Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (126 page)

“They’re traditionally summoned to disaster areas, aren’t they?” He grins at me.

“So!” I say quickly, trying to change the subject. “Did anyone . . . er . . . see
EastEnders
last night?”

No one seems to hear me.

“But Becky was a financial journalist!” says Jess, sounding disconcerted.

“Financial journalist?” Luke looks highly amused. “You want to hear a story about your sister’s days as a financial journalist?”

“No,” I put in. “She doesn’t.”

“The cashpoint card,” says Gary, reminiscing.

“The cashpoint card!” Luke slaps the table in delight. “This was during Becky’s illustrious career as a TV finance expert,” he says to Jess. “She was filming an item on the perils of cashpoint use. She put in her own cashpoint card to demonstrate . . .” He starts laughing again. “And it got swallowed on camera.”

“They showed that the other night on a TV clips show,” says Gary to me. “The bit where you start bashing the machine with your shoe is a classic!”

OK, he is off my Christmas card list.

“But why did it get swallowed?” says Jess, looking perplexed. “Were you . . .
overdrawn
?”

“Was Becky overdrawn?” Luke says cheerfully, getting out some glasses. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

Jess looks confused.

“But, Becky, you said you saved half your salary every month.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry?” Luke slowly turns round. “Becky said she did
what
?”

“That’s . . . that’s not exactly what I said,” I say, flustered. “I said it’s a
good idea
to save half your salary. In principle. And . . . it is! It’s a very good idea!”

“How about not running up huge credit card bills which you keep secret from your husband?” says Luke. “Is that a good idea in principle?”

“Credit card bills?” says Jess, looking at me in horror. “So . . . you’re in debt?”

God, why does she have to say it like that?
Debt.
Like it’s some kind of plague. Like I’m about to go to the workhouse. This is the twenty-first century.
Everyone
’s in debt.

“You know how doctors make the worst patients?” I say with a little laugh. “Well, financial journalists make the worst . . . er . . .”

I wait for her to laugh too, or at least give a sympathetic smile. But she just looks appalled.

This whole exchange is beginning to rankle. OK, so I may have had the odd debt in my time. But she doesn’t have to look so
disapproving
.

“By the way, Jess,” says Gary. “We’ve run into a tiny glitch with that program.”

“Really?” Jess looks up. “I’ll come and have a look if you like.”

“Are you sure?” Gary glances at me. “We don’t want to interrupt your evening. . . .”

“It’s fine,” I say, waving my hand. “Go ahead!”

When they’ve all disappeared into the study I wander along the corridor and into the sitting room. I slump down on the sofa and stare miserably at the blank television.

Jess and I haven’t bonded one bit.

We don’t get on. That’s the truth.

Suddenly I’m weary with disappointment. I’ve been trying so hard ever since she arrived. I’ve been making every effort. I bought the picture of the cave . . . and I prepared all those yummy snacks . . . and I tried to plan the best evening I could. And she hasn’t even
tried
to join in. OK, so maybe she didn’t like any of my films. But she could have pretended, couldn’t she? If it was me, I would have pretended.

Why does she have to be such a
misery
? Why can’t she just have
fun
?

As I gulp my champagne, resentment is growing inside me.

How can she hate shopping? How? She’s got thirty thousand pounds, for God’s sake! She should
adore
shopping! And another thing—why is she so obsessed with potatoes? What’s so great about bloody potatoes?

I just don’t understand her. She’s my sister, but I don’t understand one single thing about her. Luke was right all along. It
is
all nurture. Nature doesn’t come into it.

I start dejectedly leafing through the videos. Maybe I’ll watch one of them on my own. And have some popcorn. And some of those yummy Thorntons chocolates.

Jess probably doesn’t even eat chocolate. Unless it’s chocolate she’s made herself, out of potatoes.

Well, good for her.
I’m
going to stuff my face and watch a nice movie.

I’m just reaching for
Pretty Woman
when the phone rings.

“Hello?” I say, picking up.

“Hello, Bex?” comes a familiar high-pitched voice. “It’s me.”

“Suze!” I feel a huge rush of joy. “Oh my God! Hi! How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine! Are you OK?”

“I’m fine! I’m fine!”

Suddenly with all my heart I wish Suze were here. Like the old days in Fulham. I miss her so much.
So
much.

“So, how was the spa with Lulu?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“It was . . . fine,” she says after a pause. “You know. Kind of . . . a bit different . . . but fun!”

“Good!”

There’s an awkward silence.

“And . . . and I was wondering how it’s all going with your new sister,” Suze says hesitantly. “Are you . . . are you really good friends?”

I can’t admit the truth to Suze. I just can’t admit the whole thing’s been a failure. That she goes on spa trips with her new friend, but I can’t even manage one evening with my own sister.

“It’s great!” I say. “Couldn’t be better! We’re getting on so well!”

“Really?” says Suze, sounding a bit crushed.

“Absolutely! In fact, we’re having a girls’ night in together right now! Watching movies . . . having a laugh . . . just hanging out. You know!”

“What are you watching?” says Suze at once.

“Er . . .” I look at the blank TV screen.
“Pretty Woman.”

“I love
Pretty Woman,
” Suze says longingly. “The scene in the shop!”

“I know! That is just the best scene ever!”

“And the end, when Richard Gere climbs up!” Her voice is tumbling out with enthusiasm. “Oh God, I want to watch it right now!”

“Me too!” I say without thinking. “I mean . . . I want to watch the . . . er . . . rest of it.”

“Oh,” Suze says in a different voice. “I must be interrupting you. Sorry.”

“No!” I say quickly. “I mean, it doesn’t matter—”

“I’ll go. You must want to get back to your sister. It sounds like you’re having an amazing time.” Her voice is wistful. “You two must have so much to talk about.”

“Yes,” I say, looking round the empty room. “Yes, we . . . we certainly do!”

“Well . . . I’ll see you sometime,” she says. “Bye, Bex.”

“Bye!” I say, my throat suddenly thick.

Wait!
I want to cry out.
Don’t go!

But instead I put down the receiver and stare into space. At the other end of the flat I can hear Luke, Gary, and Jess all laughing about something. They’ve bonded with her great. It’s just me who hasn’t.

And I had such huge hopes. I was so excited about having a sister. But I’ve done everything I can think of, and it’s all failed. Jess and I are never going to be friends. Not in a million years.

WEST CUMBRIA BANK

45 STERNDALE STREET
COGGENTHWAITE
CUMBRIA

Ms Jessica Bertram
12 Hill Rise
Scully
Cumbria CA19 1BD

16 May 2003

Dear Ms Bertram:

Thank you for your letter.

Having gone through your accounts in great detail I can only concur that there is a discrepancy of 73 pence.

I am deeply sorry for this error by the bank and have credited your savings account by this amount, back-dated three months. I have also, as you request, added the missing interest.

May I take this opportunity to commend you yet again on your meticulous and thoughtful approach to your finances.

On a personal note, I look forward to seeing you at the upcoming Prudent Savers’ Group cheese and wine evening, at which our head of personal accounts will be giving the keynote address “Retightening the Purse Strings.”

Yours sincerely,

Howard Shawcross
Customer Account Manager

Fourteen

I wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, which could have something to do with the fact that I polished off an entire bottle of champagne myself last night, plus one and a half trays of chocolates. Meanwhile, Jess, Luke, and Gary spent hours around the computer. Even when I took them in some pizza, they barely looked up. So I just watched the whole of
Pretty Woman
and then half of
Four Weddings and a Funeral,
before going to bed on my own.

As I blearily put on a dressing gown, Luke is already showered and dressed in the “casual weekend” clothes he wears when he’s actually going to spend the whole time in the office.

“What time did you finish last night?” I ask, my throat all hoarse and croaky.

“Not till late.” Luke shakes his head. “Once we started discussing it, we couldn’t stop. Jess had a lot of ideas.”

“Right!” I try to sound enthusiastic.

“You know, I take it back about her,” he adds, tying up his shoelaces. “Your sister’s got a lot going for her. She couldn’t have been more helpful last night. She certainly knows her way around a computer!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. She’s great!” He stands up and gives me a kiss. “You were right. I’m very glad you invited her for the weekend.”

“Me too!” I say, forcing a bright smile. “We’re all having so much fun!”

I shuffle into the kitchen, where Jess is sitting at the counter in her jeans and a T-shirt, with a glass of water.

Cleverclogs. I expect she’ll split the atom this morning. In between sit-ups.

“Morning,” she says.

“Morning!” I say in my most pleasant, good-hostess manner.

I was rereading
The Gracious Hostess
last night, and it says that even if your guest is annoying you, you must behave with charm and decorum.

Well, fine. I can be charming. I can be decorative.

“Did you sleep well? Let me get you some breakfast!”

I open the fridge and get out the freshly squeezed orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juices. I reach into the bread bin and pull out some seeded granary bread, croissants, and muffins. Then I start rooting around in the cupboards for jams. Three kinds of luxury marmalade, strawberry jam with champagne, wild blossom honey . . . and Belgian chocolate spread. Finally I get down a range of luxury coffees and teas to choose from. There. No one’s going to say I don’t give my guests a good breakfast.

I’m aware of Jess watching my every move, and as I turn round she’s got a strange expression on her face.

“What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says awkwardly. She folds her napkin into little squares. “Luke told me last night. About your . . . problem.”

“My what?”

“Your spending.”

I try to hide my dismay. He did, did he?

“I don’t have a problem,” I say, flashing her a smile. “He was exaggerating.”

“He said you’re on a budget.” Jess looks concerned. “It sounds like money’s a bit tight at the moment.”

“That’s right,” I say pleasantly. Not that it’s any of your business, I think. I can’t
believe
Luke’s been blabbing everything to her.

“So . . . how come you can afford luxury coffee and strawberry jam with champagne?” She gestures at all the food laid out on the counter.

“Thrifty management,” I say smoothly. “Prioritizing. If you save on some items you can splash out on others. That’s the first rule of financial management. As I learned at financial journalism school,” I add.

OK, that’s a slight lie. I didn’t go to financial journalism school.

“So—which items are you saving on?” says Jess, her brow creased. “I can’t see anything in this kitchen that doesn’t come from Fortnum’s or Harrods.”

I’m about to make an indignant rejoinder when I realize she might be right. I got into a bit of a Harrods Food Hall habit after I started making all this money off eBay. But then, Harrods is a perfectly legitimate food shop.

“My husband appreciates a good standard of living,” I say crisply, opening a fresh jar of marmalade.

“But you could do it on less.” Jess leans forward, looking animated. “You could make savings everywhere! I could give you some tips.”

Tips? Tips from Jess?

Suddenly the oven timer goes off with a ping. It’s time!

“Are you cooking something?” says Jess, looking puzzled.

“Er . . . not exactly. Just help yourself . . . I’ll be back in a minute. . . .”

I hurry into the study and switch on the computer. Bidding on the orange vintage coat ends in five minutes, and I am bloody well going to get it. I tap my fingernails impatiently, and as soon as the screen clears I bring up the saved eBay page.

I knew it. Kittybee111 has bid again—£200.

She thinks she’s so clever. Well, take
this,
kittybee111.

I get out Luke’s stopwatch from the desk and set it for three minutes. As the time gets near I poise my hands over the keyboard like an athlete on the starting blocks.

OK. One minute before the bidding ends. Go.

As quickly as I can, I type in *@00.50.

Shit. What have I typed? Delete. . . . retype . . . £200.50.

I jab
SEND
and the next screen comes up. User ID . . . password . . . I’m typing as fast as I can.

You are the current high bidder.

Ten seconds to go. My heart is thumping. What if someone else is bidding
right now
?

Frantically I click on
REFRESH
.

“What are you doing, Becky?” comes Jess’s voice at the door. Shit.

“Nothing!” I say. “Why don’t you make yourself some nice toast, while I just—”

The page is coming back up again. Did I . . . did I . . .

Congratulations! You won the item!

“Yeeess!” I cry out, unable to stop myself, and punch the air. “Yes! I got it!”

“Got what?” Jess has advanced across the room and is peering over my shoulder at the screen. “Is that
you
? You’re on a tight budget and you’re buying a coat for two hundred pounds?”

“It’s not like that!” I say, rattled at her disapproving expression. I get up, close the door of the study, and turn to face her.

“Look,” I say, keeping my voice lowered. “It’s OK. I’ve got all this money which Luke doesn’t know about. I’ve been selling off all the stuff we bought on our honeymoon—and I’ve made loads! I sold ten Tiffany clocks the other day and made two thousand quid!” I lift my chin proudly. “So I can
easily
afford this.”

Jess’s expression doesn’t waver.

“You could have put that money into a high-interest savings account,” she says. “Or used it to clear an outstanding bill.”

I quell a sudden urge to snap.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” I say, forcing a pleasant tone. “I bought a coat.”

“And Luke has no idea?” Jess fixes me with an accusing gaze.

“He doesn’t
need
to have any idea! Jess, my husband is a very busy man.”

“So you lie to him.”

“Every marriage needs an air of mystery,” I respond coolly. “It’s a well-known fact.”

Jess shakes her head.

“And is this how you can afford all the Fortnum’s jam, too?” She gestures to the computer. “Shouldn’t you just be honest?”

Oh, for God’s sake. Doesn’t she understand anything?

“Jess . . . let me explain,” I say kindly. “Our marriage is a complicated, living organism, which only the two of us can really understand. I naturally know what to tell Luke and what not to bother him with. Call it instinct . . . call it discretion . . . call it emotional intelligence, if you will.”

Jess regards me for a few moments.

“Well, I think you need help,” she says at last.

“I do not need
help
!” I retort.

I shut down the computer, push back my chair, and stalk past her into the kitchen, where Luke is making a pot of coffee.

“Enjoying your breakfast, darling?” I say in loud tones.

“Fantastic!” says Luke. “Where did you get these quails’ eggs?”

“Oh . . . you know . . .” I give him an affectionate smile. “I know you like them, so I tracked some down.” I shoot a triumphant look at Jess, who rolls her eyes.

“We’re out of bacon, though,” says Luke. “And a couple of other things. I’ve written them down.”

“OK,” I say, suddenly having an idea. “In fact . . . I’ll go out and get them this morning. Jess, you don’t mind if I do some household chores, do you? I don’t expect
you
to come, of course,” I add sweetly. “I know how much you despise shopping.”

Thank goodness. Escape.

“It’s OK,” says Jess, filling a glass of water at the tap. “I’d like to come.”

My smile freezes on my face.

“To Harr— To the supermarket? But it’ll be very boring. Please don’t feel that you have to.”

“I’d like to.” She looks at me. “If you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” I say, my smile still rigid. “Why would I mind? I’ll just go and get ready.”

As I head into the hall I’m hot with indignation. Who does she think she is, saying I need help?

She
needs help, more like it. Help in how to crank her miserable mouth into a smile.

And what a bloody nerve, giving me advice on my marriage. What does she know about it? Luke and I have a brilliant marriage! We’ve hardly ever even had a row!

The entry phone buzzes, and I pick up the receiver, still distracted.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” comes a man’s voice. “I have a delivery of flowers for Brandon.”

I press the button in delight. Someone’s sent me flowers?

I clap my hand over my mouth. Luke must have sent me flowers. He’s so romantic! This is probably some really cute anniversary that I’d forgotten all about, like the first time we had dinner together, or slept together, or something.

Actually . . . that would be the same anniversary, now that I think about it.

But anyway, the point is, this just proves it. This just proves what a fantastic relationship we have and how Jess is totally wrong. About everything.

I throw open the apartment door and stand expectantly by the lift. This’ll show her! I’ll take my flowers straight into the kitchen and give Luke a huge passionate kiss, and she’ll say something really humble like “I had no idea what a perfect relationship you two had.” And I’ll smile kindly and say “You know, Jess—”

My thoughts are interrupted as the lift doors start opening. And oh . . . my God. Luke must have spent an absolute
fortune
!

Two uniformed deliverymen are carrying the most enormous bouquet of roses—plus a huge fruit basket full of oranges, papayas, and pineapples, all wrapped up in trendy raffia.

“Wow!” I say in delight. “Those are absolutely fantastic!” I beam at the man offering me a clipboard and scribble my signature.

“And you’ll pass them on to Mr. Brandon,” says the man as he gets back into the lift.

“Of course!” I say gaily.

A moment later his words register.

Hang on a minute. These are for
Luke
? Who on earth is sending flowers to Luke?

I spot a card nestled among the flowers and pull it out with a pleasant thrill of curiosity.

Dear Mr Brandon

I was extremely sorry to hear of your illness. Please let me know if I can be of any help. And be assured, we can delay the hotel launch as long as is necessary to enable your full recovery.

All best wishes,
Nathan Temple

I’m paralyzed with horror. Nathan Temple wasn’t supposed to send flowers. He wasn’t supposed to delay the hotel launch. He was supposed to
go away
.

“What’s that?” comes Luke’s voice. I start in panic and look up to see him heading out of the kitchen toward me.

In one seamless movement I crumple Nathan Temple’s card and stuff it into the pocket of my dressing gown.

“Hi!” I say, my voice a little high-pitched. “Aren’t these great?”

“Are those for me?” Luke says incredulously, spotting the delivery label. “Who are they from?”

“They’re . . . um . . . they’re . . . from me!” I say brightly.

“From
you
?” Luke stares at me.

“Yes! I thought I’d like to send you some flowers. And . . . er . . . fruit. Here you are, darling! Happy Saturday!”

Somehow I manhandle the enormous bouquet and basket into Luke’s arms, then kiss him lightly on the cheek.

“Becky, I’m very touched,” he says, looking bewildered. “Really. But . . . why did you send me all this? Why did you send me a fruit basket?”

“Do I have to have a reason to send my husband a fruit basket?” I say at last, managing to sound a little hurt. “I just thought they could be a token of our marriage. You know, we’re coming up to our very first anniversary!”

“Right,” says Luke after a pause. “Well . . . thank you. That’s lovely.” He peers more closely at the bouquet. “What’s this?”

I follow his gaze only to see a set of gold plastic lettering nestled inside the flowers, spelling out
Get Well Soon
.

Shit.

“Get well soon?”
Luke looks up, taken aback.

My mind races frantically.

“That . . . that . . . doesn’t
mean
get well soon,” I say with a laugh. “It’s . . . in code!”

“In
code
?”

“Yes! Every marriage needs a secret code between husband and wife! You know, for little loving secret messages. So I thought I’d introduce one!”

Luke has the same expression he had in Egypt when I said I thought we should take a couples’ belly-dancing class.

“So, what does ‘get well soon’ mean?” he inquires. “In our secret code.”

“It’s actually . . . er . . . very easy.” I clear my throat self-consciously. “
Get
means . . .
I
. And
well
means . . .
love
. And
soon
means . . .”

“You?”
offers Luke.

“Yes!” I say. “You’re getting the idea! Isn’t it cunning?”

My hands are clenched by my sides. I have no idea what Luke is thinking.

“And the florist wouldn’t have sent the wrong package by mistake?” he suggests.

Oh.

Now, that’s a
much
better explanation. Why didn’t I think of that?