Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (49 page)

“Have you?” says Fenny. “Ooh, yes! I shoved on this polo neck without really thinking.” As she peels it off, a blond girl in a black shift comes in and beams at me.

“Hi, er . . . Milla,” I say, remembering her name just in time. “How are you?”

“I'm fine!” she says, and gives me a hopeful look. “Fenny said I could borrow your English Eccentrics wrap.”

“I'm lending it to Suze,” I say, pulling a regretful face. “But what about . . . a purple shawl with sequins?”

“Yes, please! And Binky says, have you still got that black wraparound skirt?”

“I have,” I say thoughtfully. “But actually, I've got another skirt I think would look even better on her . . .”

It's about half an hour before everyone has borrowed what they want. Eventually they all pile out of my room, shrieking to me that they'll return it all in the morning, and Suze comes in, looking completely stunning with her hair piled up on her head and hanging down in blond tendrils.

“Bex, are you sure you don't want to come?” she says. “Tarquin's going to be there, and I know he'd like to see you.”

“Oh right,” I say, trying not to look too appalled at the idea. “Is he in London, then?”

“Just for a few days.” Suze looks at me, a little sorrowfully. “You know, Bex, if it weren't for Luke . . . I reckon Tarkie still likes you.”

“I'm sure he doesn't,” I say quickly. “That was ages ago now. Ages!”

My one and only date with Tarquin is one of those events I am trying very hard never to remember again, ever.

“Oh well,” says Suze, shrugging. “See you later. And don't work too hard!”

“I won't,” I reply, and give a world-weary sigh. “Or at least, I'll try not to.”

I wait until the front door bangs behind her, and the taxis waiting outside have roared off. Then I take a sip of tea and turn back to my first chapter.

Chapter One

Finance is very

Actually, I'm not really in the mood for this anymore. Suze is right, I should have a break. I mean, if I sit here hour after hour, I'll get all jaded, and lose the creative flow. And the point is, I've made a good start.

I stand up and stretch, then wander into the sitting room, and pick up a copy of
Tatler.
It's
EastEnders
in a minute, and then it might be
Changing Rooms
or something, or that documentary about the vets. I'll just watch that—and then I'll go back to work. I mean, I've got a whole evening ahead, haven't I? I need to pace myself.

Idly, I flick open the magazine and am scanning the contents page for something interesting when suddenly my eye stops in surprise. It's a little picture of Luke, with the caption
Best of Brandon,
page seventy-four! Why on earth didn't he tell me he was going to be in
Tatler
?

The photograph is his new official one, the one I helped him choose an outfit for (blue shirt, dark blue Fendi tie). He's staring at the camera, looking all serious and businesslike—but if you look closely at his eyes, there's a little friendly spark in there. As I stare at his face I feel a tug of affection and realize Suze is right. I should just trust him, shouldn't I? I mean—what does Alicia Bitchy-pants know about anything?

I turn to page seventy-four, and it's an article on “Britain's Top Movers and Shakers.” I scan down the page, and I can't help noticing that some of the movers and shakers are pictured with their partners. Maybe there'll be a picture of me with Luke! After all, somebody might have taken a picture of us together at a party or something, mightn't they? Come to think of it, we were once snapped by the
Evening Standard
at a launch for some new magazine, although it never actually got into the paper.

Ooh! Here he is, number thirty-four! And it's just him, in that same official photo, with not a glimpse of me. Still, I feel a twinge of pride as I see his picture (much bigger than some of the others, ha!) and a caption reading: “Brandon's ruthless pursuit of success has knocked lesser competitors off the starting blocks.” Then the piece starts: “Luke Brandon, dynamic owner and founder of Brandon Communications, the blah-di blah-di . . .”

I skim over the text, feeling a pleasant anticipation as I reach the section labeled “Vital Statistics.” This is the bit where I'll be mentioned! “Currently dating TV personality Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or maybe, “Partner of well-known finance expert Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or else—

Luke James Brandon

Age: 34

Education: Cambridge

Current status: Single.

Single?

Luke told them he was
single
?

A hurt anger begins to rise through me as I stare at Luke's confident, arrogant gaze. Suddenly I've had enough of all this. I've had enough of being made to feel insecure and paranoid and wondering what's going on. Hands trembling, I pick up the phone and jab in Luke's number.

“Yes,” I say, as soon as the message has finished. “Yes, well. If you're single, Luke, then I'm single too. OK? And if you're going to New York, then I'm going to . . . to Outer Mongolia. And if you're . . .”

Suddenly my mind goes blank. Shit, and it was going so well.

“. . . if you're too cowardly to tell me these things yourself, then maybe it's better for both of us if we simply . . .”

I'm really struggling here. I should have written it all down before I began.

“. . . if we just call it a day. Or perhaps that's what you think you've already done,” I finish, breathing hard.

“Becky?” Suddenly Luke's deep voice is in my ear, and I jump with fright.

“Yes?” I say, trying to sound dignified.

“What
is
all this gibberish you're spouting on my machine?” he asks calmly.

“It's not gibberish!” I reply indignantly. “It's the truth!”

“ ‘If you're single, then I'm single'? What's that supposed to be? Lyrics to a pop song?”

“I was talking about you! And the fact that you've told the whole world you're single.”

“I've done what?” says Luke, sounding amused. “When did I do that?”

“It's in
Tatler
!” I say furiously. “This month!” I grab for the magazine and flip it open. “Britain's top movers and shakers. Number thirty-four, Luke Brandon.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” says Luke. “That thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” I exclaim. “That thing! And it says you're single. How do you think it felt for me to see you'd said you were single?”

“It quotes me, does it?”

“Well . . . no,” I say after a pause. “It doesn't exactly quote you. But I mean, they must have phoned you up and asked you—”

“They did phone me up and ask me,” he says. “And I said no comment.”

“Oh.” I'm silenced for a moment, trying to think clearly. OK, so maybe he didn't say he was single—but I'm not at all sure I like “no comment.” Isn't that what people say when things are going really badly?

“Why did you say no comment?” I say at last. “Why didn't you say you were going out with me?”

“My darling,” says Luke, sounding a little weary, “think about it. Do you
want
our private life splashed all over the media?”

“Of course not.” I twist my hands into a complicated knot. “Of course not. But you . . .” I stop.

“What?”

“You told the media when you were going out with Sacha,” I say in a small voice.

Sacha is Luke's ex-girlfriend.

I can't quite believe I just said that.

Luke sighs.

“Becky,
Sacha
told the media about us. She would have had
People
magazine photographing us in the bath if they'd been interested. That's the kind of girl she was.”

“Oh,” I say, winding the telephone cord round my finger.

“I'm not interested in that kind of thing. My clients can do what they like, but personally, I can't think of anything worse. Hence the no comment.” He pauses. “But you're right. I should have thought. I should have warned you. I'm sorry.”

“That's all right,” I say awkwardly. “I suppose I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions.”

“So are we OK?” says Luke, and there's a warm, teasing note to his voice. “Are we back on course?”

“What about New York?” I say, hating myself. “Is that all a mistake, too?”

There's a long, horrible silence.

“What have you heard about New York?” says Luke at last—and to my horror, he sounds all businesslike and distant.

Oh God.
Why
couldn't I keep my mouth closed?

“Nothing really!” I stammer. “I . . . I don't know. I just . . .”

I tail off feebly, and for what seems like hours, neither of us says anything. My heart is pounding hard, and I'm clutching the receiver so hard, my ear's starting to hurt.

“Becky, I need to talk to you about a few things,” says Luke finally. “But now is not the time.”

“Right,” I say, feeling a pang of fright. “What . . . sort of things?”

“Not now. We'll talk when I get back, OK? Saturday. At the wedding.”

“Right,” I say again, talking brightly to hide the nerves in my voice. “OK! Well, I'll . . . I'll see you then, then . . .”

But before I can say any more, he's gone.

MANAGING YOUR MONEY

A Comprehensive Guide to
Personal Finance

By Rebecca Bloomwood

COPYRIGHT © REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

Important: No part of this manuscript to be
reproduced without the author's express permission!

FIRST EDITION (UK)

(FIRST DRAFT)

P A R T O N E

Chapter one.

Finance is very

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD

12 September 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Further to my letter of 8 September, I have conducted a thorough examination of your account. Your current overdraft limit vastly exceeds the bank's approved ratios. I cannot see any need for this excessive level of debt, nor that any genuine attempts have been made to reduce it. The situation is little short of a disgrace.

Whatever special status you have enjoyed in the past will not be continuing in the future. I will certainly not be increasing your overdraft limit as you request, and would ask as a matter of urgency that you make an appointment with me to discuss your position.

Yours sincerely,

John Gavin
Overdraft Facilities Director

Six

I
ARRIVE AT MY PARENTS
' house at ten o'clock on Saturday, to find the street full of festivity. There are balloons tied to every tree, our drive is full of cars, and a billowing marquee is just visible from next door's garden. I get out of my car, reach for my overnight bag, then just stand still for a few moments, staring at the Websters' house. God, this is strange. Tom Webster getting married. I can hardly believe it. To be honest—and this may sound a bit mean—I can hardly believe that anyone would
want
to marry Tom Webster. He has smartened up his act recently, admittedly. He's got a few new clothes, and a better hairstyle. But his hands are still all huge and clammy—and frankly, he's not Brad Pitt.

Still, that's the point of love, I think, closing my car door with a bang. You love people despite their flaws. Lucy obviously doesn't mind that Tom's got clammy hands—and he obviously doesn't mind that her hair's all flat and boring. It's quite romantic, I suppose.

As I'm standing there, gazing at the house, a girl in jeans with a circlet of flowers in her hair appears at the Websters' front door. She gives me an odd, almost aggressive look, then disappears inside the house again. One of Lucy's bridesmaids, obviously. I expect she's a bit nervous, being seen in her jeans.

Lucy's probably in there too, it occurs to me—and instinctively I turn away. I know she's the bride and everything, but to be honest, I'm not desperately looking forward to seeing Lucy again. I've only met her a couple of times and we've never jelled. Probably because she had the idea I was in love with Tom. Still, at least when Luke arrives I'll finally be able to prove them all wrong.

At the thought of Luke, there's a painful stab in my chest, and I take a deep, slow breath to calm myself. I'm determined I'm not going to put the cart before the horse this time. I'm going to keep an open mind, and see what he says today. And if he does tell me he's moving away to New York then I'll just . . . deal with it. Somehow.

Anyway. Don't think about it now. Briskly I head for the front door and let myself in. I head for the kitchen and find my dad drinking coffee in his waistcoat, while Mum, dressed in a nylon cape with her hair in curlers, is buttering a round of sandwiches.

“I just don't think it's right,” she's saying as I walk in. “It's not right. They're supposed to be leading our country, and look at them. They're a mess! Dowdy jackets, dreadful ties . . .”

“You really think the ability to govern is affected by what you wear, do you?”

“Hi, Mum,” I say, dumping my bag on the floor. “Hi, Dad.”

“It's the principle of the thing!” says Mum. “If they're not prepared to make an effort with their dress, then why should they make any effort with the economy?”

“It's hardly the same thing!”

“It's exactly the same thing. Becky,
you
think the chancellor should dress more smartly, don't you? All this lounge suit nonsense.”

“I don't know,” I say vaguely. “Maybe.”

“You see? Becky agrees with me. Now, let me have a look at you, darling.” She puts down her knife and surveys me properly, and I feel myself glowing a little, because I know I look good. I'm wearing a shocking pink dress and jacket, a Philip Treacy feathered hat, and the most beautiful black satin shoes, each decorated with a single gossamer butterfly. “Oh, Becky,” says Mum at last. “You look lovely. You'll upstage the bride!” She reaches for my hat and looks at it. “This is very unusual! How much did it cost?”

“Erm . . . I can't remember,” I say vaguely. “Maybe . . . fifty quid?”

This is not quite true. It was actually more like . . . Well, anyway, quite a lot. Still, it was worth it.

“So, where's Luke?” says Mum, popping my hat back on my head. “Parking the car?”

“Yes, where's Luke?” says my father, looking up, and gives a jocular laugh. “We've been looking forward to meeting this young man of yours at last.”

“Luke's coming separately,” I say—and flinch slightly as I see their faces fall.

“Separately?” says Mum at last. “Why's that?”

“He's flying back from Zurich this morning,” I explain. “He had to go there for business. But he'll be here, I promise.”

“He does know the service starts at twelve?” says Mum anxiously. “And you've told him where the church is?”

“Yes!” I say. “Honestly, he'll be here.”

I'm aware that I sound slightly snappy, but I can't help it. To be honest, I'm a bit stressed out myself about where Luke's got to. He was supposed to be ringing me when he landed at the airport—and that was supposed to be half an hour ago. But so far I haven't heard anything.

Still. He said he'd be here.

“Can I do anything to help?” I ask, to change the subject.

“Be a darling, and take these upstairs for me,” says Mum, cutting the sandwiches briskly into triangles. “I've got to pack away the patio cushions.”

“Who's upstairs?” I say, picking up the plate.

“Maureen's come over to blow-dry Janice's hair,” says Mum. “They wanted to keep out of Lucy's way. You know, while she's getting ready.”

“Have you seen her yet?” I ask interestedly. “Has she got a nice dress?”

“I haven't seen it,” says Mum, and lowers her voice. “But apparently it cost £3,000. And that's not including the veil!”

“Wow,” I say, impressed. And for a second I feel ever so slightly envious. A £3,000 dress. And a party . . . and loads of presents . . . I mean, people who get married have it all.

As I go up the stairs, there's the sound of blow-drying coming from Mum and Dad's bedroom—and as I go in, I see Janice sitting on the dressing-room stool, wearing a dressing gown, holding a sherry glass, and dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. Maureen, who's been doing Mum's and Janice's hair for years now, is brandishing a hair dryer at her, and a woman I don't recognize with a mahogany tan, dyed blond curly hair, and a lilac silk suit is sitting on the window seat.

“Hello, Janice,” I say, going over and giving her a hug. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine, dear,” she says, and gives a sniff. “A little wobbly. You know. To think of Tom getting married!”

“I know,” I say sympathetically. “It doesn't seem like yesterday that we were kids, riding our bikes together!”

“Have another sherry, Janice,” says Maureen comfortably, and sloshes a deep brown liquid into her glass. “It'll help you relax.”

“Oh, Becky,” says Janice, and squeezes my hand. “This must be a hard day for you, too.”

I knew it. She does still think I fancy Tom, doesn't she?
Why
do all mothers think their sons are irresistible?

“Not really!” I say, as brightly as I can. “I mean, I'm just pleased for Tom. And Lucy, of course . . .”

“Becky?” The woman on the window seat turns toward me, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “This is Becky?”

And there's not an ounce of friendliness in her face. Oh God, don't say
she
thinks I'm after Tom, too.

“Erm . . . yes.” I smile at her. “I'm Rebecca Bloomwood. And you must be Lucy's mother?”

“Yes,” says the woman, still staring at me. “I'm Angela Harrison. Mother of the bride,” she adds, emphasizing “the bride” as though I don't understand English.

“You must be very excited,” I say politely. “Your daughter getting married.”

“Yes, well, of course, Tom is devoted to Lucy,” she says aggressively. “Utterly devoted. Never
looks
in any other direction.” She gives me a sharp glance and I smile feebly back.

Honestly, what am I supposed to do? Throw up all over Tom or something? Tell him he's the ugliest man I've ever known? They'd all still just say I was jealous. They'd say I was in denial.

“Is . . . Luke here, Becky?” says Janice, and gives me a hopeful smile. And suddenly—which is rather bizarre—everyone in the room is completely still, waiting for my answer.

“Not yet, I'm afraid,” I say. “I think he must have been held up.”

There's silence, and I'm aware of glances flying around the room.

“Held up,” echoes Angela, and there's a tone to her voice that I don't much like. “Is that right? Well, there's a surprise.”

What's that supposed to mean?

“He's coming back from Zurich,” I explain. “I should think the flight's been delayed or something.” I look at Janice and, to my surprise, she flushes.

“Zurich,” she says, nodding a little too emphatically. “I see. Of course. Zurich.” And she shoots me an embarrassed, almost sympathetic look.

What's wrong with her?

“This
is
Luke Brandon we're talking about here,” says Angela, taking a puff on her cigarette. “The famous entrepreneur.”

“Well—yes,” I say, a bit surprised. I mean, I don't
know
any other Lukes.

“And he's your boyfriend.”

“Yes!”

There's a slightly awkward silence—and even Maureen seems to be gazing at me curiously. Then, suddenly, I see a copy of this month's
Tatler
lying on the floor by Janice's chair. Oh God.

“That article in
Tatler,
by the way,” I say hastily, “is all wrong. He didn't say he was single. He said no comment.”

“Article?” says Janice unconvincingly. “I don't know what you're talking about, dear.”

“I . . . I don't read magazines,” says Maureen, who blushes bright red and looks away.

“We just look forward to meeting him,” says Angela, and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Don't we, Janice?”

I stare at her in confusion—then turn to Janice, who will barely meet my eye, and Maureen, who's pretending to root about in a beauty case.

Hang on a minute.

They surely don't think—

“Janice,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You know Luke's coming. He even wrote you a reply!”

“Of course he did, Becky!” says Janice, staring at the floor. “Well—as Angela says, we're all looking forward to meeting him.”

I feel a swoosh of humiliated color fill my cheeks. What does she think? That I've just
made up
that I'm going out with Luke?

“Well, enjoy your sandwiches, won't you?” I say, trying not to sound as flustered as I feel. “I'll just . . . see if Mum needs me.”

When I find Mum, she's on the top-floor landing, packing patio cushions into transparent plastic bags, then suctioning all the air out with the nozzle of her vacuum cleaner.

“I've some of these bags on order for you, by the way,” she shouts over the noise of the vacuum. “From Country Ways. Plus some turkey foil, a casserole dish, a microwave egg poacher . . .”

“I don't want any turkey foil!” I yell.

“It's not for you!” says Mum, turning off the vacuum. “They had a special offer—introduce a friend and receive a set of earthenware pots. So I nominated you as the friend. It's a very good catalogue, actually. I'll give it to you to have a browse.”

“Mum—”

“Lovely duvet covers. I'm sure you could do with a new—”

“Mum, listen!” I say agitatedly. “Listen. You do believe I'm going out with Luke, don't you?”

There's a slightly too long pause.

“Of course I do,” she says eventually.

I stare at her in horror.

“You don't, do you? You all think I've just made it up!”

“No!” says Mum firmly. She puts down her hoover and looks me straight in the eye. “Becky, you've told us you're going out with Luke Brandon, and as far as Dad and I are concerned, that's enough.”

“But Janice and Martin. Do they think I've made it up?”

Mum gazes at me—then sighs, and reaches for another patio cushion.

“Oh, Becky. The thing is, love, you have to remember, they once believed you had a stalker. And that turned out to be . . . well. Not quite true. Didn't it?”

A cold dismay creeps over me. OK, maybe I did once kind of pretend I had a stalker. Which I shouldn't have done. But I mean, just because you invent one tiny stalker—that doesn't make you a complete nutcase, does it?

“And the trouble is, we've never actually . . . well,
seen
him with you, have we, love?” Mum's continuing, as she stuffs the cushion into its transparent bag. “Not in the flesh. And then there was that piece in the paper saying he was single . . .”

“He didn't say single!” My voice is shrill with frustration. “He said no comment! Mum, have Janice and Martin told you they don't believe me?”

“No!” Mum lifts her chin defiantly. “They wouldn't dare say a thing like that to me.”

“But you know that's what they're saying behind our backs.”

We stare at each other, and suddenly I see the strain in Mum's face, hidden behind her bright facade. She must have been
so
hoping we'd pull up together in Luke's flash car, I suddenly realize. She must have been so wanting to prove Janice wrong. And instead, here I am, on my own again . . .

“He'll be here,” I say, almost to reassure myself. “He'll be here any minute.”

“Of course he will!” exclaims Mum brightly. “And as soon as he turns up—well, then everyone will have to eat their words, won't they?”

The doorbell rings and we both stiffen, staring at each other.

“I'll get that, shall I?” I say, trying to sound casual.

“Why don't you?” agrees Mum, and I can see a tiny shine of hope in her eyes.

Trying not to run, I hurry down the stairs and, with a light heart, fling the front door open. And it's . . . not Luke.

It's a man laden with flowers. Baskets of flowers, a bouquet of flowers, and several flat boxes at his feet.

“Wedding flowers,” he says. “Where do you want them?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “Actually, you've got the wrong house, I'm afraid. They need to go next door. Number 41.”

“Really?” The man frowns. “Let me just look at my list . . . Hold that, would you?”

He thrusts the bridal bouquet at me and starts rooting around his pocket.

“Honestly,” I say, “they need to go next door. Look, I'll just get my—”

I turn round, holding Lucy's bouquet with both hands, because it's quite heavy. And to my horror, Angela Harrison is just arriving at the foot of the stairs. She stares at me, and for a moment I almost think she's going to kill me.

“What are you doing?” she snaps. “Give me that!” She wrenches the bouquet out of my hands and brings her face so close to mine I can smell the gin on her breath. “Listen, young lady,” she hisses. “I'm not fooled by the smiles. I know what you're up to. And you can just forget it, all right? I'm not having my daughter's wedding wrecked by some deranged little psychopath.”