Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (117 page)

I’ve never not known what to say to Suze.

“Bex . . . you weren’t here,” Suze says suddenly, and I can hear the distress in her voice. “You weren’t here. What was I supposed to do? Have no friends?”

“Of course not!” I say brightly. “Don’t be silly!”

“I couldn’t have survived without Lulu. She’s been a real support to me out here.”

“Of course she has.” Tears are suddenly pricking at my eyes and I turn away, fiercely blinking them back. “Well . . . you have fun together. I’m sure you will.”

“Bex, don’t be like that. Look . . . I’ll speak to Lulu about the spa. I’m sure we could find a third place.”

She’s taking pity on me. I can’t bear it.

“No!” With an almighty effort I manage a laugh. “Really, it’s no big deal. I probably wouldn’t have time anyway. In fact . . . I came in to tell you we have to go back to London. Luke’s got work engagements.”

“Now?” Suze looks taken aback. “But I thought you were going to stay for a few days.”

“We’ve got loads to do!” I lift my chin. “Everything’s different for me, too, you know. I’m a married woman now! I’ve got to set up the flat . . . look after Luke . . . throw some dinner parties. . . .”

“Right.” Suze hesitates. “Well, it’s been lovely to see you, anyway.”

“You too! It’s been fun! We must . . . do it again.”

We sound totally false. Both of us.

There’s silence. My throat is tight. I’m going to cry.

No, I’m not.

“So . . . I’ll just go and pack,” I say at last. “Thanks for a lovely time.”

I leave the room, pick up my shopping, and walk away. And my bright smile lasts all the way to the stairs.

Mrs Rebecca Brandon
37 Maida Vale Mansions
Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF

30 April 2003

Dear Mrs Brandon:

Thank you for your letter concerning the Nether Pleaton Gymkhana next month. I confirm that I have withdrawn your name from the following classes:

General Horsemanship
Open Jumping
Senior Dressage

Perhaps you could let me know if you still wish to enter for “Best Kept Pony.”

With kind regards,

Marjorie Davies
Organiser

Seven

Anyway. It doesn’t matter. People get married and they move on and their friends change. That’s all. It’s perfectly normal. Suze has her life . . . and I have my life. It’s fine. A week has gone by since the christening—and she’s barely crossed my mind.

I take a sip of orange juice, pick up the
Financial Times,
which Luke left on the breakfast counter, and begin flicking briskly through the pages.

Now that I’m married, I expect I’ll make loads of new friends, too. It’s not like I’m dependent on Suze or anything. I’ll start an evening class or a book group or something. And
my
new friends will be really nice ones who don’t ride horses and have children with stupid names like Cosmo. . . .

I take a sip of coffee and plaster some more chocolate spread on my toast. I’m sitting in the kitchen of Luke’s flat in Maida Vale, having a late breakfast.

I mean . . .
our
flat in Maida Vale. I keep forgetting, it’s half mine now! Luke lived here for ages before we were married, but when we went to live in New York he had it all done up and rented it out. And it is the trendiest place in the world. All minimalist, with this amazing stainless-steel kitchen, pale beige carpets, and just the odd piece of modern art here and there.

I do like it. Of course I do.

Although, I suppose if I’m
totally
honest, it’s a tad bare for my taste. Luke has quite a different style from mine when it comes to decorating. His approach is basically “no things anywhere,” whereas mine is more “lots of things everywhere.”

But it doesn’t matter, because I read this article about couples in an interiors magazine, and it said fusing two different styles need not be a problem. Apparently, all we have to do is meld our individual ideas and do some mood boards together and create a signature look.

And today is the perfect day to start. Because any minute now, all our honeymoon purchases are going to be delivered from the storage company! Luke’s stayed behind from work especially to help. It’ll be quite a project, I expect. Which just shows: I’m so busy, I don’t even have
time
for friends.

I’m feeling really excited about seeing all our souvenirs again! Arranging the little mementos of our honeymoon around the apartment. It’ll really make a difference to this place, having a few personal objets here and there.

“The post’s here,” Luke says, coming into the kitchen. He’s in his suit, since he’ll be going into the office later, and his hair is trimmed all short and businesslike again. He had it cut almost as soon as we got back to London—because, as he said, Italy is one thing, but Britain is another.

I suppose he has a point. But I can’t help feeling a bit wistful every time I see his bare neck. That little untanned patch of skin below his hairline is the only reminder of the way he was on our honeymoon.

“There’s a letter for you,” he adds, handing me an envelope.

“Oh, right!” I take it from him, feeling nervous.

Ever since we got back to London, I’ve been approaching all the big department stores for a job as a personal shopper. I’ve got a great reference from Barneys and everyone’s been really nice to me—but so far all I’m getting told is that there are no openings right now.

Which, to be honest, has been a bit of a blow. I thought I’d be fighting off offers. I even had this little fantasy where all the head personal shoppers at Harrods and Harvey Nichols and Selfridges took me out to lunch and gave me free clothes to persuade me to join them.

As calmly as I can, I pull the letter out of the envelope. This one is from a new shop called The Look, which hasn’t even opened yet. It’s going to be a huge new store just up from Oxford Street, full of great clothes and accessories, and the gimmick is that there will be loads of personal shoppers available to help you pull your look together. They want someone to run and train the team, and had already heard about me from their contact in New York. I went to see them a couple of days ago and I
thought
I did OK, but . . .

“Oh my God!” I look up in disbelief. “I got it! They want me!”

“Fantastic!” Luke’s face creases in a smile. “Congratulations!” He puts an arm round me and gives me a kiss.

“Except . . . I won’t be needed for three months,” I say, reading farther down. “That’s when the store opens.” I put the letter down and look at him. “Three whole months. That’s quite a long time not to have a job.”

Or any money, I’m thinking.

“I’m sure you’ll find something to do,” says Luke cheerfully. “Some project or other. You’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”

The buzzer suddenly goes in the hall and we look at each other.

“That must be the delivery people!” I say, feeling my spirits rise. “Let’s go down!”

Luke’s penthouse has its own lift right to the front door, which is just so cool!

“So, where shall we tell them to put everything?” he says as he presses the ground-floor button.

“I thought we could pile it all up in the corner of the sitting room,” I suggest. “Behind the door. Then I can sort it out while you’re at work.”

Luke nods. “Good idea.”

I suddenly remember the twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns. Maybe I’ll be able to smuggle them in without Luke’s seeing.

“And if there was any overspill,” I add casually, “we could always put it in the second bedroom.”

“Overspill?” Luke frowns. “Becky, how much stuff are you expecting?”

“Not that much!” I say quickly. “Hardly anything! I just meant if they’ve packed things in really huge boxes or something. That’s all.”

Luke looks a bit suspicious, and I turn away, pretending to be adjusting my watch strap. Now the moment’s nearly here, I’m feeling just the odd tiny qualm.

I kind of wish I’d told him about the wooden giraffes. Should I quickly confess?

No. It doesn’t matter. It’ll be fine. Luke’s flat is huge. I mean, it’s vast! He’ll never notice a few extra things.

We push open the double doors of Luke’s building and walk out, to see a man in jeans, waiting on the side of the road by a small van.

“Mr. Brandon?” he says, looking up.

I feel a small whoosh of relief. I
knew
we hadn’t bought that much stuff. I mean, just look at that van. It’s tiny!

“Yes. That’s me.” Luke holds out his hand, with a pleasant smile.

“Any idea where we can park the lorries?” The man scratches his head. “Only we’re in a no-parking zone round the corner.”

“Lorries?” echoes Luke. “What do you mean, ‘lorries’?”

His smile has kind of frozen on his face.

“We’ve got two lorries to unload. Can we take them into the parking bay there?” The man gestures at the forecourt of the building.

“Of course!” I say quickly, as Luke doesn’t seem able to speak. “Go ahead!”

The man disappears. “So!” I say brightly. “This is fun!”

“Two . . . lorries?” says Luke.

“It must be a shared load!” I say quickly. “With someone else. I mean,
obviously
we haven’t bought two lorry-loads of stuff.”

Which is true.

I mean, it’s ridiculous! In ten months, we couldn’t possibly have—

I’m
sure
we couldn’t have—

Oh God.

There’s a rumbling from round the corner, and a big white lorry appears, closely followed by another. They back into the forecourt of Luke’s building, and there are huge grinding noises as the backs are lowered. Luke and I hurry round and peer into the crowded depths.

What an amazing sight. Each whole lorry is crammed with objects and furniture. Some wrapped in plastic, some in paper, and some barely wrapped at all. As I feast my eyes on all the stuff, I start to feel quite emotional. It’s like seeing a home video of our entire honeymoon. The kilims from Istanbul. The gourds from Peru. And I’d totally forgotten about buying that papoose carrier!

Some men in overalls start lifting things up and carrying them out. We stand aside to let them pass, but I’m still gazing around the inside of one of the lorries, lost in memories. I suddenly glimpse a bronze statue and turn round with a smile.

“The Buddha! Do you remember when we got that? Luke?”

Luke isn’t listening to a word. I follow his gaze, and feel a slight flip of apprehension. He’s staring in disbelief at a man carrying a huge paper-wrapped package out of the other lorry. A wooden giraffe’s leg is poking out of it.

Shit.

And now here comes another man in overalls with the matching one.

“Becky . . . what are these giraffes doing here?” Luke says evenly. “I thought we agreed
not
to buy them.”

“I know,” I say hurriedly. “I know we did. But we would have regretted it. So I made an executive decision. Honestly, Luke, they’ll look great! They’ll be a focal point of the whole apartment!”

“And where did
those
come from?” Now Luke’s looking at a pair of huge porcelain urns, which I got in Hong Kong.

“Oh, yes,” I say quickly. “I was going to tell you about those. Guess what? They’re copies of real Ming! The man said—”

“But what the fuck are they doing here?”

“I . . . bought them. They’ll be perfect in the hall. They’ll be a focal point! Everyone will admire them!”

“And that rug?” He points to a huge multicolored rolled-up sausage.

“It’s called a ‘dhurrie,’ actually. . . .” My voice trails away at his expression. “I got it in India,” I add feebly.

“Without consulting me.”

“Er . . .”

I’m not sure I like Luke’s expression.

“Ooh, look!” I exclaim, trying to distract him. “It’s the spice rack you bought at that Kenyan market.”

Luke totally ignores me. He’s goggling at a huge, unwieldy contraption being unloaded from the first lorry. It looks like a combination of a xylophone and a set of hanging copper saucepans all in one.

“What the hell is
that
? Is that some kind of musical instrument?”

The gongs all start clanging loudly as the men unload it, and a couple of passersby nudge each other and giggle.

Even I’m having second thoughts about this one.

“Er . . . yes.” I clear my throat. “Actually, that’s an Indonesian gamelan.”

There’s a short silence.

“An Indonesian gamelan?” echoes Luke, his voice caught a bit in his throat.

“It’s cultural!” I say defensively. “I thought we could learn to play it! And it’ll be a great focal point—”

“Exactly how many focal points are we planning to have?” Luke looks beside himself. “Becky, is
all
this stuff ours?”

“Dining table coming out!” calls a guy in overalls. “Mind yourselves.”

Thank goodness. OK, quick. Let’s redeem the situation.

“Look, darling,” I say hurriedly. “It’s our dining table from Sri Lanka. Remember? Our personalized table! Our symbol of married love.” I give him an affectionate smile, but he’s shaking his head.

“Becky—”

“Don’t spoil the moment!” I put an arm round him. “It’s our special honeymoon table! It’s our heirloom of the future! We have to watch it being delivered!”

“OK,” Luke says at last. “Whatever.”

The men are carefully carrying the table down the ramp, and I have to say, I’m impressed. Bearing in mind how heavy it is, they seem to be managing it quite easily.

“Isn’t it exciting?” I clutch Luke’s arm as it comes into sight. “Just think! There we were in Sri Lanka—”

I break off, a little confused.

This isn’t the wooden table after all. It’s a transparent glass table, with curved steel legs. And another guy behind is carrying a pair of trendy red felt-covered chairs.

I stare at it in horror. A cold feeling is creeping over me.

Shit. Shit.

The table I bought at the Copenhagen Design Fair. I had
totally
forgotten about that.

How could I forget I bought a whole dining table? How?

“Hold on,” Luke’s calling, his hand raised. “Guys, that’s the wrong table. Ours is wooden. A big carved-wood table from Sri Lanka.”

“There’s one of them an’ all,” says the delivery guy. “In the other lorry.”

“But we didn’t buy this!” says Luke.

He gives me a questioning look and I quickly rearrange my features as though to say “I’m as baffled as you are!”

Inside, my mind is working frantically: I’ll deny I’ve ever seen it; we’ll send it back; it’ll all be fine—

“ ‘Shipped by Mrs. Rebecca Brandon,’ ” the guy reads aloud from the label. “Table and ten chairs. From Denmark. Here’s the signature.”

Fuck.

Very slowly, Luke turns toward me.

“Becky, did you buy a table and ten chairs in Denmark?” he says almost pleasantly.

“Er . . .” I lick my lips nervously. “Er . . . I—I might have.”

“I see.” Luke closes his eyes for a moment as though weighing up a math problem. “And then you bought another table—and ten
more
chairs—in Sri Lanka?”

“I forgot about the first one!” I say desperately. “I totally forgot! Look, it was a very long honeymoon. . . . I lost track of a few things. . . .”

Out of the corner of my eye I can see a guy picking up the bundle of twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns. Shit.

I think I have to get Luke away from these lorries as soon as possible.

“We’ll sort it all out,” I say quickly. “I promise. But now, why don’t you go upstairs and have a nice drink? You just relax! And I’ll stay down here and do the supervising.”

An hour later it’s all finished. The men close up the lorries and I hand them a hefty tip. As they roar away I look over to see Luke coming out the front door of the building.

“Hi!” I say. “Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“Do you want to come upstairs a minute?” Luke says in a strange voice.

As we travel up in the lift I smile at Luke a couple of times, but he doesn’t smile back.

“So . . . did you put all the stuff in the sitting room?” I say as we approach the front door. “Or in the—”

My voice dies away as the door swings open.

Oh my God.

Luke’s flat is totally unrecognizable.

The beige carpet has disappeared under a sea of parcels, trunks, and pieces of furniture. The hall is crammed with boxes which I recognize from the outlet in Utah, plus the batik paintings from Bali and the two Chinese urns. I edge past them into the sitting room, and gulp as I look around. There are packages everywhere. Rolled-up kilims and dhurries are propped up in one corner. In another, the Indonesian gamelan is jostling for space with a slate coffee table turned on its side and a Native American totem pole.