Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (71 page)

A few moments later, Suze appears beside me.

“Are you OK?” she says, and hands me a glass of wine. “Here. Have some of this.”

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, and take a deep gulp. “I'm fine, really. It's just . . . I suppose it's just hitting me. What I'm doing.”

“Bex . . .” She pauses and rubs her face awkwardly. “Bex, you could always change your mind. You could always stay. I mean—after tonight, with any luck, all your debts will be paid off! You could get a job, stay in the flat with me . . .”

I look at her for a few silent moments, feeling a temptation so strong, it almost hurts. It would be so easy to agree. Go home with her, have a cup of tea, and fall back into my old life.

But then I shake my head.

“No. I'm not going to fall into anything again. I've found something I really want to do, Suze, and I'm going to do it.”

“Rebecca.” A voice interrupts us, and we both look up to see Derek Smeath coming out of the door of the pub. He's holding the wooden bowl, one of Suze's photograph frames, and a big hard-backed atlas which I remember buying once when I thought I might give up my Western life and go traveling.

“Hi!” I say, and nod at his haul. “You did well.”

“Very well.” He holds the bowl up. “This is a very handsome piece.”

“It was in
Elle Decoration
once,” I tell him. “Very cool.”

“Really? I'll tell my daughter.” He puts it slightly awkwardly under his arm. “So you're off to America tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. After I've paid a small trip to your friend John Gavin.”

A wry smile passes over Derek Smeath's face.

“I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you.” He extends his hand as best he can to shake mine. “Well, good luck, Becky. Do let me know how you get on.”

“I will,” I say, smiling warmly. “And thanks for . . . You know. Everything.”

He nods, and then walks off into the night.

I stay outside with Suze for quite a time. People are leaving now, carrying their loot, and telling each other how much they got it all for. A guy walks by clutching the mini paper shredder, a girl drags a bin liner full of clothes, someone else has got the invitations with the twinkly pizza slices. Just as I'm starting to get cold, a voice hails us from the stairs.

“Hey,” calls Tarquin. “It's the last lot. D'you want to come and see?”

“Come on,” says Suze, stubbing out her cigarette. “You've got to see the last thing go. What is it?”

“I don't know,” I say as we mount the stairs. “The fencing mask, perhaps?”

But as we walk back into the room, I feel a jolt of shock. Caspar's holding up my Denny and George scarf. My precious Denny and George scarf. Shimmering blue, silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue, and dotted with iridescent beading.

I stand staring at it, with a growing tightness in my throat, remembering with a painful vividness the day I bought it. How desperately I wanted it. How Luke lent me the twenty quid I needed. The way I told him I was buying it for my aunt.

The way he used to look at me whenever I wore it.

My eyes are going blurry, and I blink hard, trying to keep control of myself.

“Bex . . . don't sell your scarf,” says Suze, looking at it in distress. “Keep one thing, at least.”

“Lot 126,” says Caspar. “A very attractive silk and velvet scarf.”

“Bex, tell them you've changed your mind!”

“I haven't changed my mind,” I say, staring fixedly ahead. “There's no point hanging on to it now.”

“What am I bid for this fine designer accessory by Denny and George?”

“Denny and George!” says the girl in pink, looking up. She's got the hugest pile of clothes around her, and I've no idea how she's going to get them all home. “I collect Denny and George! Thirty pounds!”

“I have a bid at £30,” says Caspar. He looks around the room—but it's swiftly emptying. People are queueing up to collect their items, or buy drinks at the bar, and the very few left sitting on the chairs are mostly chatting.

“Any further bids for this Denny and George scarf?”

“Yes!” says a voice at the back, and I see a girl in black raising a hand. “I have a telephone bid of £35.”

“Forty pounds,” says the girl in pink promptly.

“Fifty,” says the girl in black.

“Fifty?” says the pink girl, swiveling on her chair. “Who is it bidding? Is it Miggy Sloane?”

“The bidder wishes to remain anonymous,” says the girl in black after a pause. She catches my eye and for an instant my heart stops still.

“I bet it's Miggy,” says the girl, turning back. “Well, she's not going to beat me. Sixty pounds.”

“Sixty pounds?” says the chap next to her, who's been eyeing her pile of stuff with slight alarm. “For a scarf?”

“A
Denny and George
scarf, stupid!” says the pink girl, and takes a swig of wine. “It would be at least two hundred in a shop. Seventy! Ooh, silly. It's not my turn, is it?”

The girl in black has been murmuring quietly into the phone. Now she looks up at Caspar. “A hundred.”

“A hundred?” The pink girl swivels on her chair again. “Really?”

“The bidding stands at one hundred,” says Caspar calmly. “I am bid £100 for this Denny and George scarf. Any further bids?”

“A hundred and twenty,” says the pink girl. There are a few moments' silence, and the girl in black talks quietly into the phone again. Then she looks up and says, “A hundred and fifty.”

There's an interested murmuring around the room, and people who had been chatting at the bar all turn toward the auction floor again.

“One hundred and fifty pounds,” says Caspar. “I am bid £150 for Lot 126, a Denny and George scarf.”

“That's more than I
paid
for it!” I whisper to Suze.

“Bidding rests with the telephone buyer. At £150. One hundred and fifty pounds, ladies and gentlemen.”

There's a tense silence—and suddenly I realize I'm digging my nails into the flesh of my hands.

“Two hundred,” says the girl in pink defiantly, and there's a gasp around the room. “And tell your so-called anonymous bidder, Miss Miggy Sloane, that whatever
she
bids,
I
can bid.”

Everyone turns to look at the girl in black, who mutters something into the receiver, then nods her head.

“My bidder withdraws,” she says, looking up. I feel an inexplicable pang of disappointment, and quickly smile to cover it.

“Two hundred pounds!” I say to Suze. “That's pretty good!”

“Going . . . going . . . gone,” says Caspar, and raps his gavel. “To the lady in pink.”

There's a round of applause, and Caspar beams happily around. He picks up the scarf, and is about to hand it to Fenella, when I stop him.

“Wait,” I say. “I'd like to give it to her. If that's all right.”

I take the scarf from Caspar and hold it quite still for a few moments, feeling its familiar gossamer texture. I can still smell my scent on it. I can feel Luke tying it round my neck.

The Girl in the Denny and George Scarf.

Then I take a deep breath and walk down, off the platform, toward the girl in pink. I smile at her and hand it over to her.

“Enjoy it,” I say. “It's quite special.”

“Oh, I know,” she says quietly. “I know it is.” And just for a moment, as we look at each other, I think she understands completely. Then she turns and lifts it high into the air in triumph, like a trophy. “Sucks to you, Miggy!”

I turn away and walk back to the platform, where Caspar is sitting down, looking exhausted.

“Well done,” I say, sitting down next to him. “And thank you so much again. You did a fantastic job.”

“Not at all!” says Caspar. “I enjoyed it, actually. Bit of a change from early German porcelain.” He gestures to his notes. “I think we raised a fair bit, too.”

“You did brilliantly!” says Suze, coming to sit down too, and handing Caspar a beer. “Honestly, Bex, you'll be completely out of the woods now.” She gives an admiring sigh. “You know, it just shows, you were right all along. Shopping
is
an investment. I mean, like, how much did you make on your Denny and George scarf?”

“Erm . . .” I close my eyes, trying to work it out. “About . . . 60 percent?”

“Sixty percent return! In less than a year! You see? That's better than the crummy old stock market!” She takes out a cigarette and lights it. “You know, I think I might sell all my stuff, too.”

“You haven't got any stuff,” I point out. “You decluttered it all.”

“Oh yeah.” Suze's face falls. “God, why did I do that?”

I lean back on my elbow and close my eyes. Suddenly, for no real reason, I feel absolutely exhausted.

“So you're off tomorrow,” says Caspar, taking a swig of beer.

“I'm off tomorrow,” I echo, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow I'm leaving England and flying off to America to live. Leaving everything behind and starting again. Somehow, it just doesn't feel real.

“Not one of these crack-of-dawn flights, I hope?” he says, glancing at his watch.

“No, thank God. I'm not flying until about five.”

“That's good,” says Caspar, nodding. “Gives you plenty of time.”

“Oh yes.” I sit up and glance at Suze, who grins back. “Plenty of time for just a couple of little things I've got to do.”

“Becky! We're so glad you changed your mind!” cries Zelda as soon as she sees me. I get up from the sofa where I've been sitting in reception, and give her a quick smile. “Everyone's so thrilled you're coming on! What made you decide?”

“Oh, I'm not sure,” I say pleasantly. “Just . . . one of those things.”

“Well, let me take you straight up to makeup . . . we're completely chaotic, as usual, so we've brought your slot forward slightly . . .”

“No problem,” I say. “The sooner the better.”

“I have to say, you look very well,” says Zelda, surveying me with a slight air of disappointment. “Have you lost weight?”

“A little, I suppose.”

“Ah . . . stress,” she says wisely. “Stress, the silent killer. We're doing a feature on it next week. Now!” she exclaims, bustling me into the makeup room. “This is Becky . . .”

“Zelda, we know who Becky is,” says Chloe, who's been doing my makeup ever since I first appeared on
Morning Coffee.
She pulls a face at me in the mirror and I stifle a giggle.

“Yes, of course you do! Sorry, Becky, I've just got you down in my mind as a guest! Now, Chloe. Don't do too good a job on Becky today. We don't want her looking too glowing and happy, do we?” She lowers her voice. “And use waterproof mascara. In fact, everything waterproof. See you later!”

Zelda sweeps out of the room, and Chloe shoots her a scornful glance.

“OK,” she says. “I'm going to make you look as good as you've ever looked in your life. Extra happy and extra glowing.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” I say, grinning at her, and sit down on a chair.

“Oh, and please don't tell me you're really going to need waterproof mascara,” she adds, tying a cape around me.

“No way,” I say firmly. “They'll have to shoot me first.”

“Then they probably will,” says a girl from across the room, and we all start giggling helplessly.

“All I can say is, I hope they're paying you well to do this,” says Chloe, as she starts to smooth foundation onto my skin.

“Yes,” I say. “They are, as it happens. But that's not why I'm doing it.”

Half an hour later, I'm sitting in the Green Room when Clare Edwards comes walking in. She's wearing a dark green suit that really doesn't do much for her—and is it my imagination, or has someone made her up far too pale? She's going to look really pasty under the lights.

“Oh,” says Clare, looking discomfited as she sees me. “Hello, Becky.”

“Hi, Clare,” I say. “Long time no see.”

“Yes. Well.” She twists her hands into a knot. “I was very sorry to read of your troubles.”

“Thanks,” I say lightly. “Still—it's an ill wind, eh, Clare?”

Clare immediately blushes bright red and looks away—and I feel a bit ashamed of myself. It's not her fault I got sacked.

“Honestly, I'm really pleased you got the job,” I say more kindly. “And I think you're doing it really well.”

“Right!” says Zelda, hurrying in. “We're ready for you. Now, Becky.” She puts a hand on my arm as we walk out. “I know this is going to be very traumatic for you. We're quite prepared for you to take your time . . . again, if you break down completely, start sobbing, whatever . . . don't worry.”

“Thanks, Zelda,” I say, and nod seriously. “I'll bear that in mind.”

We get to the set, and there are Rory and Emma, sitting on the sofas. I glance at a monitor as I walk past, and see that they've blown up that awful picture of me in New York, tinted it red, and headlined it “Becky's Tragic Secret.”

“Hi, Becky,” says Emma, as I sit down, and pats me sympathetically on the hand. “Are you all right? Would you like a tissue?”

“Erm . . . no, thanks.” I lower my voice. “But, you know. Perhaps later.”

“Terrifically brave of you to come and do this,” says Rory, and squints at his notes. “Is it true your parents have disowned you?”

“Ready in five,” calls Zelda from the floor. “Four . . . three . . .”

“Welcome back,” says Emma somberly to camera. “Now, we've got a very special guest with us today. Thousands of you will have followed the story of Becky Bloomwood, our former financial expert. Becky was, of course, revealed by
The Daily World
to be far from financially secure herself.”

The picture of me shopping appears on the monitor, followed by a series of tabloid headlines, accompanied by the song “Hey Big Spender.”

“So, Becky,” says Emma, as the music dies away. “Let me begin by saying how
extremely
sorry and sympathetic we are for you in your plight. In a minute, we'll be asking our new financial expert, Clare Edwards, just what you should have done to prevent this catastrophe. But now—just to put our viewers straight . . . could you tell us exactly how much in debt you are?”

“I'd be glad to, Emma,” I say, and take a deep breath. “At the present moment, my debt amounts to . . .” I pause, and I can feel the whole studio bracing itself for a shock. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Emma looks at Rory as though to check she's heard correctly.
“Nothing?”