Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (118 page)

I’m sensing it’s my turn to speak.

“Gosh!” I give a little laugh. “There are quite a lot of . . . rugs, aren’t there?”

“Seventeen,” says Luke, still in the same strange voice. “I’ve counted.” He steps over a bamboo coffee table which I got in Thailand and looks at the label of a large wooden chest. “This box apparently contains forty mugs.” He looks up. “Forty mugs?”

“I know it sounds like a lot,” I say quickly. “But they were only about 50p each! It was a bargain! We’ll never need to buy mugs ever again!”

Luke regards me for a moment.

“Becky, I never want to buy
anything
ever again.”

“Look . . .” I try to step toward him but bump my knee on a painted wooden statue of Ganesh, the god of wisdom and success. “It’s . . . it’s not that bad! I know it
seems
like a lot. But it’s like . . . an optical illusion. Once it’s all unpacked, and we put it all away . . . it’ll look great!”

“We have five coffee tables,” says Luke, ignoring me. “Were you aware of that?”

“Er . . . well.” I clear my throat. “Not exactly. So we might have to . . . rationalize a bit.”

“Rationalize?” Luke looks around the room incredulously. “Rationalize this lot? It’s a mess!”

“Maybe it looks a bit of a mishmash at the moment,” I say hurriedly. “But I can pull it all together! I can make it work! It’ll be our signature look. If we just do some mood boards—”

“Becky,” Luke interrupts. “Would you like to know what mood I’m in right now?”

“Er . . .”

I watch nervously as Luke shifts two packages from Guatemala aside and sinks down on the sofa.

“What I want to know is . . . how did you pay for all this?” he asks, wrinkling his brow. “I had a quick check through our bills, and there’s no record of any Chinese urns. Or giraffes. Or tables from Copenhagen . . .” He gives me a hard look. “What’s been going on, Becky?”

I’m totally pinned. Even if I did want to run, I’d probably skewer myself on Ganesh’s pointy fingers.

“Well.” I can’t quite meet his eye. “I do have this . . . this credit card.”

“The one you keep hidden in your bag?” says Luke without missing a beat. “I checked that too.”

Oh God.

There’s no way out of this.

“Actually . . . not that one.” I swallow hard. “Another one.”

“
Another
one?” Luke is staring at me. “You have a
second
secret credit card?”

“It’s just for emergencies! Everyone has the odd emergency—”

“What, emergency silk dressing gowns? Emergency Indonesian gamelans?”

There’s silence. I can’t quite reply. My fingers are all twisted in knots behind my back.

“So . . . you’ve been paying it off secretly, is that it?” He looks at my agonized face and his expression changes. “You
haven’t
been paying it off?”

“The thing is . . .” My fingers twist even tighter. “They gave me quite a big limit.”

“For God’s sake, Becky—”

“It’s OK! I’ll pay it off! You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of it—”

“With what?” retorts Luke.

My face flames with humiliation. I know I’m not earning right now. But he doesn’t have to rub it in.

“When I start my job,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I am going to have an income, you know, Luke. I’m not some kind of
freeloader
.”

Luke looks at me for a few moments, then sighs.

“I know,” he says gently. He holds out his hand. “Come here.”

After a moment I pick my way across the crowded floor to the sofa. I find a tiny space to sit down and he puts his arm round me. For a while we both look silently at the ocean of clutter. It’s like we’re two survivors on a desert island.

“Becky, we can’t carry on like this,” Luke says at last. “Do you know how much our honeymoon cost us?”

“Er . . . no.”

Suddenly it strikes me that I have absolutely no idea what anything has cost. It was me who bought the round-the-world airline tickets, but apart from that, Luke’s been doing all the paying, all the way along.

Has our honeymoon
ruined
us?

I glance sideways at Luke—and for the first time see how stressed he looks.

Oh God. We’ve lost all our money and Luke’s been trying to hide it from me.

I suddenly feel like the wife in
It’s a Wonderful Life
when James Stewart comes home and snaps at the children. Even though we’re on the brink of financial disgrace, it’s my role to be brave and serene.

“Luke . . . are we
very
poor?” I ask, as calmly as I can.

Luke turns his head and looks at me.

“No, Becky,” he says patiently. “We’re not very poor. But we will be if you keep buying mountains of crap.”

Mountains of
crap
? I’m about to make an indignant retort when I see his expression. Instead, I close my mouth and nod humbly.

“So I think . . .” Luke pauses. “I think we need to institute a budget.”

Eight

A budget.

This is OK. I can handle a budget. Easily. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be quite liberating, knowing exactly how much I can spend.

Plus everyone knows, the point about budgets is that you make them work
for
you. Exactly.

“So . . . how much is my budget for today?” I say, hovering by the study door. It’s about an hour later and Luke is searching for something in his desk. He looks a bit stressed.

“I’m sorry?” he says without looking up.

“I was just wondering what my budget is for today. About twenty pounds?”

“I guess so,” Luke says distractedly.

“So . . . can I have it?”

“What?”

“Can I have my twenty pounds?”

Luke stares at me for a moment as though I’m completely mad, then takes his wallet out of his pocket, gets out a twenty-pound note, and hands it to me. “OK?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

I look at the note. Twenty pounds. That’s my challenge. I feel like some wartime housewife being given her ration book.

It’s a very weird feeling, not having my own income. Or a job. For three months. How am I going to survive three whole months? Should I get some other job to fill the space? Maybe this is a great opportunity, it occurs to me. I could try something completely new!

I have a sudden image of myself as a landscape gardener. I could buy some really cool Wellingtons and specialize in shrubs.

Or . . . yes! I could start up some company offering a unique service that no one has ever provided, and make millions! Everyone would say “Becky’s a genius! Why didn’t
we
think of that?” And the unique service would be—

It would consist of—

OK, I’ll come back to that one.

Then, as I watch Luke putting some papers in a Brandon Communications folder, I’m seized by a brilliant idea. Of course. I can help him in his work!

I mean, that’s the whole point of marriage! It should be a partnership. I can get totally involved in the running of his company, like Hillary Clinton, and everyone will know it’s really me who has all the good ideas. I have a vision of myself standing by Luke’s side in a pastel suit, beaming radiantly while ticker tape rains down on us.

“Luke, listen,” I say. “I want to help.”

“Help?” He looks up with an absent frown.

“I want to help you out with the business.”

“Becky, I’m not sure—”

“I really want to support you, and I’m free for three months! It’s perfect! You wouldn’t even have to pay me very much.”

Luke looks slightly gobsmacked.

“What exactly would you do?”

“Well . . . I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I could inject some new thoughts. Maybe on marketing. Like the time I came up with that slogan for Foreland Investments. You said I was really useful then. And when I came on that press tour to France, and I rewrote that media release for you? Remember that?”

Luke’s barely listening.

“Sweetheart, we’re really busy with this Arcodas pitch. I haven’t got time to take you in. Maybe after the pitch is over—”

“It wouldn’t
take
time!” I say in astonishment. “I’d
save
you time! I’d be a help! You once offered me a job, remember?”

“I know I did. But taking on a real, full-time job is a bit different from filling in for three months. If you want to change careers, that’s different.” He goes back to sorting through his papers.

He is making a big mistake. Everyone knows companies have to cross-pollinate with other industries. My personal shopping experience would probably be invaluable to him. Not to mention my background as a financial journalist.

As I’m watching, Luke tries to put a file away and bumps his shin on a wooden carton full of saris.

“Jesus Christ,” he says irritably. “Becky, if you really want to help me . . .”

“Yes?” I say eagerly.

“You can tidy up this apartment.”

Here I am, prepared to devote myself to Luke’s company, and he thinks I should
tidy up
.

I heft a wooden carton onto the slate coffee table and prize the lid off with a knife, and white foam peanuts cascade out everywhere like snowflakes. I dig in through the foam and pull out a bubble-wrapped parcel. For a few seconds I peer at it blankly—then suddenly I remember. These are the hand-painted eggs from Japan. Each one depicts a scene from the legend of the Dragon King. I think I bought five.

I wipe my brow and glance at my watch. I’ve been at it now for a whole hour, and to be honest, the room doesn’t look any better than before. In fact . . . it looks worse. As I survey the clutter, I’m suddenly full of gloom.

What I need is a cup of coffee. Yes.

I head out to the kitchen, already feeling lighter, and turn the kettle on. And maybe I’ll have a biscuit, too. I open one of the stainless-steel cupboards, find the tin, select a biscuit, and put the tin away again. Every single movement makes a little clanging sound that echoes through the silence.

God, it’s quiet in here, isn’t it? We need to get a radio.

I trail my fingers over the granite work-top with a gusty sigh. Maybe I’ll give Mum a ring and have a nice chat. Except she’s still being all weird. I tried phoning home the other day and she sounded all shifty, and said she had to go because the chimney sweep was there. Like we’ve ever had a chimney sweep in all my life. She probably had people viewing the house or something.

I could phone Suze. . . .

No. Not Suze.

Or Danny! Danny was my best friend when we lived in New York. He was a struggling fashion designer then, but all of a sudden he’s doing really well. I’ve even seen his name in
Vogue
! But I haven’t spoken to him since we got back.

It’s not a great time to be calling New York—but that’s OK. Danny never keeps regular hours. I dial his number and wait impatiently as it rings.

“Greetings!”

“Hi!” I say. “Danny, it’s—”

“Welcome to the ever-expanding Danny Kovitz empire!”

Oh, right. It’s a machine.

“For Danny’s fashion tips . . . press one. To receive a catalog . . . press two. If you wish to send Danny a gift or invite him to a party, press three. . . .”

I wait till the list comes to an end and a beep sounds.

“Hi!” I say. “Danny, it’s Becky! I’m back! So . . . give me a ring sometime!” I give him my number, then put down the receiver.

The kettle comes to a noisy boil and I briskly start spooning grounds into the coffee pot, thinking of who else to call. But . . . there’s no one. The truth is, I haven’t lived in London for two years. And I’ve kind of lost touch with most of my old friends.

I’m lonely
pops into my head with no warning.

No I’m not. I’m fine.

I wish we’d never come home.

Don’t be silly. It’s all great. I’m a married woman with my own home and . . . and plenty to be getting on with.

Suddenly the buzzer rings and I look up in surprise. I’m not expecting anyone.

It’s probably a package. Or maybe Luke decided to come home early! I walk out into the hall and pick up the entry phone.

“Hello?”

“Becky, love?” crackles a familiar voice. “It’s Mum.”

I gape at the receiver. Mum? Downstairs?

“Dad and I have come to see you,” she continues. “Is it all right if we pop up?”

“Of course!” I exclaim in bemusement, and hit the buzzer. What on earth are Mum and Dad doing here?

I quickly go into the kitchen, pour out the coffee, and arrange some biscuits on a plate, then hurry back out to the lift.

“Hi!” I say as the doors open. “Come on in! I’ve made you some coffee!”

As I hug Mum and Dad I can see them glancing at each other apprehensively. They’re both dressed quite smartly and Mum has even got on the pearl brooch she normally wears to weddings.

What is going on? What?

“I hope we’re not disturbing you, love,” Mum says as she follows me into the flat.

“No! Of course not!” I say. “I mean, obviously I have my chores . . . things to be getting on with . . .”

“Oh yes.” Mum nods. “Well, we don’t want to take up your time. It’s just . . .” She breaks off. “Shall we go and sit down?”

“Oh. Er . . .” I glance through the door of the sitting room. The sofa is surrounded by boxes spilling their contents, and covered in rugs and foam peanuts. “We haven’t
quite
got the sitting room straight yet. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

Whoever designed our trendy kitchen bar stools obviously never had their parents come over for a cup of coffee. It takes Mum and Dad about five minutes to climb up onto them, while I watch, completely petrified they’re going to topple over.

“Spindly legs, aren’t they?” puffs Dad as he tries for the fifth time. Meanwhile Mum’s inching slowly onto the seat, gripping the granite breakfast bar for dear life.

At last, somehow, they’re both perched up safely on the steel seats, looking all self-conscious as though they’re on a TV talk show.

“Are you all right?” I say anxiously. “Because I could go and get some different chairs . . .”

“Nonsense!” says Dad at once. “This is very comfy!”

He’s lying. I can see him clenching his hands round the edges of the slippery seat and glancing down at the slate floor below as though he’s balanced on a forty-fourth-floor ledge.

“The seats are a little hard, aren’t they, love?” ventures Mum. “You should get some nice tie-on cushions from Peter Jones.”

“Er . . . maybe.”

I hand Mum and Dad their cups, pull out a bar stool for myself, and nonchalantly swing myself up onto it.

Ow. That hurt.

God, they
are
a bit tricky to get onto. Stupid shiny seats.

“So . . . are you both well?” I say, reaching for my coffee.

There’s a short silence.

“Becky, we came here for a reason,” says Dad. “I have something to tell you.”

He looks so grave, I feel worried. Maybe it’s not the house after all. Maybe it’s something worse.

“It’s to do with me,” he continues.

“You’re ill,” I say before I can stop myself. “Oh God. Oh God. I knew there was something wrong—”

“I’m not ill. It’s not that. It’s . . . something else.” He massages his temples, then looks up. “Becky, years ago—”

“Break it to her gently, Graham!” Mum interrupts.

“I
am
breaking it to her gently!” retorts Dad, swiveling round. “That’s exactly what I’m doing!”

“You’re not!” says Mum. “You’re rushing in!”

Now I’m totally bewildered.

“Break what to me gently?” I say, looking from face to face. “What’s going on?”

“Becky, before I met your mother . . .” Dad avoids my gaze. “There was another . . . lady in my life.”

“Right,” I say, my throat thick.

Mum and Dad are getting divorced and that’s why they’re selling the house. I’m going to be the product of a broken home.

“We lost touch,” Dad continues. “But recently . . . events have occurred.”

“You’re confusing her, Graham!” exclaims Mum.

“I’m not confusing her! Becky, are you confused?”

“Well . . . a bit,” I admit.

Mum leans over and takes my hand.

“Becky, love, the long and the short of it is . . . you have a sister.”

A sister?

I stare at her blankly. What’s she talking about?

“A half sister, we should say,” Dad adds, nodding earnestly. “Two years older than you.”

My brain is short-circuiting. This doesn’t make any sense. How could I have a sister and not know about it?

“Dad has a daughter, darling,” Mum says gently. “A daughter he knew nothing about until very recently. She got in touch with us while you were on honeymoon. We’ve seen each other a few times, haven’t we, Graham?” She glances at Dad, who nods. “She’s . . . very nice!”

The kitchen is completely silent. I swallow a few times. I can’t quite take this in. Dad had another child?

Dad had another—

“So . . .” I falter. “Who was this other lady in your life?”

I can’t believe I’m asking my own father about his love life. Even if it is his love life of thirty years ago.

Dad doesn’t flinch at the question.

“Her name was Marguerite,” he says with a steadfast gaze. “I was traveling a lot for business then and she was a stewardess on the 7:40 London to Carlisle train.”

A stewardess on a train. I have a sudden image of a young Dad sitting in a pale 1970s suit with flappy lapels, smiling up at a uniformed girl as she pours him coffee. She brushes against him as she moves the trolley on. . . .

OK, I’m not sure I want to think about this.

“Daddy was very handsome then,” Mum puts in. “When he had his mustache.”

I gape at her. Dad had a mustache? God, how many secrets does our family
have
?

Then all of a sudden it hits me.

“That girl! The day we got back.” My heart is pounding. “The one you were with. Was that . . . ?”

Mum glances at Dad, who nods.

“That was her. Your half sister. She was visiting us.”

“When we saw you, love . . . we didn’t know what to do!” says Mum, with an anxious laugh. “We didn’t want to give you the shock of your life!”

“We decided we’d tell you when you’d settled in a bit,” chimes in Dad. “When you’d got a bit sorted out.”

Now I feel totally dazed. That was her. I’ve
seen
my half sister.

“What’s . . . what’s her name?” I manage.

“Her name’s Jessica,” says Dad after a pause. “Jessica Bertram.”

Jessica. My sister, Jessica.

Hi. Have you met my sister, Jessica?

I look from Dad’s worried face to Mum’s bright, hopeful eyes, and suddenly I feel very weird. It’s like a bubble is rising up inside me. Like a load of really strong emotions are pushing their way out of my body.

I’m not an only child.

I have my own sister.
I have a sister.

I have a SISTER!