Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (113 page)

“Seven hundred and forty-five euros?” I stare at her in joy and amazement. I had no
idea
I was carrying around that kind of money! God, it just shows! All those people who say, “Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves” . . . they’re right! Who would have thought it?

I’ll be able to buy a present for Luke
and
a pair of Míu Míu shoes, and—

“Not seven hundred and forty-five.” The woman scribbles it on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Seven euros, forty-five cents.”

“What?” My happy smile slips off my face. That can’t be right.

“Seven euros, forty-five cents,” repeats the woman patiently. “How would you like that?”

How can so much genuine money be worth only seven euros? It makes no sense. As I explained to the woman, you could buy absolutely loads in India for those rupees. You could probably buy a whole car . . . or a palace, even. But she wouldn’t budge. Oh, well.

I start walking down the street, carefully following the map the hotel concierge gave me. He was such a helpful man. I explained to him how I wanted to take in the cultural sights of Milan, and he started talking about Da Vinci’s
The Last Supper,
which he “knew” I would be desperate to see.

Obviously I
do
want to see it. Very much so. But priorities are priorities. So I politely explained I was actually more interested in
contemporary
Italian culture, and he started going on about some artist who does short films about death.

So then I clarified that by “contemporary Italian culture” I was really referring to cultural icons such as Prada and Gucci—and his eyes lit up in understanding. He marked a street for me which is in an area called the Golden Quadrilateral and is apparently “full of culture” which he was “sure I would appreciate.”

It’s a sunny day with a light breeze, and the sunlight is glinting off windows and cars, and whizzy Vespas are zipping everywhere. God, Milan is cool. Every single person I pass is wearing designer sunglasses and carrying a designer handbag—even the men!

For a moment I consider buying Luke a continental handbag instead of a belt. I try to imagine him walking into the office with a chic little bag dangling from his wrist. . . .

Hmm. Maybe I’ll stick to a belt.

Suddenly I notice a girl in front of me wearing a cream trouser suit, high strappy shoes, and a pink scooter helmet with leopard-print trim.

I stare at her, gripped with desire. God, I want one of those helmets. I mean, I know I haven’t got a Vespa—but I could wear the helmet anyway, couldn’t I? It could be my signature look. People would call me the Girl in the Vespa Helmet. Plus, it would protect me from muggers, so it would actually be a
safety
feature. . . .

Maybe I’ll ask where she got it.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!”
I call out, impressed at my own sudden fluency.
“J’adore votre chapeau!”

The girl gives me a blank look, then disappears round a corner. Which, frankly, I think is a bit unfriendly. I mean, here I am, making an effort to speak her lang—

Oh. Oh, right.

OK, that’s a bit embarrassing.

Well, never mind. I’m not here to buy Vespa helmets, anyway. I’m here to buy a present for Luke. That’s what marriage is all about, after all. Putting your partner first. Placing his needs before your own.

Plus, what I’m thinking is, I can always fly back here for the day. I mean, it wouldn’t take any time from London, would it? And Suze could come too, I think with sudden delight. God, that would be fun. I suddenly have an image of Suze and me, striding down the street, arm in arm, swinging our bags and laughing. A girly trip to Milan! We
have
to do it!

I reach another corner and stop to consult my map. I must be getting closer. He said it wasn’t that far away. . . .

Just then a woman walks past me carrying a bag from Versace, and I stiffen with excitement. I have to be getting close to the source! This is just like when we visited that volcano in Peru, and the guide kept pointing out signs that we were nearing the core. If I just keep my eyes peeled for more Versace bags. . . .

I walk forward a little more—and there’s another one! That woman in oversize shades having a cappuccino has got one, plus about six zillion bags from Armani. She gesticulates to her friend and reaches inside one of them—and pulls out a pot of jam, with an Armani label.

Armani jam? Armani does
jam
?

Maybe in Milan everything has a fashion label! Maybe Dolce & Gabanna does toothpaste. Maybe Prada does tomato ketchup!

I start walking on again, more and more quickly, prickling with excitement. I can sense the shops in the air. The designer bags are appearing more frequently. The air is becoming heavy with expensive scent. I can practically
hear
the sound of hangers on rails and zips being done up. . . .

And then, suddenly, there it is.

A long, elegant boulevard stretches before me, with the chicest, most designer-clad people on earth milling about. Tanned, model-like girls in Pucci prints and heels are sauntering along with powerful-looking men in immaculate linen suits. A girl in white Versace jeans and red lipstick is pushing along a pram upholstered in Louis Vuitton monogrammed leather. A blond woman in a brown leather miniskirt trimmed with rabbit fur is gabbling into a matching mobile phone while dragging along her little boy, dressed head to foot in Gucci.

And . . . the shops. Shop after shop after shop.

Ferragamo. Valentino. Dior. Versace. Prada.

As I venture down the street, my head swiveling from side to side, I feel giddy. It’s complete culture shock. How long has it been since I’ve seen a shop that wasn’t selling ethnic crafts and wooden beads? I mean . . . it’s been months! I feel like I’ve been on some starvation cure, and now I’m gorging on tiramisu with double cream.

Just look at that amazing coat. Look at those
shoes
.

Where do I start? Where do I even—

I can’t move. I’m paralyzed in the middle of the street, like the donkey in that Aesop’s fable who couldn’t choose between the bales of hay. They’ll find me in years to come, still frozen to the spot, clutching my credit card.

Suddenly my eyes fall on a display of leather belts and wallets in the window of a nearby boutique.

Leather. Luke’s belt. This is what I’m here to buy. Focus.

I totter toward the shop and push open the door, still in a daze. At once I’m hit by the overwhelming smell of expensive leather. In fact, it’s so strong it actually seems to clear my head.

The shop is amazing. It’s carpeted in pale taupe, with softly lit display cabinets. I can see wallets, belts, bags, jackets. . . . I pause by a mannequin wearing the most amazing chocolate brown coat, all leather and satin. I stroke it fondly, then lift the price tag—and nearly faint.

But, of course, it’s in lire. I smile in relief. No wonder it looks so—

Oh no. It’s euros now.

Bloody hell.

I gulp, and move away from the mannequin.

Which just proves that Dad was right all along—the single currency
was
a huge mistake. When I was thirteen I went on holiday to Rome with my parents—and the whole point about lire was, the prices looked like a lot
but they weren’t really
. You could buy something for about a zillion lire—and in real life it cost about three quid! It was fantastic!

Plus, if you accidentally ended up buying a bottle of really expensive perfume, no one (i.e., your parents) could blame you, because, like Mum said, who on earth can divide numbers like that in their head?

As I start to look through a display of belts, a stocky middle-aged man comes out of a fitting room, chomping on a cigar and wearing an amazing black cashmere coat trimmed with leather. He’s about fifty and very tanned, with close-cropped gray hair and piercing blue eyes. The only thing which doesn’t look quite so good is his nose, which to be honest is a bit of a mishmash.

“Oy, Roberto,” he says in a raspy voice.

He’s English! His accent is weird, though. Kind of transatlantic meets cockney.

A shop assistant in a black suit with angular black glasses comes hurrying out from the fitting room, holding a tape measure.

“Yes, Signor Temple?”

“How much cashmere is in this?” The stocky man smooths down the coat critically.

“Signore, this is one hundred percent cashmere.”

“The best cashmere?” The stocky man lifts a warning finger. “I don’t want you palming me off now. You know my motto. Only the best.”

The guy in black glasses gives a little wince of dismay.

“Signore, we would not, er . . . palm you off.”

The man gazes at himself in a mirror silently for a few seconds, then nods.

“Fair enough. I’ll take three. One to London.” He counts off on stubby fingers. “One to Switzerland. One to New York. Got it?”

The assistant in black glasses glances over at me, and I realize it’s totally obvious I’m eavesdropping.

“Oh, hi!” I say quickly. “I’d like to buy this, please, and have it gift wrapped.” I hold up the belt I’ve chosen.

“Silvia will help you.” He gestures dismissively toward the woman at the till, then turns back to his customer.

I hand the belt over to Silvia and watch idly as she wraps it up in shiny bronze paper. I’m half admiring her deft ability with ribbon and half listening to Mr. Cashmere, who’s now looking at a briefcase.

“Don’t like the texture,” he states. “Feels different. Something’s wrong.”

“We have changed our supplier recently. . . .” The black glasses guy is wringing his hands. “But it is a very fine leather, signore. . . .”

He trails off as Mr. Cashmere takes his cigar from his mouth and gives him a look.

“You’re palming me off, Roberto,” he says. “I pay good money, I want quality. What you’ll do is make me up one using leather from the old supplier. Got it?”

He looks over, sees me watching, and winks.

“Best place for leather in the world, this. But don’t take any of their crap.”

“I won’t!” I beam back. “And I love that coat, by the way!”

“Very kind of you.” He nods affably. “You an actress? Model?”

“Er . . . no. Neither.”

“No matter.” He waves his cigar.

“How will you pay, signorina?” Silvia interrupts us.

“Oh! Er . . . here you are.”

As I hand over my Visa card I feel a glow of goodness in my heart. Buying presents for other people is so much more satisfying than buying for yourself! And this will take me up to my limit on my Visa card, so that’s my shopping all finished for the day.

What shall I do next? Maybe I’ll take in some culture. I could go and look at that famous painting the concierge was talking about.

I can hear a buzz of interest coming from the back of the shop and turn idly to see what’s happening. A mirrored door to a stockroom is open, and a woman in a black suit is coming out, surrounded by a gaggle of eager assistants. What on earth is she holding? Why is everyone so—

Then suddenly I catch a glimpse of what she’s carrying. My heart stops. My skin starts to prickle.

It can’t be.

But it is. She’s carrying an Angel bag.

Three

It’s an Angel bag. In the flesh.

I thought they were all sold out everywhere. I thought they were totally impossible to get hold of.

The woman sets it down ceremoniously on a creamy suede pedestal and stands back to admire it. The whole shop has fallen silent. It’s like a member of the royal family has arrived. Or a movie star.

I’m transfixed.

It’s stunning. It’s totally stunning. The calfskin looks as soft as butter. The handpainted angel is all in delicate shades of aquamarine. And underneath is the name
Dante
written in diamanté.

My legs are all wobbly and my hands feel sweaty. This is better than when we saw the white tigers in Bengal. I mean, let’s face it. Angel bags are probably
rarer
than white tigers.

And there’s one in front of my nose.

I could just buy it
flashes through my brain.
I could buy it!

“Miss? Signorina? Can you hear me?” A voice pierces my thoughts, and I realize Silvia at the till is trying to get my attention.

“Oh,” I say, flustered. “Yes.” I pick up the pen and scribble any old signature. “So . . . is that a real Angel bag?”

“Yes, it is,” she says in a smug, bored tone, like a bouncer who knows the band personally and is used to dealing with besotted groupies.

“How much . . .” I swallow. “How much is it?”

“Two thousand euros.”

“Right.” I nod.

Two thousand euros. For a bag.

But if I had an Angel bag I wouldn’t need to buy any new clothes. Ever. Who needs a new skirt when you have the hippest bag in town?

I don’t care how much it is. I have to have it.

“I’d like to buy it, please,” I say in a rush.

There’s a stunned silence around the shop—then all the assistants burst into peals of laughter.

“You cannot buy the bag,” says Silvia pityingly. “There is a waiting list.”

Oh. A waiting list. Of course there would be a waiting list. I’m an idiot.

“Do you want to join the list?” she asks as she hands my Visa card back.

OK, let’s be sensible. I’m not really going to go on a waiting list in Milan. I mean, for a start, how would I pick it up? I’d have to get them to FedEx it. Or come over specially, or—

“Yes,” I hear my own voice saying. “Yes, please.”

After I write down my details, Silvia pops the form in a drawer. “We will call you when one is available.”

“And . . . when might that be?” I try not to sound too anxious.

“I cannot say.” She shrugs.

“How many people are ahead of me on the list?”

“We do not disclose such details.”

“Right.”

I feel a tiny dart of frustration. I mean,
there it is
. There’s the bag, a few feet away from me . . . and I can’t have it.

Never mind. I’m on the list. There’s nothing more I can do.

I pick up the carrier bag containing Luke’s belt and slowly walk away, pausing by the Angel bag. God, it’s heart-stopping. The coolest, most beautiful bag in the world.

I’m suddenly struck by an idea.

“I was just wondering,” I say, hurrying back to the till. “Do you know if everyone on the waiting list actually
wants
an Angel bag?”

“They are on the list.” Silvia says it as though she’s speaking to a total moron.

“Yes, but they might all have changed their minds,” I explain, my words tumbling out in excitement. “Or already have bought one! And then it would be my turn! Don’t you
see
? I could have
this
bag!”

How can she look so impassive? Doesn’t she understand how important this is?

“We will be contacting the customers in turn,” says Silvia. “We will be in touch if a bag becomes available for you.”

“I’ll do it for you, if you like,” I say, trying to sound helpful. “If you give me their numbers.”

Silvia looks at me silently for a moment.

“No, thank you. We will be in touch.”

“All right,” I say, deflating. “Well, thanks.”

There’s nothing more I can do. I’ll just stop thinking about it and enjoy the rest of Milan. Exactly. I give a final, longing glance at the Angel bag, then head out of the shop. I’m not going to obsess about this. I’m not even going to
think
about it. I’m going to focus on . . . culture. Yes.

Suddenly I stop dead in the street. I’ve given her the number of Luke’s flat in London. But didn’t he say something a while ago about putting in new phone lines?

What if I’ve left
an obsolete number
?

Quickly I retrace my steps and burst into the shop again.

“Hi!” I say breathlessly. “I just thought I’d give you another set of contact details, in case you can’t get through.” I rummage about in my bag and pull out one of Luke’s cards. “This is my husband’s office.”

“Very well,” Silvia says a little wearily.

“Only . . . come to think of it, if you speak to him, I wouldn’t mention the actual
bag
.” I lower my voice a little. “Say ‘the Angel has landed.’ ”

“The Angel has landed,” echoes Silvia, writing it down as though she makes coded phone calls all the time.

Which, now that I think about it, maybe she does.

“The person to ask for is Luke Brandon,” I explain, handing over the card. “At Brandon Communications. He’s my husband.”

Across the shop, I’m aware of Mr. Cashmere looking up from a selection of leather gloves.

“Luke Brandon,” repeats Silvia. “Very well.” She puts the card away and gives me a final nod.

“So, have you phoned anyone on the list yet?” I can’t resist asking.

“Signora Brandon,” snaps Silvia in exasperation. “You will have to wait your turn! I cannot do any better than that!”

“Are you so sure about that?” a raspy voice cuts in and we both look up to see Mr. Cashmere approaching us from across the shop.

What’s he doing?

“Excuse me?” Silvia says haughtily, and he winks at me.

“Don’t let them palm you off, girl.” He turns to Silvia. “If you wanted to, you could sell her this bag.” He jerks his stubby thumb at the Angel bag on the pedestal and puffs on his cigar.

“Signor—”

“I’ve been listening. If you haven’t called anyone on the waiting list, they don’t know this has come in. They don’t even know it exists.” He pauses meaningfully. “And you’ve got this young lady here, wants to buy it.”

“That is not the point, signore.” Silvia smiles tightly at him. “There is a strict protocol . . .”

“You have discretion. Don’t tell me you don’t. Oy, Roberto!” he suddenly calls. The man in the black glasses hurries over from somewhere in the back.

“Signor Temple?” he says smoothly, his eyes darting at me. “Everything is all right?”

“If I wanted this bag for my lady friend, would you sell it to me?” The man blows out a cloud of smoke and raises his eyebrows at me. He looks like he’s enjoying this.

Roberto glances at Silvia, who jerks her head at me and rolls her eyes. I can see Roberto taking in the situation, his brain working hard.

“Signor Temple.” He turns to the man with a charming smile. “You are a very valued customer. It is a very different matter . . .”

“Would you?”

“Yes,” Roberto says, after a pause.

“Well then.” The man looks at Roberto expectantly.

There’s silence. I hold my breath.

“Silvia,” Roberto says at last. “Wrap up the bag for the signorina.”

Oh my GOD!

“It’s my pleasure,” says Silvia, shooting me a dirty look.

I can’t believe this has happened.

“I—I don’t know how to thank you!” I stutter. “That’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for me, ever!”

“My pleasure.” The man inclines his head and extends his hand. “Nathan Temple.”

“Becky Bloomwood,” I say, shaking it. “I mean, Brandon.”

“You really wanted that bag.” He raises his eyebrows appreciatively. “Never seen anything like it.”

“I was desperate for it!” I admit with a laugh. “I’m so grateful to you!”

Nathan Temple waves his hand in a “don’t mention it” gesture, then takes out a lighter and lights his cigar, which has gone out. When he’s puffing away again he looks up.

“Brandon . . . as in Luke Brandon.”

“You know Luke?” I’m amazed. “What a coincidence!”

“By reputation.” He blows out a cloud of cigar smoke. “He has quite a name, your husband. He’s coming back to the company after his year off, I understand?”

“Well . . . yes,” I say in surprise. “How did you know that?”

Nathan Temple winks again.

“I’ve had my eye on him for a while. Talented man. Couple of years ago, all the banks were launching online services. But the one that got all the publicity was SBG. Your husband’s client.”

“Signor Temple.” Roberto comes bustling over with several carrier bags, which he hands to my new friend. “The rest will be shipped according to your orders. . . .”

“Good man, Roberto,” says Nathan Temple, clapping him on the back. “See you next year.”

“Please let me buy you a drink,” I say quickly. “Or lunch! Or . . . anything!”

“Unfortunately, I have to go. Nice offer, though.”

“But I want to thank you for what you did. I’m so incredibly grateful!”

Nathan Temple lifts his hands modestly.

“Who knows? Maybe one day you can do a favor for me.”

“Anything!” I exclaim eagerly, and he smiles.

“Enjoy the bag. All right, Harvey.”

Out of nowhere, a thin blond man in a chalk-striped suit has appeared. He takes the bags from Nathan Temple and the two walk out of the shop.

I lean against the counter, radiant with bliss. I have an Angel bag.
I have an Angel bag!

“That will be two thousand euros,” comes a surly voice from behind me.

Oh, right. I’d kind of forgotten about the two thousand euros part.

I automatically reach for my purse—then stop. Of course. I don’t have my purse. And I’ve maxed out my Visa card on Luke’s belt . . . and I have only seven euros in cash.

Silvia’s eyes narrow at my hesitation.

“If you have trouble paying . . .” she begins.

“I don’t have trouble paying!” I retort at once. “I just . . . need a minute.”

Silvia folds her arms skeptically as I reach into my bag again and pull out a Bobbi Brown Sheer Finish compact.

“Do you have a hammer?” I say. “Or anything heavy?”

Silvia is looking at me as though I’ve gone completely crazy.

“Anything will do. . . .” Suddenly I glimpse a hefty-looking stapler sitting on the counter. I pick it up and start bashing as hard as I can at the compact.

“Oddìo!” Silvia screams.

“It’s OK!” I say, panting a little. “I just need to . . . there!”

The whole thing has splintered. Triumphantly I pull out a MasterCard, which was glued to the backing. My Defcon One, code-red-emergency card. Luke
really
doesn’t know about this one. Not unless he’s got X-ray vision.

I got the idea of hiding a credit card in a powder compact from this brilliant article I read on money management. Not that I have a big problem with money or anything. But in the past, I have had the odd little . . . crisis.

So this idea really appealed to me. What you do is, you keep your credit card somewhere really inaccessible, like frozen in ice or sewn into the lining of your bag, so you’ll have time to reconsider before making each purchase. Apparently this simple tactic can cut your unnecessary purchases by 90 percent.

And I have to say, it really does work! The only, tiny, flaw is, I keep having to buy new powder compacts, which is getting a bit expensive.

“I’ll pay with this,” I say, and hand it to Silvia, who is peering at me as though I’m a dangerous lunatic. She swipes it gingerly through her machine, and a minute later I’m scrawling my signature on the slip. I thrust it back at her, and she files it away in a drawer.

There’s a tiny pause. I’m almost exploding with anticipation.

“So . . . can I have it?” I say.

“Here you are,” she says sulkily, and hands me the creamy carrier.

My hands close over the cord handles and I feel a surge of pure, unadulterated joy.

It’s mine.

As I get back to the hotel that evening I’m floating on air. This has been one of the best days of my life. I spent the whole afternoon walking up and down the via Montenapoleone with my new Angel bag prominently displayed on my shoulder . . . and everyone admired it. In fact, they didn’t just admire it . . . they gawped at it. It was like I was a sudden celebrity!

About twenty people came up to me and asked where I got it, and a woman in dark glasses who
had
to be an Italian movie star got her driver to come and offer me three thousand euros for it. And best of all, all I kept hearing was people saying,
“La ragazza con la borsa di Angel”!
Which I worked out means the Girl with the Angel Bag! That’s what they were calling me!

I drift blissfully through the revolving doors into the foyer of the hotel to see Luke standing by the reception desk.

“There you are!” he says, sounding relieved. “I was beginning to worry! Our taxi’s here.” He ushers me out into a waiting taxi and slams the door. “Linate Airport,” he says to the driver, who immediately zooms into an oncoming stream of traffic, to a chorus of horns.

“So, how was your day?” I say, trying not to flinch as we’re nearly hit by another taxi. “How was the meeting?”

“It went well! If we can get the Arcodas Group as clients it’ll be seriously good news. They’re expanding hugely at the moment. It’s going to be an exciting time.”

“So . . . do you think you’ll get them?”

“We’ll have to woo them. When we get back I’m going to start preparing a pitch. But I’m hopeful. I’m definitely hopeful.”

“Well done!” I beam at him. “And was your hair OK?”

“My hair was fine.” He gives a wry smile. “In fact . . . it was admired by all.”

“You see?” I say with delight. “I knew it would be!”

“And how was your day?” says Luke as we swing round a corner at about a hundred miles an hour.

“It was fantastic!” I’m glowing all over. “Absolutely perfect. I adore Milan!”

“Really?” Luke looks intrigued. “Even without this?” He reaches into his pocket and produces my purse.