ve had me on the hop for quite a while, Rebecca,” he says quietly. He holds my eyes for a few seconds while I stare back, unable to move—then looks down at his menu. “Shall we order?”

The meal seems to go on all night. We talk and talk and eat, and talk, and eat some more. The food is so delicious I can’t say no to anything, and the wine is so delicious I abandon my plan of drinking a businesslike single glass. By the time I’m toying
listlessly with chocolate feulliantine, lavender honey ice cream, and caramelized pears, it’s about midnight, and my head is starting to droop.

“How’s the chocolate thing?” says Luke, finishing a mouthful of cheesecake.

“Nice,” I say, and push it toward him. “Not as good as the lemon mousse, though.”

That’s the other thing—I’m absolutely stuffed to the brim. I couldn’t decide between all the scrummy-sounding desserts, so Luke said we should order all the ones we liked the sound of. Which was most of them. So now my stomach feels as though it’s the size of a Christmas pudding, and just as heavy.

I honestly feel as if I’ll never ever be able to get out of this chair. It’s so comfortable, and I’m so warm and cozy, and it’s all so pretty, and my head’s spinning just enough to make me not want to stand up. Plus … I don’t want it all to stop. I don’t want the evening to end. I’ve had
such
a good time. The amazing thing is how much Luke makes me laugh. You’d think he’d be all serious and boring and intellectual, but really, he’s not. In fact, come to think of it, we haven’t talked about that unit trust thingy once.

A waiter comes and clears away all our pudding dishes, and brings us each a cup of coffee. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and take a few delicious sips. Oh God, I could stay here forever. I’m actually feeling really sleepy by now—partly because I was so nervous last night about
Morning Coffee
, I hardly slept at all.

“I should go,” I say eventually, and force myself to open my eyes. “I should go back to …” Where do I live, again? “Fulham. To Fulham.”

“Right,” says Luke after a pause, and takes a sip of coffee. He puts his cup down and reaches for the milk. And as he does so, his hand brushes against mine—and stops still. At once I feel my whole body stiffen. I can’t even blink, in case I break the spell.

OK, I’ll admit it—I kind of put my hand in his way.

Just to see what would happen. I mean, he could easily move
his hand back if he wanted to, couldn’t he? Pour his milk, make a joke, say good-night.

But he doesn’t. Very slowly, he closes his hand over mine.

And now I really can’t move. His thumb starts to trace patterns on my wrist, and I can feel how warm and dry his skin is. I look up and meet his gaze, and feel a little jolt inside me. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. I can’t move my hand. I’m completely transfixed.

“That chap I saw you with in Terrazza,” he says after a while, his thumb still drawing leisurely pictures on my skin. “Was he anything—”

“Just … you know.” I try to give a careless laugh, but I’m feeling so nervous it comes out as a squeak. “Some multimillionaire or other.”

Luke stares intently at me for a second, then looks away.

“Right,” he says, as though closing the subject. “Well. Perhaps we should get you a taxi.” I feel a thud of disappointment, and try not to let it show. “Or maybe …” He stops.

There’s an endless pause. I can’t quite breathe. Maybe what?

What?

“I know them pretty well here,” says Luke at last. “If we wanted to …” He meets my eyes.

“I expect we could stay.”

I feel an electric shock go through my body.

“Would you like to?”

Unable to speak, I nod my head.

“OK, wait here,” says Luke. “I’ll go and see if I can get rooms.” He gets up and I stare after him in a daze, my hand all cold and bereft.

Rooms. Rooms, plural. So he didn’t mean—

He doesn’t want to—

Oh God. What’s
wrong
with me?

We travel up in the lift in silence with a smart porter. I glance a couple of times at Luke’s face, but he’s staring impassively
ahead. In fact, he’s barely said a word since he went off to ask about staying. I feel a bit chilly inside—in fact, to be honest, I’m half wishing they hadn’t had any spare rooms for us after all. But it turns out there was a big cancellation tonight—and it also turns out that Luke is some big-shot client of the Ritz. When I commented on how nice they were being to us, he shrugged and said he often puts up business contacts here.

Business contacts. So is that what I am? Oh, it doesn’t make any sense. I wish I’d gone home after all.

We walk along an opulent corridor in complete silence—then the porter swings open a door and ushers us into a spectacularly beautiful room, furnished with a big double bed and plushy chairs. He places my briefcase and AppleMac on the luggage rail, then Luke gives him a bill and he disappears.

There’s an awkward pause.

“Well,” says Luke. “Here you are.”

“Yes,” I say in a voice which doesn’t sound like mine. “Thanks … thank you. And for dinner.” I clear my throat. “It was delicious.”

We seem to have turned into complete strangers.

“Well,” says Luke again, and glances at his watch. “It’s late. You’ll probably be wanting to …” He stops, and there’s a sharp, waiting silence.

My hands are twisted in a nervous knot. I don’t dare look at him.

“I’ll be off, then,” says Luke at last. “I hope you have a—”

“Don’t go,” I hear myself say, and blush furiously.

“Don’t go yet. We could just …” I swallow. “Talk, or something.”

I look up and meet his eyes, and something fearful starts to pound within me. Slowly he walks toward me, until he’s standing just in front of me. I can just smell the scent of his aftershave and hear the crisp cotton rustle of his shirt as he moves. My whole body’s prickling with anticipation. Oh God, I want to touch him. But I daren’t. I daren’t move anything.

“We could just talk, or something,” he echoes, and slowly lifts his hands until they cup my face.

And then he kisses me.

His mouth is on mine, gently parting my lips, and I feel a white-hot dart of excitement. His hands are running down my back and cupping my bottom, fingering under the hem of my skirt. And then he pulls me tightly toward him, and suddenly I’m finding it hard to breathe.

It’s pretty obvious we’re not going to do much talking at all.

M
MM
.

Bliss.

Lying in the most comfortable bed in the world, feeling all dreamy and smiley and happy, letting the morning sunlight play on my closed eyelids. Stretching my arms above my head, then collapsing contentedly onto an enormous mound of pillows. Oh, I feel good. I feel … sated. Last night was absolutely …

Well, let’s just say it was …

Oh, come on. You don’t need to know
that
. Anyway, can’t you use your imagination? Of course you can.

I open my eyes, sit up, and reach for my cup of room-service coffee. Luke’s in the shower, so it’s just me alone with my thoughts. And I don’t want to sound all pretentious here—but I do feel this is a pretty significant day in my life.

It’s not just Luke—although the whole thing was … well, amazing, actually. God, he really knows how to …

Anyway. Not the point. The point is, it’s not just Luke, and it’s not just my new job with
Morning Coffee
(even though every time I remember it, I feel a leap of disbelieving joy).

No, it’s more than that. It’s that I feel like a completely new
person. I feel as though I’m moving on to a new stage in life—with a different outlook, and different priorities. When I look back at the frivolous way I used to think—well, it makes me want to laugh, really. The new Rebecca is so much more levelheaded. So much more responsible. It’s as though the tinted glasses have fallen off—and suddenly I can see what’s really important in the world and what’s not.

I’ve even been thinking this morning that I might go into politics or something. Luke and I discussed politics a bit last night, and I have to say, I came up with lots of interesting views. I could be a young, intellectual member of parliament, and be interviewed about lots of important issues on television. I’d probably specialize in health, or education, or something like that. Maybe foreign affairs.

Casually I reach for the remote control and switch on the television, thinking I might watch the news. I flick a few times, trying to find BBC1, but the TV seems stuck on rubbish cable channels. Eventually I give up, leave it on something called QVT or something, and lean back down on my pillows.

The truth, I think, taking a sip of coffee, is that I’m quite a serious-minded person. That’s probably why Luke and I get on so well.

Mmm, Luke. Mmm, that’s a nice thought. I wonder where he is.

I sit up in bed, and am just considering going into the bathroom to surprise him, when a woman’s voice from the television attracts my attention.

“ … offering genuine NK Malone sunglasses, in tortoiseshell, black, and white, with that distinctive NKM logo in brushed chrome.”

That’s interesting, I think idly. NK Malone sunglasses. I’ve always quite wanted a pair of those.

“Buy all three pairs …” the woman pauses “ … and pay not £400. Not £300. But £200! A saving of at least 40 percent off the recommended retail price.”

I stare at the screen, riveted.

But this is incredible.
Incredible
. Do you know how much NK Malone sunglasses usually cost? At least 140 quid. Each! Which means you’re saving …

“Send no money now,” the woman is saying. “Simply call this number …”

Excitedly I scrabble for the notebook on my bedside table and scribble down the number. This is an absolute dream come true. NK Malone sunglasses. I can’t quite believe it. And three pairs! I’ll never have to buy sunglasses again. People will call me the Girl in the NK Malone Shades. (And those Armani ones I bought last year are all wrong now. Completely out of date.) Oh, this is
such
an investment. With shaking hands I reach for the phone and dial the number.

And then I stop.

Wait just a moment. The new Rebecca has more self-control than this. The new Rebecca isn’t even
interested
in fashion.

Slowly I put the phone down. I reach for the remote and zap the TV to a different channel. A nature program. Yes, that’s more like it. There’s a close-up of a tiny green frog and a sober voice-over talking about the effect of drought on the ecosystem. I turn up the volume and settle back, pleased with myself. This is much more me. I’m not going to give those sunglasses a second thought. I’m going to learn about this tiny frog and the ecosystem, and global warming. Maybe Luke and I will talk about all these important issues, over breakfast.

NK Malone.

Stop it.
Stop
it. Watch the frog, and that tiny red beetle thing …

I’ve wanted NK Malone sunglasses for so long. And £200 is amazing value for three pairs.

I could always give one pair away as a present.

And I deserve a little treat, don’t I? After everything I’ve been though? Just one little final luxury and that’s the end. I
promise
.

Grabbing the phone, I redial the number. I give my name and
address, thank the woman very much indeed, then put down the receiver, a content smile on my face. This day is turning out perfect. And it’s only nine o’clock!

I turn off the nature program, snuggle back down under the covers, and close my eyes. Maybe Luke and I will spend all day here, in this lovely room. Maybe we’ll have oysters and champagne sent up. (I hope not, actually, because I hate oysters.) Maybe we’ll …

Nine o’clock
, interrupts a little voice in my mind. I frown for a second, shake my head, then turn over to get rid of it. But it’s still there, prodding annoyingly at my thoughts.

Nine o’clock. Nine …

And suddenly I sit bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide in dismay. Oh my God.

Nine-thirty.

Derek Smeath.

I promised to be there. I
promised
. And here I am, with half an hour to go, all the way over at the Ritz. Oh God. What am I going to do?

I switch off the TV, bury my head in my hands, and try to think calmly and rationally. OK, if I got going straight away, I might make it. If I got dressed as quickly as possible, and ran downstairs and jumped in a taxi—I might just make it. Fulham’s not that far away. And I could be a quarter of an hour late, couldn’t I? We could still have the meeting. It could still happen.

In theory, it could still happen.

“Hi,” says Luke, putting his head round the bathroom door. He’s got a white towel wrapped round his body, and a few drops of water are glistening on his shoulders. I never even noticed his shoulders last night, I think, staring at them. God, they’re bloody sexy. In fact, all in all, he’s pretty damn …

“Rebecca? Is everything OK?”

“Oh,” I say, starting slightly. “Yes, everything’s great. Lovely! Oh, and guess what? I just bought the most wonderful …”

And then for some reason I stop myself midstream.

I’m not exactly sure why.

“Just … having breakfast,” I say instead, and gesture to the room-service tray. “Delicious.”

A faintly puzzled look passes over Luke’s face, and he disappears back into the bathroom. OK, quick, I tell myself. What am I doing to do? Am I going to get dressed and go? Am I going to make the meeting?

But my hand’s already reaching for my bag as though it’s got a will of its own; I’m pulling out a business card and punching a number into the phone.

Because, I mean, we don’t actually
need
to have a meeting, do we? I’m going to send him a nice big check.

And I’d probably never make it in time, anyway.

And he probably won’t even mind. He’s probably got loads of other stuff he’d prefer to be doing instead.