Shopaholic Ties the Knot (10 page)

“Very stirring,” says Luke crisply. “Just for the record, in my book ‘household expenses’ means joint expenses pertaining to the running of this apartment and our lives. Food, fuel, cleaning products, and so on.”

“Fine!” I shrug. “If that’s the narrow . . . frankly
limited
definition you want to use—then fine.”

The doorbell rings and I open it to see Danny standing in the hallway.

“Danny, is a Miù Miù skirt a household expense?” I say.

“Absolutely,” says Danny, coming into the living area.

“You see?” I raise my eyebrows at Luke. “But fine, we’ll go with your definition . . .”

“So did you hear?” says Danny morosely.

“Hear what?”

“Mrs. Watts is selling.”

“What?” I stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“As soon as the lease is up, we’re out.”

“She can’t do that!”

“She’s the owner. She can do what she likes.”

“But . . .” I stare at Danny in dismay, then turn to Luke, who is putting some papers into his briefcase. “Luke, did you hear that? Mrs. Watts is selling!”

“I know.”

“You
knew
? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sorry. I meant to.” Luke looks unconcerned.

“What will we do?”

“Move.”

“But I don’t want to move. I like it here!”

I look around the room with a pang. This is the place where Luke and I have been happy for the last year. I don’t want to be uprooted from it.

“So you want to hear where this leaves me?” says Danny. “Randall’s getting an apartment with his girlfriend.”

I look at him in alarm.“He’s throwing you out?”

“Practically. He says I have to start contributing, otherwise I can start looking for a new place. Like, how am I supposed to do that?” Danny raises his hands. “Until I have my new collection ready, it just won’t be possible. He might as well just . . . order me a cardboard box.”

“So, er . . . how is the new collection coming on?” I ask cautiously.

“You know, being a designer isn’t as easy as it looks,” says Danny defensively. “You can’t just be creative to order. It’s all a matter of inspiration.”

“Maybe you could get a job,” says Luke, reaching for his coat.

“A job?”

“They must need designers at, I don’t know, Gap?”

“Gap?” Danny stares at him. “You think I should spend my life designing
polo shirts
? So how about, ooh, two sleeves right here, three buttons on the placket, some ribbing . . . How can I contain my excitement?”

“What will we do?” I say plaintively to Luke.

“About Danny?”

“About our apartment!”

“We’ll find somewhere,” says Luke reassuringly. “Which reminds me. My mother wants to have lunch with you today.”

“She’s back?” I say in dismay. “I mean . . . she’s back!”

“They had to postpone her surgery.” Luke pulls a little face. “The clinic was placed under investigation by the Swiss medical authorities while she was there and all the procedures were put on hold. So . . . one o’clock, La Goulue?”

“Fine.” I shrug unenthusiastically.

Then, as the door closes behind Luke, I feel a bit bad. Maybe Elinor’s had a change of heart. Maybe she wants to bury the hatchet and get involved with the wedding. You never know.

I’d planned to be really cool and only tell people I was engaged if they asked me “How was your trip?”

But when the time comes I find myself running into the personal shopping department at Barneys where I work, thrusting out my hand, and yelling “Look!”

Erin, who works there with me, looks up startled, peers at my hand, then claps her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

“I know!”

“You’re engaged? To Luke?”

“Yes, of course to Luke! We’re getting married in June!”

“What are you going to wear?” she gabbles. “I’m so jealous! Let me see the ring! Where did you get it? When I get engaged I’m going straight to Harry Winstons. And forget a month’s salary, we’re talking at least three years’ . . .” She tails off as she examines my ring. “Wow.”

“It’s Luke’s family’s,” I say. “His grandmother’s.”

“Oh right. So . . . it isn’t new?” Her face falls slightly. “Oh well . . .”

“It’s . . . vintage,” I say carefully—and her entire expression lifts again.

“Vintage! A vintage ring! That’s such a cool idea!”

“Congratulations, Becky,” says Christina, my boss, and gives me a warm smile. “I know you and Luke will be very happy together.”

“Can I try it on?” says Erin. “No! I’m sorry. Forget I mentioned it. I just . . . A vintage ring!”

She’s still gazing at it as my first client, Laurel Johnson, comes into the department. Laurel is president of a company that leases private jets and is one of my favorite clients, even though she tells me all the time how she thinks everything in the store is overpriced and she’d buy all her clothes from Kmart if it weren’t for her job.

“What’s this I see?” she says, taking off her coat and shaking out her dark curly hair.

“I’m engaged!” I say, beaming.

“Engaged!” She comes over and scrutinizes the ring with dark, intelligent eyes. “Well, I hope you’ll be very happy. I’m sure you will be. I’m sure your husband will have sense enough to keep his dick out of the little blonde who came to work as his intern and told him she’d never met a man who filled her with awe before.
Awe
. I ask you. Did you ever hear such a—” She stops midtrack, claps her hand to her mouth, and gives me a rueful look. “Damn.”

“Never mind,” I say comfortingly. “You were provoked.”

Laurel has made a New Year’s resolution not to talk about her ex-husband or his mistress anymore, because her therapist, Hans, has told her it isn’t healthy for her. Unfortunately she’s finding this resolution quite hard to keep. Not that I blame her. He sounds like a complete pig.

“You know what Hans told me last week?” she says as I open the door of my fitting room. “He told me to write down a list of everything I wanted to say about that woman—and then tear it up. He said I’d feel a sense of freedom.”

“Oh right,” I say interestedly. “So what happened?”

“I wrote it all down,” says Laurel. “And then I mailed it to her.”

“Laurel!”

“I know. I know. Not helpful.”

“Well, come on in,” I say, trying not to laugh, “and tell me what you’ve been up to. I’m a little behind this morning . . .”

One of the best things about working as a personal shopper is you get really close to your clients. In fact, some of them feel like friends. When I first met Laurel, she’d just split up with her husband. She was really low, and had zero self-confidence. Now, I’m not trying to boast, but when I found her the perfect Armani dress to wear to this huge ballet gala that he was going to be at—when I watched her staring at herself in the mirror, raising her chin and smiling and feeling like an attractive woman again—I honestly felt I’d made a difference to her life.

This morning Laurel is looking for a couple of suits for work. I know her so well now it’s easy to pick out what will sit well on her tall frame. We have a nice easy chat, and talk about the new Brad Pitt movie, and Laurel tells me all about her new, very sexy golf coach.

“My entire game has fallen to pieces,” she says, pulling a face. “I’m no longer aiming to hit the ball in the hole. I’m just aiming to look thin and attractive and the ball can go where the hell it likes.”

As she gets changed back into her own daywear I come out of the fitting room, holding a pile of clothes.

“I can’t possibly wear that,” comes a muffled voice from Erin’s room.

“If you just try it—” I can hear Erin saying.

“You know I never wear that color!” The voice rises, and I freeze.

That’s a British accent.

“I’m not wasting my time anymore! If you bring me things I can’t wear—”

Tiny spiders are crawling up and down my back. I don’t believe it. It can’t be—

“But you asked for a new look!” says Erin helplessly.

“Call me when you’ve got what I asked for.”

And before I can move, here she is, walking out of Erin’s fitting room, as tall and blonde and immaculate as ever, her lips already curving into a supercilious smile. Her hair is sleek and her blue eyes are sparkling and she looks on top of the world.

Alicia Billington.

Alicia Bitch Longlegs.

I meet her eyes—and it’s like an electric shock all over my body. Inside my tailored gray trousers, I can feel my legs starting to tremble. I haven’t laid eyes on Alicia Billington for well over a year. I should be able to deal with this. But it’s as though that time has concertinaed into nothing. The memories of all our encounters are as strong and sore as ever. What she did to me. What she tried to do to Luke.

She’s looking at me with the same patronizing air she used to use when she was a PR girl and I was a brand-new financial reporter. And although I tell myself firmly that I’ve grown up a lot since then, that I’m a strong woman with a successful career and nothing to prove . . . I can still feel myself shrinking inside. Turning back into the girl who always felt a bit of a flake, who never knew quite what to say.

“Rebecca!” she says, looking at me as though highly amused. “Well, I never!”

“Hi, Alicia,” I say, and somehow force myself to smile courteously. “How are you?”

“I had heard you were working in a shop, but I thought that must be a joke.” She gives a little laugh. “Yet . . . here you are. Makes sense, really.”

I don’t just “work in a shop”! I want to yell furiously. I’m a personal shopper! It’s a skilled profession! I help people!

“And you’re still with Luke, are you?” She gives me mock concerned look. “Is his company finally back on track? I know he went through a rough time.”

I cannot believe this girl. It was she who tried to sabotage Luke’s company. It was she who set up a rival PR company that went bust. It was she who lost all her boyfriend’s money—and apparently had to be bailed out by her dad.

And now she’s behaving as though she won.

I swallow several times, trying to find the right response. I know I’m worth more than Alicia. I should be able to come up with the perfect, polite, yet witty retort. But somehow it doesn’t come.

“I’m living in New York myself,” she says airily. “So I expect we’ll see each other again. Maybe you’ll sell me a pair of shoes.” She gives me a final patronizing smile, hoists her Chanel bag on her shoulder, and walks out of the department.

When she’s left, there’s silence all around.

“Who was
that
?” says Laurel at last, who has come out of the fitting room only half dressed, without me noticing.

“That was . . . Alicia Bitch Longlegs,” I say, half dazed.

“Alicia Bitch Fatass more like,” says Laurel. “I always say, there’s no bitch like an English bitch.” She gives me a hug. “Don’t worry about it. Whoever she is, she’s just jealous.”

“Thanks,” I say, and rub my head, trying to clear my thoughts. But I’m still a bit shell-shocked, to be honest. I never thought I’d have to set eyes on Alicia again.

“Becky, I’m so sorry!” says Erin, as Laurel goes back into the fitting room. “I had no idea you and Alicia knew each other!”

“I had no idea she was a client of yours!”

“She doesn’t show up very often.” Erin pulls a face. “I never met anyone so fussy. So what’s the story between you two?”

Oh, nothing! I want to say. She just trashed me to the tabloids and nearly ruined Luke’s career, and has been a complete bitch to me from the very first moment I met her. Nothing to speak of.

“We just have a bit of a history,” I say at last.

“You know she’s engaged too? To Peter Blake. Very old money.”

“I don’t understand.” My brow wrinkles. “I thought she got married last year. To a British guy. Ed . . . somebody?”

“She did! Except she didn’t. Oh my God, didn’t you hear the story?” A pair of customers are wandering past the personal shopping area, and Erin lowers her voice. “They had the wedding and they were at the reception—when in walks Peter Blake as someone’s date. Alicia hadn’t known he was coming, but apparently the minute she found out who he was, she totally zeroed in on him. So they started chatting and were really getting on—like,
really
getting on . . . but what can Alicia do, she’s married!” Erin’s face is shiny with glee. “So she went up to the priest and said she wanted an annulment.”

“She did
what
?”

“She asked for an annulment! At her own wedding reception! She said they hadn’t consummated it so it didn’t count.” Erin gives a little gurgle of laughter. “Can you believe it?”

I can’t help giving a halfhearted laugh in response. “I can believe anything of Alicia.”

“She said she always gets what she wants. Apparently the wedding is going to be to
die
for. But she’s a complete bridezilla. Like, she’s practically forced one of the ushers to have a nose job, and she’s sacked every florist in New York . . . the wedding planner’s going nuts! Who’s your wedding planner?”

“My mum,” I reply, and Erin’s eyes widen.

“Your mom’s a wedding planner? I never knew that!”

“No, you moron!” I giggle, starting to cheer up. “My mum’s organizing the wedding. She’s got it all under control already.”

“Oh right.” Erin nods. “Well—that probably makes things easier. So you can keep your distance.”

“Yes. It should be really simple. Cross fingers!” I add, and we both laugh.

I ARRIVE AT LA Goulue at one o’clock on the dot, but Elinor isn’t there yet. I’m shown to a table and sip my mineral water while I wait for her. The place is busy, as it always is at this time, mostly with smartly dressed women. All around me is chatter and the gleam of expensive teeth and jewels, and I take the opportunity to eavesdrop shamelessly. At the table next to mine, a woman wearing heavy eyeliner and an enormous brooch is saying emphatically, “You simply cannot furnish an apartment these days under one hundred thousand dollars.”

“So I said to Edgar, ‘I am a human being,’ ” says a red-haired girl on my other side.

Her friend chews on a celery stick and looks at her with bright, avid eyes. “So what did he say?”