Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (47 page)

Feeling better already, I reach for a complimentary packet of biscuits, tear it open, and begin to munch one. It's like they say, don't run before you can walk. Don't cross bridges before you come to them. Don't do . . . that other thing you shouldn't do.

I've just finished my third biscuit and have switched on the television to watch
Ready Steady Cook,
when the door opens and Luke comes in. His eyes are sparkling and he seems full of a suppressed energy. I stare at him, feeling a little weird.

I'm sure he's going to tell me. He wouldn't just move to America without saying anything.

“Did your meetings go well?” I say, my voice feeling false.

“Very well, thanks,” says Luke, taking off his tie and throwing it on the bed. “But let's not talk about that.” He smiles at me. “Did you have a good day?”

“Fine, thanks!”

“You want to go for a walk? Come on. I haven't seen you all day.” He reaches for my hand, pulls me up off the bed, and puts his arms round my waist. “I've missed you,” he says against my hair, and his arms tighten around my body.

“Have you?” I give a little laugh. “Well, you know . . . perhaps I should come to your meetings, and hear what they're all about!”

“You wouldn't enjoy them,” says Luke, returning my laugh. “Come on, let's go out.”

We head down the stairs and out of the heavy front door and start walking over the grass toward a group of trees. The sun is still warm, and some people are playing croquet and drinking Pimms. After a while I take off my sandals and walk along barefoot, feeling myself relax.

“Are you hungry?” says Luke casually as we get near a large oak tree. And I'm about to reply, “No, I've just had three biscuits,” when I see it, waiting for us in the long grass.

A red-and-white checked picnic blanket. A little wicker hamper. And . . . is that a bottle of champagne? I turn toward Luke in disbelief.

“Is this . . . did you . . .”

“This,” says Luke, touching my cheek, “is in some small way to make up. You've been so incredibly understanding, Becky.”

“That's all right,” I say awkwardly. “If it was for something as important as . . .” I hesitate. “As . . . well, whatever amazing opportunity this might be . . .”

I look at Luke expectantly. This is the perfect moment for him to tell me.

“Even so,” says Luke. He moves away and reaches for the champagne bottle and I sit down, trying not to give away my disappointment.

I'm not going to ask him. If he wants to tell me he can. If he doesn't want to . . . then he must have his reasons.

But there's no harm in prompting him, is there?

“I love the countryside!” I exclaim as Luke hands me my champagne. “And I love cities, too.” I gesture vaguely in the air. “London . . . Paris . . .”

“Cheers,” says Luke, raising his glass.

“Cheers.” I take a sip of champagne and think quickly. “So . . . um . . . you've never really told me much about your family.”

Luke looks up, a bit surprised.

“Haven't I? Well, there's me and my sister . . . and Mum and Dad . . .”

“And your real mother, of course.” Casual, Becky. Casual. “I've always thought she sounds really interesting.”

“She's a truly inspiring person,” says Luke, his face lighting up. “So elegant . . . you've seen the picture of her?”

“She looks beautiful,” I nod encouragingly. “And where is it she lives again?” I wrinkle my brow as though I can't quite remember.

“New York,” says Luke, and takes a swig of his drink.

There's a taut silence. Luke stares ahead, frowning slightly, and I watch him, my heart thumping. Then he turns to me, and I feel a spasm of fright. What's he going to say? Is he going to tell me he's moving thousands of miles away?

“Becky?”

“Yes?” I say, my voice half-strangled by nerves.

“I really think you and my mother would love each other. Next time she's in London, I'll be sure to introduce you.”

“Oh . . . right,” I say. “That would be really great.” And morosely, I drain my glass.

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

8 September 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of 4 September, addressed to Sweetie Smeathie, in which you ask him to rush through an extension of your overdraft “before the new guy arrives.”

I am the new guy.

I am currently reviewing all customer files and will be in touch regarding your request.

Yours sincerely,

John Gavin
Overdraft Facilities Director

Five

W
E ARRIVE BACK
in London the next day—and Luke still hasn't mentioned his deal or New York, or anything. And I know I should just ask him outright. I should casually say, “So what's this I hear about New York, Luke?” and wait and see what he says. But somehow I can't bring myself to do it.

I mean, for a start, he's made it plain enough that he doesn't want to talk about it. If I confront him, he might think I've been trying to find out stuff behind his back. And for another start, Alicia might have got it wrong—or even be making it up. (She's quite capable of it, believe me. When I was a financial journalist she once sent me to the completely wrong room for a press conference—and I'm sure it was deliberate.) So until I'm absolutely certain of my facts, there's no point saying anything.

At least, this is what I tell myself. But I suppose if I'm really honest, the reason is that I just can't bear the idea of Luke turning to me and giving me a kind look and saying, “Rebecca, we've had a lot of fun, but . . .”

So I end up saying nothing and smiling a lot—even though inside, I feel more and more miserable. As we arrive back outside my flat, I want to turn to him and wail, “Are you going to New York? Are you?”

But instead, I give him a kiss, and say lightly, “You will be OK for Saturday, won't you?”

It turns out Luke's got to fly off to Zurich tomorrow and have lots of meetings with finance people. Which of course is very important and I completely understand that. But Saturday is Tom and Lucy's wedding at home, and that's even more important. He just
has
to be there.

“I'll make it,” he says. “I promise.” He squeezes my hand and I get out of the car and he says he has to shoot off. And then he's gone.

Disconsolately, I open the door to our flat, and a moment later Suze comes out of the door of her room, dragging a full black bin liner along the ground.

“Hi!” she says. “You're back!”

“Yes!” I reply, trying to sound cheerful. “I'm back!”

Suze disappears out of our door, and I hear her lugging her black bag down the stairs and out of the main front door—then bounding up to our flat again.

“So, how was it?” she says breathlessly, closing the door behind her.

“It was fine,” I say, walking into my bedroom. “It was . . . nice.”

“Nice?” Suze's eyes narrow and she follows me in. “Only nice?”

“It was . . . good.”

“
Good?
Bex, what's wrong? Didn't you have a lovely time?”

I wasn't really planning to say anything to Suze, because after all, I don't know the facts yet. Plus I read in a magazine recently that couples should try to sort their problems out alone, without recourse to others. But as I look at her warm, friendly face, I just can't help it, I hear myself blurting out, “Luke's moving to New York.”

“Really?” says Suze, missing the point. “Fantastic! God, I love New York. I went there three years ago, and—”

“Suze, he's moving to New York—but he hasn't told me.”

“Oh,” says Suze, looking taken aback. “Oh, right.”

“And I don't want to bring it up, because I'm not supposed to know, but I keep thinking, why hasn't he told me? Is he just going to
. . . go
?” My voice is rising in distress. “Will I just get a postcard from the Empire State Building saying, ‘Hi, I live in New York now, love Luke'?”

“No!” says Suze at once. “Of course not! He wouldn't do that!”

“Wouldn't he?”

“No. Definitely not.” Suze folds her arms and thinks for a few moments—then looks up. “Are you absolutely sure he hasn't told you? Like, maybe when you were half asleep or daydreaming or something?”

She looks at me expectantly and for a few moments I think hard, wondering if she could be right. Maybe he told me in the car and I just wasn't listening. Or last night, while I was eyeing up that girl's Lulu Guinness handbag in the bar . . . But then I shake my head.

“No. I'm sure I'd remember if he'd mentioned New York.” I sink down miserably onto the bed. “He's just not telling me because he's going to chuck me.”

“No, he's not!” retorts Suze. “Honestly, Bex, men never mention things. That's just what they're like.” She picks her way over a pile of CDs and sits cross-legged on the bed beside me. “My brother never mentioned when he got done for drugs. We had to find it out from the paper! And my father once bought a whole island without telling my mother.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes! And then he forgot about it, too. And he only remembered when he got this letter out of the blue inviting him to roll the pig in the barrel.”

“To do
what
?”

“Oh, this ancient ceremony thing,” says Suze vaguely. “My dad gets to roll the first pig, because he owns the island.” Her eyes suddenly brighten. “In fact, he's always looking for people to do it instead of him. I don't suppose you fancy doing it this year, do you? You get to wear this funny hat, and you have to learn a poem in Gaelic, but it's quite easy . . .”

“Suze—”

“Maybe not,” says Suze hurriedly. “Sorry.” She leans back on my pillow and chews a fingernail thoughtfully. Then suddenly she looks up. “Hang on a minute. Who told you about New York? If it wasn't Luke?”

“Alicia,” I say gloomily. “She knew all about it.”

“Alicia?” Suze stares at me. “Alicia Bitch Longlegs? Oh, for goodness' sake. She's probably making it up. Honestly, Bex, I'm surprised you even listened!”

And she sounds so sure that I feel my heart giving a joyful leap. Of course. That must be the answer. Didn't I suspect it myself? Didn't I tell you what Alicia was like?

The only thing—tiny niggle—is I'm not sure Suze is completely 100 percent unbiased here. There's a bit of history between Suze and Alicia, which is that they both started working at Brandon Communications at the same time—but Suze got the sack after three weeks and Alicia went on to have a high-flying career. Not that Suze really wanted to be a PR girl, but still.

“I don't know,” I say doubtfully. “Would Alicia really do that?”

“Of course she would!” says Suze. “She's just trying to wind you up. Come on, Bex, who do you trust more? Alicia or Luke?”

“Luke,” I say after a pause. “Luke, of course.”

“Well, then!”

“You're right,” I say, suddenly feeling more cheerful. “You're right! I should just trust him, shouldn't I? I shouldn't listen to gossip and rumors!”

“Exactly. Here are your letters. And your messages.”

“Ooh, thanks!” I say, and take the bundle with a little pang of excited hope. Because you never know, do you, what might have happened while you're away? Maybe one of these envelopes is a letter from a long-lost friend, or an exciting job offer, or news that I've won a holiday!

But of course, they aren't. It's just one boring old bill after another, which I leaf through dismissively before dropping the whole lot to the floor without even opening them.

You know, this always happens. Whenever I go away, I always think I'll come back to mountains of exciting post, with parcels and telegrams and letters full of scintillating news—and I'm always disappointed. In fact, I really think someone should set up a company called holidaypost.com which you would pay to write you loads of exciting letters, just so you had
something
to look forward to when you got home.

I turn to my phone messages—and Suze has written them down really conscientiously:

Your mum—what are you wearing to Tom and Lucy's wedding?

Your mum—don't wear violet as it will clash with her hat.

Your mum—Luke does know it's morning dress?

Your mum—Luke
is
definitely coming, isn't he?

David Barrow—please could you ring him.

Your mum—

Hang on. David Barrow. Who's that?

“Hey, Suze!” I yell. “Did David Barrow say who he was?”

“No,” says Suze, appearing in the hall. “He just said could you ring him.”

“Oh right.” I look at the message, feeling faintly intrigued. “What did he sound like?” Suze screws up her nose.

“Oh, you know. Quite posh. Quite . . . smooth.”

I'm a little excited as I dial the number. David Barrow. It sounds almost familiar. Maybe he's a film producer or something!

“David Barrow,” comes his voice—and Suze is right, he is quite posh.

“Hello!” I say. “This is Rebecca Bloomwood. I had a message to call you.”

“Ah, Miss Bloomwood! I'm the special customer manager of La Rosa.”

“Oh.” I screw up my face puzzledly. La Rosa? What on earth's—

Oh yes. That trendy boutique in Hampstead. But I've only been in there about once, and that was ages ago. So why is he calling me?

“May I say, first, what an honor it is to have a television personality of your caliber as one of our customers.”

“Oh! Well—thank you!” I say, beaming at the phone. “It's a pleasure, actually.”

This is great. I know exactly why he's calling. They're going to give me some free clothes, aren't they? Or maybe . . . yes! They want me to design a new line for them! God, yes. I'll be a designer. They'll call it the Becky Bloomwood collection. Simple, stylish, wearable garments, with maybe one or two evening dresses . . .

“This is simply a courtesy call,” says David Barrow, interrupting my thoughts. “I just want to ensure that you are completely happy with our service and ask if you have any other needs we can help you with.”

“Well—thanks!” I say. “I'm very happy, thanks! I mean, I'm not exactly a regular customer but—”

“Also to mention the small matter of your outstanding La Rosa Card account,” adds David Barrow as though I haven't spoken. “And to inform you that if payment is not received within seven days, further action will have to be taken.”

I stare at the phone, feeling my smile fade. This isn't a courtesy call at all, is it? He doesn't want me to design a collection of clothes. He's phoning about money!

I feel slightly outraged. Surely people aren't just allowed to telephone you in your own home and demand money with no warning? I mean,
obviously
I'm going to pay them. Just because I don't send a check off the moment the bill comes through the letter box . . .

“It has been three months now since your first bill,” David Barrow is saying. “And I must inform you that our policy after the three-month period is to hand over all outstanding accounts to—”

“Yes, well,” I interrupt coolly. “My . . . accountants are dealing with all my bills at the moment. I'll speak to them.”

“I'm so glad to hear it. And of course, we look forward to seeing you again in La Rosa very soon!”

“Yeah, well,” I say grumpily. “Maybe.”

I put the phone down as Suze comes past the door again, dragging another black bin bag. “Suze, what
are
you doing?” I say, staring at her.

“I'm decluttering!” she says. “It's brilliant. So cleansing! You should try it! So—who was David Barrow?”

“Just some stupid bill I hadn't paid,” I say. “Honestly! Phoning me at home!”

“Ooh, that reminds me. Hang on . . .”

She disappears for a moment, then appears again, holding a bundle of envelopes.

“I found these under my bed when I was tidying up, and this other lot were on my dressing table . . . I think you must have left them in my room.” She pulls a face. “I think they're all bills, too.”

“Oh, thanks,” I say, and throw them onto the bed.

“Maybe . . .” says Suze hesitantly, “maybe you should pay some of them off? You know. Just one or two.”

“But I have paid them off!” I say in surprise. “I paid them all off in June. Don't you remember?”

“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Yes, of course I do.” She bites her lip. “But the thing is, Bex . . .”

“What?”

“Well . . . that was a while ago, wasn't it? And maybe you've built up a few debts since then.”

“Since
June
?” I give a little laugh. “But that was only about five minutes ago! Honestly, Suze, you don't need to worry. I mean . . . take this one.” I reach randomly for an envelope. “I mean, what have I bought in M&S recently? Nothing!”

“Oh right,” says Suze, looking relieved. “So this bill will just be for . . . zero, will it.”

“Absolutely,” I say ripping it open. “Zero! Or, you know, ten quid. You know, for the odd pair of knickers—”

I pull out the account and look at it. For a moment I can't speak.

“How much is it?” says Suze in alarm.

“It's . . . it's wrong,” I say, trying to stuff it back in the envelope. “It has to be wrong. I'll write them a letter . . .”

“Let me see.” Suze grabs the bill and her eyes widen. “Three hundred sixty-five pounds? Bex—”

“It has to be wrong,” I say—but my voice is holding less conviction. I'm suddenly remembering those leather trousers I bought in the Marble Arch sale. And that dressing gown. And that phase I went through of eating M&S sushi every day.

Suze stares at me for a few minutes, her face creased anxiously.

“Bex—d'you think all of these other bills are as high as that?”

Silently I reach for the envelope from Selfridges, and tear it open. Even as I do so, I'm remembering that chrome juicer, the one I saw and
had
to have . . . I've never even used it. And that fur-trimmed dress. Where did that go?

“How much is it?”

“It's . . . it's enough,” I reply, pushing it quickly back inside, before she can see that it's well over £400.

I turn away, trying to keep calm. But I feel alarmed and slightly angry. This is all wrong. The whole point is, I paid off my cards. I
paid them off.
I mean, what's the point of paying off all your credit cards if they all just go and sprout huge new debts again? What is the point?

“Look, Bex, don't worry,” says Suze. “You'll be OK! I just won't cash your rent check this month.”

“No!” I exclaim. “Don't be silly. You've been good enough to me already! I don't want to owe you anything. I'd rather owe M&S.” I look round and see her anxious face. “Suze, don't
worry
! I can easily put this lot off for a bit.” I hit the letter. “And meanwhile, I'll get a bigger overdraft or something. In fact, I've just asked the bank for an extension—so I can easily ask for a bit more. In fact, I'll phone them right now!”