Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (64 page)

I break off, panting, into complete silence.

Oh fuck. I shouldn't have said that.

I dart a look at Luke, and he's staring at me, his face ashen with anger.

“What did you call my mother?” he says slowly.

“Look, I . . . I didn't mean it.” I swallow, trying to keep control of my voice. “I just think . . . there's got to be a sense of proportion in all this. All I did was a bit of shopping . . .”

“A bit of shopping,” echoes Luke scathingly. “A
bit
of shopping.” He gives me a long look—then, to my horror, heads to the huge cedar-wood wardrobe where I've been stashing all my stuff. He opens it silently and we both stare at the bags crammed to the ceiling.

And as I see it all, I feel a slight nausea overcoming me. All those things which seemed so vital when I bought them, all those things which I got so excited about . . . now just look like a great big pile of rubbish bags. I could barely even tell you what's in any of the packages. It's just . . . stuff. Piles and piles of stuff.

Without saying anything, Luke closes the door again, and I feel shame drenching over me like hot water.

“I know,” I say, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know. But I'm paying for it. I really am.”

I turn away, unable to meet his eye, and suddenly I just have to get out of this room. I have to get away from Luke, from myself in the mirror, from the whole horrendous day.

“I'll . . . I'll see you later,” I mutter and without looking back, head for the door.

The bar downstairs is dimly lit, soothing, and anonymous. I sink into a sumptuous leather chair, feeling weak and achy, as though I've got the flu. When a waiter comes up, I order an orange juice, then, as he's walking away, change my order to a brandy. It arrives in a huge glass, warm and reviving, and I take a few sips—then look up as a shadow appears on the table in front of me. It's Michael Ellis. I feel my heart sink. I really don't feel up to talking.

“Hello,” he says. “May I?” He gestures to the chair opposite and I nod weakly. He sits down and gives me a kind look as I drain my glass. For a while, we're both silent.

“I could be polite, and not mention it,” he says at last. “Or I could tell you the truth—which is that I was very sorry for you this morning. Your British papers are vicious. No one deserves that kind of treatment.”

“Thank you,” I mumble.

A waiter appears, and Michael orders two more brandies without even asking.

“All I can tell you is, people aren't dumb,” he says as the waiter walks off. “No one's going to hold it against you.”

“They already have,” I say, staring at the table. “My screen test for HLBC was called off.”

“Ah,” says Michael after a pause. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“No one wants to know me anymore. They're all saying they've ‘decided to go another way' or they ‘feel I don't really suit the American market' and . . . you know. Basically just, ‘Go away.' ”

As I talk, I can feel my eyes filling up with hot tears. I so wanted to tell all this to Luke. I wanted to pour out all my woes—and for him to give me a huge, uncritical hug. Tell me it was their loss, not mine, like my parents would, or Suze would. But instead, he made me feel even worse about myself. He's right—I've thrown everything away, haven't I? I had opportunities people would kill for, and I wasted them.

Michael is nodding gravely.

“That happens,” he says. “I'm afraid these idiots are like a pack of sheep. One gets spooked, they all get spooked.”

“I just feel like I've wrecked everything,” I say, feeling my throat tightening. “I was going to get this amazing job, and Luke was going to be this huge success. It was all going to be perfect. And I've just chucked it all in the bin. It's all my fault.”

To my horror, tears are spilling out of my eyes. I can't stop them. And suddenly I give a huge sob. Oh, this is so embarrassing.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I'm just a complete disaster.”

I bury my hot face in my hands and hope that Michael Ellis will tactfully slip away and leave me alone. Instead, I feel a hand on mine, and a handkerchief being slipped into my fingers. I wipe my face gratefully with the cool cotton and eventually raise my head.

“Thanks,” I gulp. “Sorry about that.”

“That's quite all right,” says Michael calmly. “I'd be the same.”

“Yeah, right,” I mutter.

“You should see me when I lose a contract. I bawl my eyes out. My secretary has to run out for Kleenex every half hour.” He sounds so completely deadpan, I can't help giving a little smile. “Now, drink your brandy,” he says, “and let's get a few things straight. Did you invite
The Daily World
to take pictures of you with a long-range lens?”

“No.”

“Did you call them, offering an exclusive on your personal habits and suggesting a choice of offensive headlines?”

“No.” I can't help giving a half-giggle.

“So.” He gives me a quizzical look. “This would be all your fault because . . .”

“I was naive. I should have realized. I should have . . . seen it coming. I was stupid.”

“You were unlucky.” He shrugs. “Maybe a little foolish. But you can't heap all the blame on yourself.”

An electronic burble sounds from his pocket, and he reaches for his mobile.

“Excuse me a moment,” he says, and turns away. “Hi there.”

As he talks quietly into the phone I fold a paper coaster over and over. I want to ask him something—but I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.

“Sorry about that,” says Michael. As he puts his phone away he gives me a rueful smile and shakes his head. “Never do business with friends.”

“Really? Was that a friend?”

Michael nods. “An old friend of the family. I did a campaign for him on credit as a favor. He promised when business picked up, he'd write a check. Well, as far as I'm concerned, business has picked up.”

“And he hasn't paid you?” I take a sip of my drink, grateful to have something to distract me.

“He's bought himself a nice new Mercedes.”

“That's terrible!” I exclaim.

“That's what friends are for. To exploit the shit out of you. I should have learned that by now.” He rolls his eyes humorously, but I'm still frowning.

“Do you know his family?”

“Sure. We used to spend Thanksgiving together.”

“Right.” I think for a moment. “So—have you mentioned this to his wife?”

“His wife?” Michael looks surprised, and I raise my eyebrows knowingly at him.

“I bet you if you told his wife, you'd get the money back.”

Michael stares at me for a second—then bursts into laughter.

“You know, I think you have something there. I'll try it!” He drains his glass, then glances down at the mangled coaster in my fingers. “So. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Thanks. But there's something I wanted to—” I take a deep breath. “Michael, was it my fault that Luke's deal fell through? I mean, did the
Daily World
thing come into it?”

He gives me a sharp look. “We're being frank here, right?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling a shaft of apprehension. “We're being frank.”

“Then, to be honest, I can't say it helped proceedings,” says Michael. “There were various . . . remarks made this morning. Some oh-so-funny jokes. I have to hand it to Luke, he took it all pretty well.”

I stare at him, feeling cold.

“Luke didn't tell me that.”

Michael shrugs. “I wouldn't have thought he particularly wanted to repeat any of the comments.”

“So it
was
my fault.”

“Uh-uh.” Michael shakes his head. “That's not what I said.” He leans back in his chair. “Becky, if this deal had been really strong, it would have survived a bit of adverse publicity. My guess is JD Slade used your little . . . embarrassment as an excuse. There's some bigger reason, which they're keeping to themselves . . .”

“What?”

“Who knows? The rumor about Bank of London? A difference in business ethos? For some reason, they seem to have suffered a general loss of confidence in the whole idea.”

I stare at him, remembering what Luke said.

“Do people really think Luke's losing his touch?”

“Luke is a very talented individual,” says Michael carefully. “But something's gotten into him over this deal. He's almost
too
driven. I told him this morning, he needs to prioritize. There's obviously a situation with Bank of London. He should be talking to them. Reassuring them. Frankly, if he loses them, he's in big trouble. And it's not just them. Some problem or other seems to have cropped up with Provident Assurance—another huge client.” He leans forward. “If you ask me, he should be on a plane back to London this afternoon.”

“And what does he want to do?”

“He's already setting up meetings with every New York investment bank I've ever heard of.” He shakes his head. “That boy seems fixated by making it in America.”

“I think he wants to prove something,” I mutter.
To his mother,
I nearly add.

“So Becky . . .” Michael gives me a kind look. “What are you going to do? Try to set up some more meetings?”

“No,” I say after a pause. “To be honest, I don't think there's any point.”

“So will you stay out here with Luke?”

An image of Luke's frozen face flashes through my mind, and I feel a stab of pain.

“I don't think there's much point doing that, either.” I take a deep swig of wine and try to smile. “You know what? I think I'm just going to go home.”

Thirteen

I
GET OUT OF THE TAXI,
hoist my suitcase onto the pavement, and look miserably up at the gray English sky. It's really all over.

Until the very last minute, I had a secret, desperate hope that someone might change their mind and offer me a job. Or that Luke might beg me to stay. Every time the phone rang I felt jittery, hoping that somehow a miracle was about to happen. But nothing happened. Of course it didn't.

When I said good-bye to Luke it was as though I were acting a part. I wanted to throw myself on him in tears, slap his face,
something.
But I just couldn't. I had to salvage some kind of dignity, somewhere. So it was almost businesslike, the way I phoned the airline, packed up my stuff, and ordered a cab. I couldn't bring myself to kiss him on the mouth when I left, so I gave him two brisk pecks on each cheek and then turned away before either of us could say anything.

Now, twelve hours later, I feel completely exhausted. I sat awake all through the overnight flight, stiff with misery and disappointment. Only a few days ago I was flying out, thinking I was about to start a fantastic new life in America, and instead, I'm back here with less than I even started with. And everyone, but
everyone,
knows it. A couple of girls at the airport obviously recognized me, and started whispering and giggling as I was waiting for my bags.

And oh God, I know I'd have been just the same if I'd been them. But right then, I felt so raw with humiliation, I nearly burst into tears.

I lug my bags dejectedly up the steps and let myself into the flat. And for a few moments I just stand there, looking around at the coats and old letters and keys in the bowl. Same old hall. Same old life. Back to square one. I catch sight of my haggard reflection in the mirror and quickly look away.

“Hi!” I call. “Anyone in? I'm back.”

There's a pause—then Suze appears at her door in a dressing gown. “Bex?” she exclaims. “I didn't expect you back so early! Are you all right?” She comes nearer, pulling her dressing gown around her, and peers worriedly at my face. “Oh, Bex.” She bites her lip. “I don't know what to say.”

“It's fine,” I say. “I'm fine. Honestly.”

“Bex—”

“Really. I'm fine.” I turn away before the sight of Suze's anxious face reduces me to tears, and scrabble in my bag. “So anyway . . . I got you that Clinique stuff you asked for . . . and the special face stuff for your mum . . .” I hand the bottles to her and begin to root roughly around again. “There's some more stuff for you in here somewhere . . .”

“Bex—don't worry about it. Just come and sit down, or something.” Suze clutches the Clinique bottles to her and peers at me uncertainly. “Would you like a drink or something?”

“No!” I make myself smile. “I'm all right, Suze! I've decided the best thing is just to get on, and not think about what's happened. In fact—I'd rather we didn't talk about it at all.”

“Really?” says Suze. “Well . . . OK. If you're sure that's what you want.”

“That's what I want.” I take a deep breath. “Really. I'm fine. So, how are
you
?”

“I'm OK,” says Suze, and gives me another anxious look. “Bex, you look really pale. Have you eaten anything?”

“Airplane food. You know.” I take off my coat with trembling fingers and hang it on a peg.

“Was the . . . the flight OK?” says Suze.

“It was great!” I say with a forced brightness. “They were showing the new Billy Crystal film.”

“Billy Crystal!” says Suze. She gives me a hesitant glance, as though I'm some psychotic patient who has to be handled carefully. “Was it a . . . a good film? I love Billy Crystal.”

“Yes, it was. It was a good film. I was really enjoying it, actually.” I swallow hard. “Until my earphones stopped working in the middle.”

“Oh dear!” says Suze.

“It was a really crucial bit. Everyone else on the plane was laughing away—and I couldn't hear anything.” My voice starts to wobble treacherously. “So I . . . I asked this stewardess if I could have some new earphones. But she didn't understand what I meant, and she got really ratty with me because she was trying to serve drinks . . . And then I didn't want to ask her again. So I don't quite know how the film finished. But apart from that, it was really good . . .” Suddenly I give a huge sob. “And you know, I can always rent it on video or something . . .”

“Bex!” Suze's face crumples in dismay and she drops the Clinique bottles on the floor. “Oh God, Bex. Come here.” She envelops me in a hug, and I bury my head in her shoulder.

“Oh, it's all awful,” I weep. “It was just so humiliating, Suze. Luke was so cross . . . and they canceled my screen test . . . and suddenly it was like . . . like I had some infectious disease or something. And now nobody wants to know me, and I'm not going to move to New York after all . . .”

I look up, wiping my eyes—and Suze's face is all pink and distressed.

“Bex, I feel so bad,” she exclaims.

“
You
feel bad? Why should you feel bad?”

“It's all my fault. I was such a moron! I let that girl from the paper in here, and she probably poked about when I was making her cup of stupid coffee. I mean, why did I have to offer her coffee? It's all my stupid fault.”

“Of course it's not!”

“Will you ever forgive me?”

“Will I ever forgive
you
?” I stare at her, my face quivering. “Suze . . . I should be asking you to forgive
me
! You tried to keep tabs on me. You tried to warn me, but I didn't even bother to call you back . . . I was just so . . . stupid, so
thoughtless . . .
”

“No, you weren't!”

“I was.” I give another huge sob. “I just don't know what happened to me in New York. I went mad. Just . . . the shops . . . all these meetings . . . I was going to be this huge star and earn loads of money . . . And then it all just disappeared.”

“Oh, Bex!” Suze is practically crying herself. “I feel so terrible!”

“It's not your fault!” I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. “If it's anyone's fault, it's
The
Daily World
's.”

“I
hate
them!” says Suze savagely. “They should be strung up and flogged. That's what Tarkie said.”

“Oh right,” I say after a pause. “So . . . he . . . he saw it, did he?”

“To be honest, Bex—I think most people saw it,” says Suze reluctantly.

I feel a painful lurch as I think about Janice and Martin reading it. About Tom and Lucy reading it. All my old school friends and teachers reading it. All the people I've ever known, reading my most humiliating secrets.

“Look, come on,” says Suze. “Leave all your stuff. Let's have a nice cup of tea.”

“OK,” I say after a pause. “That would be really nice.” I follow her into the kitchen and sit down, leaning against the warm radiator for comfort.

“So—how are things going with Luke now?” says Suze cautiously as she puts on the kettle.

“Not great.” I fold my arms tightly round myself. “In fact . . . it's not going at all.”

“Really?” Suze gazes at me in dismay. “God, Bex, what happened?”

“Well, we had this big row . . .”

“About the article?”

“Kind of.” I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. “He said it messed up his deal, and I was obsessed by shopping. And I said he was obsessed with work . . . and I . . . I said his mother was a . . . a complete cow . . .”

“You called his mother a
cow
?” Suze looks so taken aback, I give a shaky giggle.

“Well, she is! She's awful. And she doesn't even love Luke. But he can't see it . . . all he wants is to land the biggest deal in the world and impress her. He can't think about anything else but that.”

“So what happened then?” says Suze, handing me a mug of tea.

I bite my lip, remembering that last painful conversation we had, while I was waiting for my taxi to take me to the airport. The polite stilted voices, the way we didn't look each other in the eye.

“Before I left, I said I didn't think he had time for a proper relationship at the moment.”

“Really?” Suze's eyes widen. “You called it off?”

“I didn't mean to.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I wanted him to say he
did
have time. But he didn't say anything. It was . . . awful.”

“Oh, Bex.” Suze stares at me over her mug. “Oh, Bex.”

“Still, never mind,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “It's probably all for the best.” I take a sip of tea and close my eyes. “Oh God, that's good. That's so good.” For a while I'm silent, letting the steam warm my face, feeling myself relax. I take a few more sips, then open my eyes. “They just cannot make tea in America. I went to one place, and they gave me this . . . cup full of hot water, and a tea bag in a packet. And the cup was
see-through.
”

“Ooh.” Suze pulls a face. “Yuck.” She reaches for the tin of biscuits and takes out a couple of Hobnobs. “Who needs America, anyway?” she says robustly. “I mean, everyone knows American TV is rubbish. You're better off here.”

“Maybe I am.” I stare into my mug for a while, then take a deep breath and look up. “You know, I thought a lot on the plane. I decided I'm going to make this a real turning point in my life. I'm going to concentrate on my career, and finish my book, and be really focused—and just . . .”

“Show them,” finishes Suze.

“Exactly. Just show them.”

It's amazing what a bit of home comfort does for the spirit. Half an hour and three cups of tea later, I'm feeling a million times better. I'm even quite enjoying telling Suze about New York, and all the things I did. When I tell her about going to the spa, and where exactly they wanted to put a crystal tattoo, she starts laughing so hard she almost chokes.

“Hey,” I say, a sudden thought striking me. “Have you finished the KitKats?”

“No, I haven't,” says Suze, wiping her eyes. “They seem to go more slowly when you're not around. So, what did Luke's mum say? Did she want to see the results?” And she starts gurgling with laughter again.

“Hang on, I'll just get a couple,” I say, and start to head toward Suze's room, where they're kept.

“Actually—” says Suze, and her laughter abruptly stops. “No, don't go in there.”

“Why?” I say, stopping in surprise. “What's in your . . .” I tail off as Suze's cheeks slowly turn pink. “Suze!” I say, backing quietly away from the door. “No. Is there someone in there?”

I stare at her, and she pulls her dressing gown around her defensively, without saying anything.

“I don't believe it!” My voice squeaks incredulously. “I go away for five minutes and you start having a torrid affair!”

This is cheering me up more than anything else. There's nothing like hearing a juicy piece of gossip to raise your spirits.

“It's not a torrid affair!” says Suze at last. “It's not an affair at all.”

“So, who is it? Do I know him?”

Suze gives me an agonized look.

“OK, just . . . I just have to explain. Before you . . . you jump to the wrong conclusion, or . . .” She closes her eyes. “God, this is hard.”

“Suze, what's wrong?”

Suddenly there's the sound of stirring from inside Suze's bedroom, and we stare at each other.

“OK, listen. It was just a one-off,” she says quickly. “Just a . . . a really impetuous, stupid . . . I mean . . .”

“What's wrong, Suze?” I pull a face. “Oh God, it's not Nick, is it?”

Nick is Suze's last boyfriend—the one who was constantly depressed and getting drunk and blaming Suze. A complete nightmare, to be honest. But I mean, that was over months ago.

“No, it's not Nick. It's . . . Oh God.”

“Suze—”

“OK! But you have to promise to—”

“To what?”

“To not . . . react.”

“Why should I react?” I say, laughing a little. “I mean, I'm not a prude! All we're talking about is . . .”

I tail off as Suze's door opens—and it's only Tarquin, looking not at all bad, in chinos and the jumper I gave him.

“Oh,” I say in surprise. “I thought you were going to be Suze's new—”

I break off and look at Suze with a grin.

But she doesn't grin back. She's chewing her nails, avoiding my eyes—and her cheeks growing redder and redder.

I glance at Tarquin—and
he
looks away, too.

No.
No.

She can't mean—

No.

But . . .

No.

My brain can't cope with this. Something's about to short-circuit.

“Erm, Tarquin,” says Suze, in a high-pitched voice. “Could you go and buy some croissants?”

“Oh, ahm . . . OK,” says Tarquin, a little stiltedly. “Morning, Becky.”

“Morning!” I say. “Nice to . . . to see you. Nice . . . jumper.”

There's a frozen silence in the kitchen as he walks out, which remains until we hear the front door slam. Then, very slowly, I turn to face Suze.

“Suze . . .”

I don't even know how to begin.

“Suze . . . that was Tarquin.”

“Yes, I know,” she says, studying the kitchen counter intently.

“Suze . . . are you and Tarquin—”

“No!” she exclaims, as though she's been scalded. “No, of course not! It's just . . . we just . . .” She stops.

“You just . . .” I say encouragingly.

“Once or twice . . .”

There's a long pause.

“With Tarquin,” I say, just to make sure.

“Yes,” she says.

“Right,” I say, nodding my head as though this is a completely reasonable scenario. But my mouth is twitching and I can feel a strange pressure rising inside me—half shock, half hysterical laughter. I mean, Tarquin.
Tarquin!

A sudden giggle escapes from me and I clamp my hand over my mouth.

“Don't laugh!” wails Suze. “I knew you'd laugh!”

“I'm not laughing!” I protest. “I think it's great!” I give another snort of laughter, and try to pretend I'm coughing. “Sorry! Sorry. So—how did it happen?”

“It was at that party in Scotland!” she wails. “There was no one else there except loads of ancient aunts. Tarquin was the only other person under ninety. And somehow . . . he looked all different! He had on this really nice Paul Smith jersey, and his hair looked kind of cool—and it was like, is that really Tarquin? And I got quite pissed—and you know what that does to me. And there he was . . .” She shakes her head helplessly. “I don't know. He was just . . . transformed. God knows how it happened!”