Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (60 page)

We sit in silence for a while—then a girl in a white uniform comes to collect me and takes me to a treatment room, where a robe and slippers are waiting, all wrapped in embossed cellophane. As I get changed, she's busying herself at her counter of goodies, and I wonder pleasurably what I've got in store. Elinor insisted on paying for all my treatments herself, however much I tried to chip in—and apparently she selected the “top-to-toe grooming” treatment, whatever that is. I'm hoping it'll include a nice relaxing aromatherapy massage—but as I sit down on the couch, I see a pot full of wax heating up.

I feel an unpleasant lurch in my tummy. I've never been that great at having my legs waxed. Which is not because I'm afraid of pain, but because—

Well, OK. It's because I'm afraid of pain.

“So—does my treatment include waxing?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“You're booked in for a full waxing program,” says the beautician, looking up in surprise. “The ‘top-to-toe.' Legs, arms, eyebrows, and Brazilian.”

Arms? Eyebrows? I can feel my throat tightening in fear. I haven't been this scared since I had my jabs for Thailand.

“Brazilian?” I say in a scratchy voice. “What . . . what's that?”

“It's a form of bikini wax. A total wax.”

I stare at her, my mind working overtime. She can't possibly mean—

“So if you'd like to lie down on the couch—”

“Wait!” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “When you say ‘total,' do you mean . . .”

“Uh-huh.” The beautician smiles. “Then, if you wish, I can apply a small crystal tattoo to the . . . area. A love heart is quite popular. Or perhaps the initials of someone special?”

No. This can't be real.

“So, if you could just lie back on the couch and relax—”

Relax?
Relax?

She turns back to her pot of molten wax—and I feel a surge of pure terror.

“I'm not doing it,” I hear myself saying, and slither off the couch. “I'm not having it.”

“The tattoo?”

“Any of it.”

“
Any
of it?”

The beautician comes toward me, the wax pot in hand—and in panic I dodge behind the couch, clasping my robe defensively around me.

“But Mrs. Sherman has already prepaid for the entire treatment—”

“I don't care what she's paid for,” I say, backing away. “You can wax my legs. But not my arms. And definitely not . . . that other one. The crystal love heart one.”

The beautician looks worried.

“Mrs. Sherman is one of our most regular customers. She specifically requested the ‘top-to-toe wax' for you.”

“She'll never know!” I say desperately. “She'll never know! I mean, she's not exactly going to
look,
is she? She's not going to ask her son if his initials are tattooed on his girlfriend's . . .” I can't bring myself to say
area.
“I mean, come on. Is she?”

I break off, and there's a tense silence, broken only by the sound of tootling panpipes.

Then suddenly the beautician gives a snort of laughter. I catch her eye—and find myself starting to laugh, too, albeit slightly hysterically.

“You're right,” says the beautician, sitting down and wiping her eyes. “You're right. She'll never know.”

“How about a compromise?” I say. “You do my legs and eyebrows and we keep quiet about the rest.”

“I could give you a massage instead,” says the beautician. “Use up the time.”

“There we are, then!” I say in relief. “Perfect!”

Feeling slightly drained, I lie down on the couch, and the beautician covers me up expertly with a towel.

“So, does Mrs. Sherman have a son, then?” she says, smoothing back my hair.

“Yes.” I look up, taken aback. “Has she never even mentioned him?”

“Not that I recall. And she's been coming here for years . . .” The beautician shrugs. “I guess I always assumed she didn't have any children.”

“Oh right,” I say, and lie back down, trying not to give away my surprise.

When I emerge an hour and a half later, I feel fantastic. I've got brand-new eyebrows, smooth legs, and a glow all over from the most wonderful aromatherapy massage.

Elinor is waiting for me in reception, and as I come toward her, she runs her eyes appraisingly up and down my body. For a horrible moment I think she's going to ask me to roll up my sleeves to check the smoothness of my arms—but all she says is, “Your eyebrows look a lot better.” Then she turns and walks out, and I hurry after her.

As we get back into the car, I ask, “Where are we having lunch?”

“Nina Heywood is holding a small informal charity lunch for Ugandan famine relief,” she replies, examining one of her immaculate nails. “She holds events like this nearly every month. Do you know the Heywoods? Or the van Gelders?”

Of course I don't bloody know them.

“No,” I hear myself saying. “But I know the Websters.”

“The Websters?” She raises her arched eyebrows. “The Newport Websters?”

“The Oxshott Websters. Janice and Martin.” I give her an innocent look. “Do you know them?”

“No,” says Elinor, giving me a frosty look. “I don't believe I do.”

For the rest of the journey we travel in silence. Then suddenly the car is stopping and we're getting out, and walking into the grandest, most enormous lobby I've ever seen, with a doorman in uniform and mirrors everywhere. We go up what seems like a zillion floors in a gilded lift with a man in a peaked cap, and into an apartment. And I have
never
seen anything like it.

The place is absolutely enormous, with a marble floor and a double staircase and a grand piano on a platform. The pale silk walls are decorated with enormous gold-framed paintings, and on pedestals around the room there are cascading flower arrangements like I've never seen before. Pin-thin women in expensive clothes are talking animatedly to one another, a smaller number of well-dressed men are listening politely, there are waitresses handing out champagne, and a girl in a flowing dress is playing the harp.

And this is a
small
charity lunch?

Our hostess Mrs. Heywood is a tiny woman in pink, who is about to shake hands with me when she's distracted by the arrival of a woman in a bejeweled turban. Elinor introduces me to a Mrs. Parker, a Mr. Wunsch, and a Miss Kutomi, then drifts away, and I make conversation as best I can, even though everyone seems to assume I must be a close friend of Prince William.

“Tell me,” says Mrs. Parker urgently. “How is that poor young man bearing up after his . . . great loss?” she whispers.

“That boy has a natural nobility,” says Mr. Wunsch fiercely. “Young people today could learn a lot from him. Tell me, is it the army he's headed for?”

“He . . . he hasn't mentioned it,” I say helplessly. “Would you excuse me.”

I escape to the bathroom—and that's just as huge and sumptuous as the rest of the apartment, with racks of luxury soaps and bottles of free perfume, and a comfy chair to sit in. I kind of wish I could stay there all day, actually. But I don't dare linger too long in case Elinor comes looking for me. So with a final squirt of Eternity, I force myself to get up and go back into the throng, where waiters are moving quietly around, murmuring, “Lunch will be served now.”

As everyone moves toward a set of grand double doors I look around for Elinor but I can't see her. There's an old lady in black lace sitting on a chair near to me, and she begins to stand up with the aid of a walking stick.

“Let me help,” I say, hurrying forward as her grip falters. “Shall I hold your champagne glass?”

“Thank you, my dear!” The lady smiles at me as I take her arm, and we walk slowly together into the palatial dining room. People are pulling out chairs and sitting down at circular tables, and waiters are hurrying round with bread rolls.

“Margaret,” says Mrs. Heywood, coming forward and holding out her hands to the old lady. “There you are. Now let me find your seat . . .”

“This young lady was assisting me,” says the old lady as she lowers herself onto a chair, and I smile modestly at Mrs. Heywood.

“Thank you, dear,” she says absently. “Now, could you take my glass too, please . . . and bring some water to our table?”

“Of course!” I say with a friendly smile. “No problem.”

“And I'll have a gin and tonic,” adds an elderly man nearby, swiveling in his chair.

“Coming right up!”

It just shows, what Mum says is right. The way to make a friend is to give a helping hand. I feel quite special, helping out the hostess. It's almost like I'm throwing the party with her!

I'm not sure where the kitchen is, but the waiters are all heading toward one end of the room. I follow them through a set of double doors, and find myself in the kind of kitchen Mum would absolutely die for. Granite and marble everywhere, and a fridge which looks like a space rocket, and a pizza oven set into the wall! There are waiters in white shirts hurrying in and out with trays, and two chefs standing at a central island hob, holding sizzling pans, and someone's yelling, “Where the
fuck
are the napkins?”

I find a bottle of water and a glass, and put them on a tray, then start looking around to see where the gin might be. As I bend down to open a cupboard door, a man with cropped bleached hair taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Oh hi!” I say, standing up. “I'm just looking for the gin, actually. Somebody wanted a gin and tonic.”

“We haven't got time for that!” he barks. “Do you realize how short-staffed we are? We need food on tables!”

Short-staffed? I stare at him blankly for a moment. Then, as my eye falls on my black skirt and the realization hits me, I give a shocked laugh.

“No! I'm not a . . . I mean, I'm actually one of the . . .”

How do I say this without offending him? I'm sure being a waiter is actually very fulfilling. Anyway, he's probably an actor in his spare time.

But while I'm dithering, he dumps a silver platter full of smoked fish in my arms.

“Get! Now!”

“But I'm not—”

“Now!
Food on tables!
”

With a pang of fright I quickly hurry away. OK. What I'll do is I'll just get away from him, and put this platter down somewhere, and find my place.

Cautiously I walk back into the dining room, and wander about between the tables, looking for a handy surface to leave the platter. But there don't seem to be any side tables or even spare chairs. I can't really leave it on the floor, and it would be a bit too awkward to reach between the guests and dump it on a table.

This is really annoying, actually. The platter's quite heavy, and my arms are starting to ache. I pass by Mr. Wunsch's chair and give him a little smile, but he doesn't even notice me. It's as though I'm suddenly invisible.

This is ridiculous. There
must
be somewhere I can put it down.

“Will-you-serve-the-food!” hisses a furious voice behind me, and I feel myself jump.

“OK!'' I retort, feeling slightly rattled. “OK, I will!”

Oh, for goodness' sake. It's probably easier just to serve it. Then at least it'll be gone, and I can sit down. Hesitantly I approach the nearest table.

“Erm . . . would anyone like some smoked fish? I think this is salmon . . . and this is trout . . .”

“Rebecca?”

The elegantly coiffured head in front of me swivels round and I give a startled leap. Elinor is staring up at me, her eyes like daggers.

“Hi,” I say nervously. “Would you like some fish?”

“
What
do you think you're doing?” she says in a low, furious voice.

“Oh!” I swallow. “Well, I was just, you know, helping out . . .”

“I'll have some smoked salmon, thanks,” says a woman in a gold jacket. “Do you have any nonfat French dressing?”

“Erm . . . well, the thing is, I'm not actually . . .”

“Rebecca!” Elinor's voice comes shooting out of her barely opened mouth. “Put it down. Just . . . sit down.”

“Right. Of course.” I glance uncertainly at the platter. “Or should I serve it, since I'm here anyway . . .”

“Put it down. Now!”

“Right.” I look helplessly about for a moment, then see a waiter coming toward me with an empty tray. Before he can protest I deposit the smoked fish platter on his tray, then hurry round with trembling legs to my empty chair, smoothing down my hair.

As I sit down, and spread my thick napkin over my knees, there's silence around the table. I try a friendly little smile, but nobody responds. Then an old lady wearing about six rows of huge pearls and a hearing aid leans toward Elinor and whispers, so audibly we can all hear, “Your son is dating . . . a
waitress
?”

Eleven

S
HE DID?
” There's a long pause. Luke frowns and glances at me. “Well, I'm sure she didn't . . .” He breaks off into silence and I feel a flutter of apprehension.

It's a couple of days later, and on the other end of the phone, speaking to Luke, is Elinor. God only knows what she's saying about me. I wish we had a speaker phone.

On second thought, no, I don't.

“Really?” Luke looks surprised. “I see. Interesting.” He clears his throat. “And on that matter—what about the two of us trying to meet up?”

Thank goodness. They've stopped talking about me.

“Oh, I see.” The deflation in Luke's voice is unmistakable. “No, of course I understand. Yes, I will. Bye, then.” He puts down the phone and gazes down at it for a few seconds.

“So!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “What did your mother think of me?”

“Oh! Well . . .” Luke screws up his face puzzledly. “She said you were . . . overzealous. What did she mean by that?”

“I've no idea!” I give a shrill laugh. “Probably just . . . you know . . . hardworking! So, erm . . . did she mention your gift?” I add, changing the subject.

“No,” says Luke after a pause. “As a matter of fact, she didn't.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a pang of indignation toward Elinor. “Well, you know, she did absolutely love it.”

“Do you think?”

“Absolutely!” I say emphatically. “She . . . she almost cried, she was so pleased. And she said you were the best son in the whole world.”

“Really?” Luke's face glows with pleasure. “She said that?”

I smile vaguely and reach down for my shoes. Maybe that wasn't quite true. But I mean, I can't tell him she just shoved it back into the box as though it were a pair of socks from Woolworth's, can I?

“See you later.” Luke picks up his briefcase and gives me a kiss. “And good luck this morning.”

“Thanks!” I beam back, and feel a small trickle of excitement.

All of a sudden, things have started to happen over here. I keep getting phone calls from people who want to meet me, which Luke says is the “snowball effect” and he expected it all along. Yesterday I had three meetings with different sets of TV executives—today I've got a breakfast meeting with a Greg Walters from Blue River Productions. He's the one who sent me the basket of fruit and was “desperate” to see me. I've never had anyone desperate to see me before in my entire life!

An hour later, I'm sitting in the Four Seasons restaurant, feeling like a movie star. Greg Walters is tall and tanned and has already dropped the name of every TV network I've ever heard of.

“You're hot,” he now keeps saying, in between bites of croissant. “You realize that?”

“Erm . . . well . . .”

“No.” He lifts a hand. “Don't be coy. You're all over town. Folks are fighting over you.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks me in the eye. “I'll be frank—I want to give you your own show.”

I stare at him, almost unable to breathe for excitement.

“Really? My own show? Doing what?”

“Whatever. We'll find you a winning format.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “You're a political commentator, right?”

“Um . . . not really,” I say awkwardly. “I do personal finance. You know, mortgages and stuff?”

“Right.” Greg nods. “Finance. So I'm thinking . . . off the top of my head . . . Wall Street. Wall Street meets
Ab Fab
meets Oprah. You could do that, right?”

“Erm . . . absolutely!”

I beam confidently at him and take a bite of croissant.

“I have to go,” he says as he finishes his coffee. “But I'm going to call you tomorrow and set up a meeting with our head of development. Is that OK?”

“Fine!” I say, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That would be good.”

As he walks off, a huge grin of delight spreads across my face. My own show! Things are just going better and better. Everyone I speak to seems to want to offer me a job, and they all keep buying me nice meals, and yesterday, someone said I could have a career in Hollywood, no question. Hollywood!

I mean, just imagine if I get my own show in Hollywood! I'll be able to live in some amazing house in Beverly Hills, and go to parties with all the film stars. Maybe Luke will start a Los Angeles branch of his company. I mean, people out there need PR—and he could easily switch from finance to movies. And . . . yes! We could set up a film production company together!

“What a pleasant surprise,” says a cheerful voice, and I look up dazedly to see Michael Ellis pulling out a chair at another table.

“Oh,” I say, wrenching my mind away from the Oscars. “Oh, hello. Do join me!” And I gesture politely to the chair opposite.

“I'm not disturbing you?” he says, sitting down.

“No. I was having a meeting but it's over.” I look around vaguely. “Is Luke with you?”

Michael shakes his head.

“He's talking to some people at JD Slade this morning. The big guns.”

A waiter comes and clears away Greg's plate, and Michael orders a cappuccino.

“So—how are things going?” I ask, lowering my voice slightly. “Luke told me about one of the backers getting nervous.”

“Right.” Michael nods gravely. “I don't know what the hell's going on there.”

“But why do you
need
backers?” I ask. “I mean, Luke's got loads of money . . .”

“Never invest your own money,” says Michael. “First rule of business. Besides which, Luke has very grand plans, and grand plans tend to need a lot of capital.” He looks up. “You know, he's very driven, that man of yours.
Very
determined to succeed over here.”

“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “All he ever does is work.”

“Work is good,” says Michael, frowning into his coffee. “Obsession is . . . not so good.” He's silent for a moment, then looks up with a smile. “But I gather things are going well for you?”

“They are, actually,” I say, unable to maintain my calm. “In fact, they're going brilliantly! I've had all these fantastic meetings, and everybody says they want to give me a job! I just had a meeting with Greg Walters from Blue River Productions—and he said he was going to give me my own show. And yesterday, someone was talking about Hollywood!”

“That's great,” says Michael. “Really great.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks at me thoughtfully. “If I could just say a word?”

“What?”

“These TV people. You don't necessarily want to believe every single word they say.”

I look at him, a little discomfited.

“What do you mean?”

“These guys like talking big,” says Michael, slowly stirring his coffee. “It makes them feel good. And they believe everything they say at the time when they're saying it. But when it comes to the cold hard dollar . . .” He stops, and looks up at me. “I just don't want you to be disappointed.”

“I won't be disappointed!” I retort indignantly. “Greg Walters said the whole town was fighting over me!”

“I'm sure he did,” says Michael. “And I very much hope they are. All I'm saying is—”

He stops as a uniformed concierge stops by our table.

“Miss Bloomwood,” he says. “I have a message for you.”

“Thanks!” I say in surprise.

I open the envelope he gives me, and pull out the sheets of paper—and it's a message from Kent Garland at HLBC.

“Well!” I say, unable to stop a smile of triumph. “It looks like HLBC wasn't just talking big. It looks like they mean business.” I give the piece of paper to Michael Ellis, wanting to add, “So there!”

“ ‘Please call Kent's assistant to arrange a screen test,' ” reads Michael aloud. “Well, looks like I'm wrong,” he says, smiling. “And I'm very glad about it.” He lifts his coffee cup toward me. “So here's to a successful screen test.”

OK. What am I going to wear tomorrow?
What am I going to wear?
I mean, this is the most important moment of my life, a screen test for American television. My outfit has to be sharp, flattering, photogenic, immaculate . . . I mean, I've got nothing. Nothing.

I leaf through all my clothes for the millionth time, and flop back down on the bed, exhausted. I can't believe I've come all this way without one single screen-test outfit.

Well, there's nothing for it. I've got no choice.

I pick up my bag and check that I've got my wallet—and I'm just reaching for my coat when the phone rings.

“Hello?” I say into the receiver, hoping it might be Luke.

“Bex!” comes Suze's voice, all tinny and distant.

“Suze!” I say in delight. “Hi!”

“How's it going?”

“It's going really well!” I say. “I've had loads of meetings, and everyone's being really positive! It's just brilliant!”

“Bex! That's great.”

“How about you?” I frown slightly at her voice. “Is everything OK?”

“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Everything's fine. Except . . .” She hesitates. “I just thought you should know, a man phoned up this morning about some money you owe a shop. La Rosa, in Hampstead.”

“Really?” I pull a face. “Them again?”

“Yes. He asked me when you were going to be out of the artificial limb unit.”

“Oh,” I say after a pause. “Right. So—what did you say?”

“Bex, why did he think you were in the artificial limb unit?”

“I don't know,” I say evasively. “Maybe he heard something. Or . . . or I may possibly have written him the odd little letter . . .”

“Bex,” interrupts Suze, and her voice is quivering slightly. “You told me you'd taken care of all those bills. You promised!”

“I have taken care of them!” I reach for my hairbrush and begin to brush my hair.

“By telling them your
parachute
didn't open in time?” cries Suze. “I mean, honestly, Bex—”

“Look, don't stress. I'll sort it all out as soon as I come home.”

“He said he was going to have to take extreme action! He said he was very sorry, but enough allowances had been made, and—”

“They always say that,” I say soothingly. “Suze, you really don't have to worry. I'm going to earn loads over here. I'll be loaded! And I'll be able to pay everything off, and everything will be fine.”

There's silence, and I imagine Suze sitting on the floor of the sitting room, winding her hair tightly round her fingers.

“Really?” she says at last. “Is it all going well, then?”

“Yes! I've got a screen test tomorrow, and this guy wants to give me my own show, and they're even talking about Hollywood!”

“Hollywood?” breathes Suze. “That's amazing.”

“I know!” I beam at my own reflection. “Isn't it great? I'm hot! That's what the guy from Blue River Productions said.”

“So—what are you going to wear for your screen test?”

“I'm just off to Barneys,” I say happily. “Choose a new outfit!”

“Barneys?”
exclaims Suze in horror. “Bex, you
promised
me you weren't going to go overboard! You completely promised me you were going to stick to a budget.”

“I have! I've completely stuck to it! It's all written out and everything! And anyway, this is a business expense. I'm investing in my career.”

“But—”

“Suze, you can't make money unless you spend it first. Everyone knows that! I mean, you have to spend money on your materials, don't you?”

There's a pause.

“I suppose so,” says Suze doubtfully.

“And anyway, what are credit cards for?”

“Oh Bex . . .” Suze sighs. “Actually, that's funny—that's just what the council tax girl said yesterday.”

“What council tax girl?” I frown at my reflection and reach for an eyeliner.

“The girl who came round this morning,” says Suze vaguely. “She had a clipboard. And she asked loads of questions about me, and the flat, and how much rent you paid me . . . we had a really nice chat. And I was telling her all about you being in America, and Luke . . . and your TV job . . .”

“Great,” I say, not really listening. “That sounds really good. Listen, Suze, I've got to run. But honestly, don't worry. If anyone else phones for me, just don't take the call. OK?”

“Well . . . OK,” says Suze. “And good luck tomorrow!”

“Thanks!” I say, and put down the phone. Ha-ha-ha! Off to Barneys!

Barneys. I've kind of been saving it for last, like an extraspecial chocolate. Now, as I push through the distinctive black revolving doors and walk slowly across the pale mosaic floor, looking at all the beautiful people peering into cabinets full of contemporary jewelry . . . I feel like Goldilocks picking the right chair. The music is buzzy and the atmosphere is great, and everyone looks like they're having a great time . . .

For a while I linger at a cabinet with a stunning aquamarine crystal necklace in it. I'd look just like a mermaid in that. I wonder how much it is? I'm just peering to see the price tag when an assistant approaches—and I come to with a jolt. I'm not here to buy a necklace. I'm going to buy what I
need.

Feeling virtuous, I force myself to move away from the cabinet. Down to business. I study the store guide, then I take the escalator up to the top floor of the store, glimpsing tanks of fish, cages of brightly colored birds . . . and everywhere I look, gorgeous clothes.

Oh God, the
clothes.
They are just the most beautiful things I've ever seen! Everywhere I look, I see shapes and colors and designs I just want to grab and touch and stroke. But I can't just spend all day marveling at candy-colored knitwear and beaded mules. I have to be focused. An outfit for tomorrow, nothing else.

Right. So what exactly do I want? Maybe a jacket, so I look authoritative—but it has to be the right jacket. Not too boxy, not too stiff . . . just nice clean lines. And maybe a skirt. Or just look at those trousers. They would look fantastic, if I had the right shoes . . .

I wander slowly round each floor, making mental notes. Then at last, when I'm sure I haven't left anything out, I start collecting all my possibilities. A Calvin Klein jacket . . . and a skirt . . .

“Excuse me?”

A voice interrupts me just as I'm reaching for a sleeveless top, and I turn in surprise. A woman in a black trouser suit is smiling at me.

“Would you like any help with your shopping today?”