Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (130 page)

“You realize how much harder this makes it for me?” Luke is holding his head in his hands. “Becky, why didn’t you
tell
me? Why didn’t you tell me about it in Milan?”

The room is very still.

“Because the Angel bag cost two thousand euros,” I say at last in a tiny voice. “I thought you’d be cross.”

“Jesus Christ . . .” Luke sounds at the end of his tether.

“And then I didn’t want to bother you! You were so busy with the Arcodas pitch. . . . I thought I’d deal with it myself. And I
was
dealing with it.”

“ ‘Dealing with it,’ ” echoes Luke incredulously. “How were you dealing with it?”

“I told Nathan Temple you were ill,” I gulp.

Comprehension dawns on Luke’s face.

“The bunch of flowers,” he says in even tones. “Was that from Nathan Temple?” Oh God.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“He sent you flowers?” says Gary in disbelief.

“And a fruit basket,” says Luke shortly.

Gary gives a sudden snort of laughter.

“It’s not funny,” says Luke, his voice like whiplash. “We’ve just won the biggest pitch of our lives. We should be out celebrating. Not having to deal with bloody Nathan Temple sitting in our foyer.” He sinks into a chair.

“We don’t want to make an enemy of him, Luke,” says Gary, pulling a small face. “Not if he’s going to buy the
Daily World
.”

Luke’s face is tense and motionless. I don’t dare say a word.

Then abruptly he stands up. “We can’t sit here all day. I’ll go and see him. If I have to do the job I have to do the job.” He gives me a look. “I just hope the handbag was worth it, Becky. I really hope it was worth it.”

I feel a sudden stab of pain.

“Luke, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really sorry. I never meant . . . I never realized—”

“Yeah, Becky,” he interrupts in weary tones. “Whatever.”

He leaves the room, followed by Gary. And I just sit there. Suddenly there’s a tear rolling down my cheek. Everything was so perfect. And now it’s all ruined.

Sixteen

This has been the worst week of our entire marriage.

I’ve barely seen Luke, he’s been so tied up with work. He’s had meetings every day with the Arcodas Group, plus there’s been a huge crisis with one of his banking clients, and one of his main account managers was rushed to the hospital with meningitis. It’s all been total mayhem.

And today, instead of having a chance to relax and regroup, he’s got to fly out to Cyprus to visit Nathan Temple’s hotel and start planning the launch. A launch which he doesn’t want to do, but has to—because if he pulls out with some excuse, Nathan Temple might get offended. According to all the business press, it’s looking likely that Nathan Temple’s going to buy the
Daily World
newspaper. So as Luke said, he can’t afford to antagonize him.

“Can I do anything?” I say nervously as I watch him put shirts into a suitcase.

“No,” he says shortly. “Thanks.”

This is how he’s been all week. All quiet and scary and barely looking me in the eye. And when he does look me in the eye, he looks so fed up that I feel a bit sick.

I’m trying really hard to keep positive and look on the bright side. I mean, it’s probably totally normal for couples to have blips like this. Just like Mum said. This is the Second Big Row of our marriage, and the air will clear again and everything will be fine. . . . Except I’m not sure the Second Big Row should come two days after the First Big Row. And I’m not sure it should last a whole week.

I tried e-mailing Mum on her cruise ship to ask her advice, but I got a message back saying that the Mind Body Spirit cruise was a retreat from the outside world, and no passengers could be contacted until next Friday, when they dock in Athens.

Luke zips up his suit carrier and disappears into the bathroom without even looking at me. He’ll be gone in a few minutes. We can’t leave each other like this. We just can’t.

He comes out again and dumps his shaving kit in his suitcase.

“It’s our first anniversary soon, you know.” I’d been hoping Luke and I could do something romantic, like a candlelight picnic. “We should . . . plan something.”

“I’m not even sure if I’ll be back in time,” says Luke.

He sounds like he doesn’t care, either. Our first anniversary and he’s not even interested. Suddenly my head is hot and I can feel tears pushing at my eyes. The whole week has been awful and now Luke’s leaving and he won’t even smile at me.

“You don’t have to be so unfriendly, Luke,” I say in a rush. “I know I’ve made a mess, but I didn’t mean to. I’ve said I’m sorry about a zillion times.”

“I know,” says Luke in the same old weary tones.

“What do you expect me to do?”

“What do you expect
me
to do, Becky?” he retorts in sudden exasperation. “Say it doesn’t matter? Say I don’t mind that just when I should be putting all my efforts into the Arcodas Group, I find myself flying off to some godforsaken island?” He clicks his case shut. “You want me to say I’m
happy
to be associated with some tacky hotel?”

“It won’t be tacky!” I exclaim in dismay. “I’m sure it won’t! Nathan Temple said it was going to be of the highest quality! You should have seen him in that shop in Milan, Luke. He would only accept the best! The best leather . . . the best cashmere . . .”

“And I’m sure he’ll have the best water beds,” Luke says with a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Becky, don’t you understand? I have a few principles.”

“So do I!” I say in shock. “I have principles! But that doesn’t make me a
snob
!”

“I am not a snob,” retorts Luke tightly. “I simply have standards.”

“You are a snob!” My voice rushes out before I can stop it. “Just because he used to run motels! I’ve been looking up Nathan Temple on the Internet. He does loads for charity, he helps people. . . .”

“He also dislocated a man’s jaw,” Luke cuts in. “Did you read about that?”

For a few moments I’m halted.

“That was . . . years ago,” I say at last. “He’s made amends . . . he’s reformed. . . .”

“Whatever, Becky.” Luke sighs and picks up his briefcase. “Can we just leave it?”

He heads out of the room and I hurry after him.

“No. We can’t leave it. We have to talk, Luke. You’ve barely looked at me all week.”

“I’ve been busy.” He reaches into his briefcase, takes out a foil strip of ibuprofen, and pops out a couple of tablets.

“No, you haven’t.” I bite my lip. “You’ve been punishing me.”

“Can you
blame
me?” Luke thrusts his hands through his hair. “This has been a hell of a week.”

“Then . . . let me help!” I say eagerly. I follow him into the kitchen, where he’s running water into a glass. “There must be something I could do. I could do research—”

“Please!” Luke interrupts, and swigs down his ibuprofen. “No more help. All your ‘help’ does is waste my bloody time. OK?”

I stare at him, my face burning. He must have looked at my ideas in the pink folder. He must have thought they were total rubbish.

“Right,” I say at last. “Well . . . I won’t bother anymore.”

“Please don’t.” He walks off into the study, and I can hear him opening desk drawers.

I want to say something else. Something witty and incisive which will prove him wrong. But I can’t think of it.

As I’m standing there, the blood thumping round my head, I hear the sound of the letter box. I go into the hall, where a package is lying on the doormat. It’s a slim Jiffy bag for Luke, with a smudged postmark. I pick it up and stare at the handwriting, written in black marker pen. It looks kind of familiar—except it’s not.

“You’ve got a parcel,” I say.

Luke comes out of the study, holding a pile of files, and dumps them in his briefcase. He takes the package from me, rips it open, and pulls out a compact disc, together with a letter.

“Ah!” he exclaims, sounding more pleased than he has all week. “Excellent.”

“Who’s it from?”

“Your sister,” says Luke.

I feel like he’s hit me in the solar plexus.

My sister?
Jess?
My eyes drop down to the package in disbelief. That’s Jess’s handwriting?

“Why . . .” I’m trying to keep my voice calm. “Why is Jess writing to you?”

“She’s edited that CD for us.” He scans to the bottom of the page. “She really is a total star. She’s better than our own IT guys. And you know, she wouldn’t take any payment. I
must
send her some flowers.”

His voice is all warm and appreciative, and his eyes are glowing. Suddenly there’s a huge lump in my throat.

He thinks Jess is fab, doesn’t he? Jess is fab . . . and I’m crap.

“So Jess has been a help to you, has she?” I say, my voice trembling.

“Yes. To be honest, she has.”

“I suppose you’d rather she was here than me. I suppose you’d rather we swapped places.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Luke folds up the letter and pops it back in the Jiffy bag.

“If you think Jess is so great, why don’t you just go and live with her?” I can’t seem to control the words—they escape in an avalanche. “Why don’t you just go and . . . and talk about computers together?”

“Becky, calm down,” says Luke, clearly amazed.

But I can’t calm down.

“It’s OK! You can be honest! If you prefer a miserable skinflint with zero dress sense and zero sense of humor to me . . . just say so! Maybe you should marry her if she’s so great! I’m
sure
you’d have a wonderful time together. . . .”

“Becky!” Luke cuts me off with a look which chills me to the marrow. “Just stop right there.”

I don’t dare move a muscle. I feel like we’ve plunged to some new, scary place in our relationship.

“I know you didn’t get along with Jess,” he says at last. “But you should know this. Your sister is a good person. She’s honest, reliable, and hardworking. She spent hours on this for us.” He taps the disc. “She volunteered to do it herself, and she didn’t ask for any pay or any thanks. I would say she’s a truly selfless person.” He takes a few steps toward me, his expression unrelenting. “You could learn a lot from your sister.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing will come out. I feel quite hollow with fear. Right now there’s nothing in Luke’s face to say he’s my husband and he loves me.

“I have to go.” Luke looks at his watch. “I’ll get my stuff.”

He strides out of the kitchen. But I can’t move from the spot.

“I’m off.” Luke reappears at the kitchen door holding his case. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“Luke . . . I’m sorry.” At last I’ve found my voice, even if it is all shaky. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you.” I raise my head, trying to keep a grip on myself. “But if you really want to know . . . you’ve been a disappointment to me too. You’ve changed. You were fun on our honeymoon. You were fun and you were laid-back and you were kind. . . .”

Suddenly I have a memory of Luke as he was. Sitting on his yoga mat with his bleached plaits and his earring. Smiling at me in the Sri Lankan sunshine. Reaching over to take my hand.

I feel an unbearable yearning for that easy, happy man, who bears no resemblance to the stressed corporate animal standing in front of me.

“You’re different.” The words come out in a sob and I can feel a tear trickling down my cheek. “You’ve gone back to the way you used to be before. The way you promised you’d never be again.” I wipe away the tear roughly. “This isn’t what I thought married life would be like, Luke.”

“Nor me,” says Luke. There’s a familiar wryness to his voice, but he isn’t smiling. “I have to go. Bye, Becky.”

A few moments later I hear the front door slam.

I sink down onto the floor and bury my face in my knees. And he didn’t even kiss me goodbye.

For a while I don’t move. I just sit there in the hall, hugging my knees. Our marriage is in tatters. And it hasn’t even been a year.

At last I rouse myself and get stiffly to my feet. I feel numb and spaced-out. Slowly I walk into the silent, empty dining room, where our carved wooden table from Sri Lanka is standing proudly in the middle of the room.

The sight of it makes me want to cry all over again. I had such dreams for that table. I had such dreams of what our married life was going to be like. All the visions are piling back into my head: the glow of candlelight, me ladling out hearty stew, Luke smiling at me lovingly, all our friends gathered round the table. . . .

Suddenly I feel an overwhelming, almost physical longing. I have to talk to Suze. I have to hear her sympathetic voice. She’ll know what to do. She always does.

I hurry, almost running, to the phone and jab in the number.

“Hello?” It’s answered by a high-pitched woman’s voice—but it’s not Suze.

“Hi!” I say, taken aback. “It’s Becky here. Is that—”

“It’s Lulu speaking! Hi, Becky! How are you?”

Her abrasive voice is like sandpaper on my nerves.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Is Suze there, by any chance?”

“She’s just putting the twins into their car seats, actually! We’re off for a picnic, to Marsham House. Do you know it?”

“Er . . .” I rub my face. “No. I don’t.”

“Oh, you should definitely visit it! Cosmo! Sweetie! Not on your Petit Bateau overalls! It’s a super National Trust house. And wonderful for the children, too. There’s a butterfly farm!”

“Right,” I manage. “Great.”

“I’ll get her to call back in two secs, OK?”

“Thanks,” I say in relief. “That would be great. Just tell her . . . I really need to talk to her.”

I wander over to the window, press my face against the glass, and stare down at the passing traffic below. The traffic light at the corner turns red and all the cars come to a halt. It turns green again and they all zoom off in a tearing hurry. Then they turn red again—and a new set of cars come to a stop.

Suze hasn’t called. It’s been more than two secs.

She isn’t going to call. She lives in a different world now. A world of Petit Bateau overalls and picnics and butterfly farms. There’s no room for me and my stupid problems.

My head feels thick and heavy with disappointment. I know Suze and I haven’t been getting on that well recently. But I thought . . . I honestly thought . . .

Maybe I could call Danny. Except . . . I’ve left about six messages for him and he’s never returned any of them.

Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to pull myself together on my own.

What I will do is . . . I will make myself a cup of tea. Yes. And take it from there. With as much determination as I can muster I walk to the kitchen. I flick on the kettle, drop a tea bag in a mug, and open the fridge.

No milk.

For an instant I feel like falling to the floor again and crying till nightfall. But instead I take a deep breath and lift my chin. Fine. I’ll go and buy some milk. And stock up generally. It’ll be good to get some fresh air and take my mind off things.

I pick up my Angel bag, slick on some lip gloss, and head out of the apartment. I walk briskly out the gates and down the street, past the weird shop with all the gold furniture, and into the delicatessen on the corner.

The moment I get inside I start to feel a bit more steady. It’s so warm and soothing in here, with the most delicious smell of coffee and cheese and whichever soup they’re cooking that day. All the assistants wear long striped ticking aprons, and look like they’re genuine French cheese-makers.

I pick up a wicker basket, head to the milk counter, and load in a couple of pints of organic semi-skimmed. Then my eye falls on a pot of luxury Greek yogurt. Maybe I’ll buy myself a few little treats to cheer myself up. I put the yogurt into my basket, along with some individual chocolate mousses. Then I reach for a gorgeous handblown glass jar of gourmet brandied cherries.

That’s a waste of money,
a voice intones in my head.
You don’t even like brandied cherries.

It sounds a bit like Jess’s. Weird. And anyway, I
do
like brandied cherries. Kind of.

I shake my head irritably and thrust the jar into my basket, then move along to the next display and reach for a mini olive-and-anchovy focaccia pizza.

Overpriced rubbish,
comes the voice in my head.
You could make it yourself at home for 20p.