Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (127 page)

“You’ve rumbled me!” I exclaim. “Drat! How did you guess? You just know me too well. Now . . . er . . . go and have some nice breakfast and I’ll get ready for the supermarket.”

As I put on my makeup my mind is going round and round in circles.

What if Nathan Temple phones up to see how Luke is? What if he sends more flowers? What if he wants to come and visit Luke’s
sickbed
?

OK, just . . . stay calm. Let’s go through all the options.

Option 1. Tell Luke everything.

No. No way. Just the thought of it makes my stomach churn. He’s so busy with this Arcodas pitch. It’ll just get him all hassled and angry.

Option 2. Tell Luke something.

Like the edited highlights. Maybe tweaked in a way that leaves out the name Nathan Temple.

Oh God. Impossible.

Option 3. Manage situation in discreet Hillary-style manner.

But I tried that already and it didn’t work.

Anyway, I bet Hillary had help. What I need is a team, like in
The West Wing
. Then I’d just go up to Allison Janney and whisper, “We have a problem—but don’t let the president know.” And she’d murmur, “Don’t worry, we’ll contain it.” Then we’d exchange warm but tense smiles and walk into the Oval Office, where Luke would be promising a group of underprivileged kids that their playground would be saved. And his eyes would meet mine . . . and we’d flash back to the two of us waltzing in the White House corridors the night before, watched only by an impassive security guard—

The grinding motor of a dustbin truck outside brings me back to reality. Luke isn’t president. I’m not in
The West Wing
. And I still don’t know what to do.

Option 4. Do nothing.

This has a lot of obvious advantages. And the point is . . . do I actually
need
to do anything?

I reach for my lip liner and start applying it thoughtfully. I mean, all that has actually happened is that someone has sent Luke some flowers. That’s all.

Plus he wants Luke to work for him. And reckons he’s owed a favor.

And is a gangster.

No. Stop it. He’s not a gangster. He’s a . . . a businessman with a former criminal conviction. It’s totally different.

And anyway—
anyway
—he was probably just being polite in that note, wasn’t he? Like he’s really going to hold up an entire hotel launch so Luke can do it. What a ludicrous idea.

The more I think along these lines, the more reassured I feel. Nathan Temple can’t seriously be expecting Luke to work for him. He’ll have found some other PR company already. The whole thing will be under way and he’ll have forgotten all about Brandon Communications. Exactly. So I don’t have to do anything at all.

Even so, I might write a short letter of thanks. And kind of mention that Luke’s unfortunately taken a turn for the worse.

So before we head off to the supermarket I scribble a polite card to Nathan Temple and drop it in the pillar-box outside. As I stride away I actually feel rather satisfied. I have this whole situation under control, and Luke doesn’t know a thing. I am superwife!

My spirits rise even further as we walk into the supermarket. God, supermarkets are great places. They’re all bright and airy and music is playing, and they’re always giving away free samples of cheese or something. Plus you can buy loads of CDs and makeup, and it all goes on the credit card bill as Tesco.

The first thing that catches my eye as I walk in is a display of specialty teas, with a free flower-shaped tea infuser if you buy three.

“Bargain!” I say, grabbing three boxes at random.

“It’s not really a bargain,” Jess intones disapprovingly beside me. Why did she have to come along?

Never mind. I’ll just stay polite and courteous.

“It
is
a bargain,” I explain. “They’re giving away a free gift.”

“Do you ever drink jasmine tea?” she retorts, looking at the box in my hand.

“Er . . .”

Jasmine tea. That’s the one that tastes like old compost heaps, isn’t it?

But so what? The tea infuser is really cute, and I don’t have one.

“You can always find a use for jasmine tea,” I say airily, and toss it into my trolley. “Right! What next?”

I head toward the vegetable section, pausing to pick up a copy of
InStyle
as I go.

Ooh. And the new
Elle
is out too. With a free T-shirt!

“What are you doing?” comes Jess’s sepulchral voice in my ear. Is she going to quiz me all the way round the bloody shop?

“I’m shopping!” I reply, and sling a new paperback book into the trolley.

“You could get that out of the library for nothing!” says Jess, looking horrified.

The
library
? I look at her in equal horror. I don’t want some thumbed copy in a horrible plastic jacket, which I have to remember to take back.

“It’s a modern classic, actually,” I say. “Everyone should have their own copy.”

“Why?” she persists. “Why can’t you get it out of the library?”

My temperature is beginning to rise.

Because I just want my own nice shiny copy! And piss off and leave me alone!

“Because . . . I might want to make notes in the margin,” I say loftily. “I have quite an interest in literary criticism, you know.”

I push my trolley on, but she comes hurrying after me.

“Becky, look. I want to help you. You have to gain control of your spending. You have to learn to be more frugal. Luke and I were talking about it—”

“Oh, really?” I say, stung. “How nice for you!”

“I can give you some tips . . . show you how to be thrifty—”

“I don’t need your help!” I retort in indignation. “I’m thrifty! I’m as thrifty as they come.” Jess looks incredulous.

“You think it’s thrifty to buy expensive magazines you could read for nothing in a public library?”

For a moment I can’t quite think of a reply. Then my glance falls on
Elle
. Yes!

“If I didn’t
buy
them, I wouldn’t get the free gifts, would I?” I retort in triumph, and wheel my trolley round the corner.

So there, Miss Smarty-pants.

I head to the fruit section and start loading bags into my trolley.

How thrifty is this? Nice healthy apples. I look up—and Jess is wincing.

“What?” I say. “What is it now?”

“You should buy those loose.” She gestures to the other side of the aisle, where a woman is laboriously picking her way through a mound of apples and filling a bag. “The unit cost is far lower! You’d save . . . twenty pence.”

Twenty whole pence!

“Time is money,” I reply coolly. “Frankly, Jess, it’s not worth my while to be sorting through apples.”

“Why not?” she says. “After all, you’re unemployed.”

I gasp, affronted.
Unemployed?
I am not unemployed! I’m a skilled personal shopper! I have a job lined up! In fact . . . I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. I turn on my heel and stalk over to the salad counter. I fill two huge cartons with luxury marinated olives and take them back to the trolley—and stop in astonishment.

Who put that huge sack of potatoes in my trolley?

Did I say I wanted a big sack of potatoes? Did I say I wanted
any
potatoes?

What if I’m on the Atkins diet?

I look around furiously, but Jess is nowhere to be seen. And the bloody thing’s too heavy to lift on my own. Where’s she gotten to, anyway?

Suddenly I spot her coming out of a side door, holding a big cardboard box and talking to a store employee. What’s she doing now?

“I’ve been speaking with the produce manager,” she says, approaching me. “We can have all these bruised bananas for nothing.”

I look in the box and it’s full of the most revolting, manky bananas I’ve ever seen.

“They’re perfectly good. If you cut away the black bits,” says Jess.

“But I don’t want to cut away the black bits!” My voice is shriller than I intended, but I can’t help myself. “I want to have nice yellow bananas! And I don’t want this stupid great sack of potatoes, either!”

“You can make three weeks’ worth of meals from that one sack,” says Jess, looking offended. “They’re the most economical, nutritious food you can buy. One potato alone—”

Please! Not another potato lecture.

“Where am I supposed to put them?” I interrupt. “I haven’t got a cupboard big enough.”

“There’s a cupboard in the hall,” says Jess. “You could use that. If you joined a warehouse club you could use it to store flour and oats, too.”

Oats? What do I want oats for? And anyway, clearly she hasn’t looked
inside
that cupboard.

“That’s my handbag cupboard,” I point out. “And it’s totally full.” Jess shrugs.

“You could get rid of some of your handbags.”

Is she seriously suggesting I should get rid of some of my handbags . . . for
potatoes
?

“Let’s carry on,” I say at last, and push the trolley forward as calmly as I can.

Stay polite. Stay gracious. She’ll be gone in twenty-four hours.

But as we progress round the store I am really starting to lose my cool. Jess’s voice is constantly droning in my ear like a bumblebee, on and on until I want to turn round and swat her.

You could make your own pizzas for half the price. . . . Have you considered buying a secondhand slow-cooker? . . . Store-brand washing powder is 40p cheaper. . . . You can use vinegar instead of fabric softener. . . .

“I don’t want to use vinegar!” I almost snap. “I want to use fabric softener, OK?” I put a bottle of it into the trolley and stalk off toward the juice section, Jess following behind.

“Any comments?” I say as I load two cartons into the trolley. “Anything wrong with lovely, healthy orange juice?”

“No,” says Jess, shrugging. “Except you could get the same health benefits from a glass of tap water and a cheap bottle of vitamin C tablets.”

OK. Now I seriously want to slap her.

Defiantly I dump another two cartons in my trolley, yank it round, and make for the bread section. There’s a delicious smell of baking in the air, and as I get near I see a woman at a counter, demonstrating something to a small crowd of people. She’s got a shiny chrome gadget plugged into the wall, and as she opens it up, it’s full of heart-shaped waffles, all golden brown and yummy-looking.

“The waffle-maker is quick and easy to use!” she’s saying. “Wake up every morning to the smell of fresh waffles baking.”

God, wouldn’t that be great? I have a sudden vision of me and Luke in bed, eating heart-shaped waffles and maple syrup, with big frothy cappuccinos.

“The waffle-maker normally costs £49.99,” the woman is saying. “But today we are selling it at a special reduced price of . . . £25. That’s 50 percent off.”

Fifty percent off? OK, I have to have one.

“Yes, please!” I say, and push my trolley forward.

“What are you doing?” says Jess.

“I’m buying a waffle-maker, obviously.” I roll my eyes. “Can you get out of my way?”

“No!” says Jess, planting herself firmly in front of the trolley. “I’m not going to let you waste twenty-five pounds on a gadget you don’t need.”

I’m outraged. How does she know what I do or don’t need?

“I
do
need a waffle-maker!” I retort. “It’s on my list of things I need. In fact, Luke said only the other day, ‘What this house really needs is a waffle-maker.’ ”

Which, OK, is a bit of a stretch. What he really said was “Is there anything for breakfast except Coco Pops?”

But he might have done. How would she know he didn’t?

“Plus I’m
saving
money, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I push the trolley round her. “It’s a bargain!”

“It’s not a bargain if you don’t need one!” She grabs the trolley and tries to haul it back.

“Get your hands off my trolley!” I say indignantly. “I need a waffle-maker! And I can easily afford it! Easily! I’ll take one,” I add to the woman, and take a box off the table.

“No, she won’t,” says Jess, grabbing it out of my arms.

What?
What?

“I’m only doing it for your own good, Becky! You’re addicted to spending! You have to learn how to say no!”

“I can say no!” I practically spit in fury. “I can say no whenever I like! I’m just not choosing to say it right now! I
will
take one,” I say to the nervous-looking woman. “In fact, I’ll take two. I can give one to Mum for Christmas.”

I snatch two more boxes and defiantly put them in my trolley.

“So you’re just going to waste fifty pounds, are you?” says Jess contemptuously. “Just throw away money you don’t have.”

“I’m not throwing it away.”

“Yes, you are!”

“I’m bloody not!” I retort. “And I
do
have the money. I have plenty of money.”

“You’re living in a total fantasyland!” Jess suddenly shouts. “You have money until you run out of stuff to sell. But what happens then? And what happens when Luke finds out what you’ve been doing? You’re just storing up trouble!”

“I’m not storing up trouble!” I lash back angrily.

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I’m no—”

“Will you two sisters just stop fighting for once!”
interrupts an exasperated woman’s voice, and we both jump.

I look around in bewilderment. Mum isn’t here, is she?

Then suddenly I spot the woman who spoke. She isn’t even looking at us. She’s addressing a pair of toddlers in a trolley seat.

Oh.

I push the hair back off my hot face, suddenly feeling a bit shamefaced. I glance over at Jess—and she’s looking rather shamefaced too.

“Let’s go and pay,” I say in dignified tones, and push the trolley on.

We drive home without exchanging a word, but underneath my calm exterior I’m seething. Who does she think she is, lecturing me? Who does she think she is, telling me I have a problem?

We get home and unload the shopping with minimal communication. We barely even look each other in the eye.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I say with exaggerated formality as I put the last packet away.

“No, thanks,” she replies with equal formality.