Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (165 page)

“Isn’t it great?” I nod again. “Macho, but kind of elegant. And unusual!”

Elinor looks like she’s going to explode. Or implode.

“I will not have this!” she suddenly erupts, rising to her feet. “Tattooing! These names! You’re…irresponsible beyond—”

“‘Irresponsible’?” I interrupt in disbelief. “Are you serious? Well, at least we’re not planning to
abandon
—” I stop abruptly, feeling like the words are too hot for my mouth. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to launch a full-blown attack on Elinor. I haven’t got the energy, for a start. And anyway…I feel distracted. All of a sudden my head is buzzing with thoughts.

“Rebecca.” Elinor approaches the bed, her eyes snapping. “I have no idea if you’re being frank with me—”

“Shut up!” I lift a hand, not caring if I’m rude. I have to concentrate. I have to think this through. I’m suddenly starting to see things clearly, like a tune falling into place.

Elinor walked out on Luke. Now Luke’s walking out on our baby. It’s history repeating itself. Does Luke
realize
this? If he just saw it…if he just understood what he was doing…

“Rebecca!”

I look up, as though out of a daze. Elinor looks like she wants to pop with exasperation.

“Oh, Elinor…I’m sorry,” I say, all rancor gone. “It was lovely of you to come by, but I’m a bit tired now. Please drop round for tea sometime.”

Elinor looks like the wind has been taken out of her sails. I think she was probably squaring up for a fight too.

“Very well,” she says frostily. “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Here are the details of my exhibition.”

She hands me an invitation for a private viewing, along with a glossy brochure entitled “The Elinor Sherman Collection.” It’s illustrated with a photograph of an elegant white plinth, on top of which is resting another, smaller white plinth.

God, I don’t understand modern art.

“Thanks,” I say, eyeing it dubiously. “We’ll be sure to make it. Thanks for coming. Have a nice day!”

Elinor gives me one last, narrowed look, then picks up her gloves and Kelly bag and strides out of the room. As soon as she’s gone, I bury my head in my hands, trying to think. Somehow I have to get through to Luke. He doesn’t want to do this. Deep in his heart, I know he doesn’t. I feel like he’s been lured away by the evil fairies and I just need to break the spell.

But how? What do I do? If I call him, he’ll brush me off and promise to call back later and never will. His e-mails are read by his secretaries…. It’s not exactly a subject for a text….

I have to write a letter.

It hits me like a thunderbolt. I have to write a letter, like in the old days before phone calls and e-mail. God, yes. I’ll compose the best letter I’ve ever written in my life. I’ll explain all my feelings, and his. (He sometimes needs them explained to him.) I’ll put the case before him plainly.

I’m going to save our marriage. He doesn’t want a broken family—I know he doesn’t. I
know
he doesn’t.

A nurse is passing by the door, and I call out, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” She looks in with a smile.

“Would it be possible to get some writing paper?”

“There’s some in the hospital shop, or…” She frowns in thought. “One of my colleagues has some, I think. Just hang on a moment….”

A moment later she’s back, with a pad of Basildon Bond. “One sheet enough?”

“I may need more than that,” I say momentously. “Could I have…three?”

I cannot believe how much I’ve written to Luke. Once I started, I just couldn’t stop. I had no idea there was so much pent up inside me.

I started off talking about our wedding and how happy we were then. Then I talked about all the things we love to do together, and how much fun we’ve had and how excited we were when we discovered we were having a baby. Then I moved on to Venetia. I didn’t call her by name. I called her the Threat to Our Marriage. He’ll know what I’m talking about.

And now I’m on page seventeen (one of the nurses ran down and bought me my own pad of Basildon Bond) and I’m getting to the main bit. The plea to him to give our marriage another shot. Tears are running down my face, and I keep having to break off to snuffle into a tissue.

In our vows, you promised to love me forever. I know you think you don’t anymore. I know there are other women in this world, who are maybe cleverer and maybe can speak Latin. I know you’ve had an…

I can’t bring myself to write the word
affair
—I just can’t.

I’ll just put a dash, like they used to in old-fashioned books.

I know you’ve had an———. But it doesn’t have to ruin everything. I’m prepared to put the past behind us, Luke, because I believe above anything else that we belong together. You, me, and the baby.

We can be a happy family. I know we can. Please don’t give up on us. Maybe you’re secretly scared of parenthood, but we can do it together! Like you said, it’s the biggest adventure we’ll ever have.

I break off from writing to wipe my eyes. I need to finish this now. I need some way for him to show me…to answer…to let me know…

Suddenly it comes to me. We need a great big tall tower, just like in romantic movies. And we’ll meet at the top at midnight….

No. I get too tired by midnight. We’ll meet at the top at…six o’clock. The wind will be blowing and Gershwin will be playing and I’ll see from his eyes that he’s put Venetia behind him forever. And I’ll say simply, “Are you coming home?” And he’ll say—

“Are you OK, Becky?” The nurse pops her head round the door. “How’s it going?”

“Nearly finished.” I blow my nose. “Where’s a tall tower in London? If I wanted to meet someone.”

“Dunno.” The nurse wrinkles her nose. “The Oxo Tower’s pretty tall. I went there the other day. They’ve got a viewing platform and a restaurant….”

“Thanks!”

Luke, if you love me and want to save our marriage, meet me at the top of the Oxo Tower at six o’clock on Friday. I will be waiting at the viewing platform.

Your loving wife,

Becky.

I put my pen down, feeling totally drained, as though I’ve just composed a Beethoven symphony. All I have to do now is FedEx the letter to his Geneva office…and then just wait till Friday night.

I fold the seventeen pages in half, and am trying unsuccessfully to cram them into the matching Basildon Bond envelope, when my mobile rings on the cabinet.

Luke! Oh my God. But he hasn’t read the letter yet!

With trembling hands I grab the phone, but it’s not Luke after all. It’s a number I don’t recognize. It isn’t Elinor calling to lecture me, is it?

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Hello, Becky? It’s Martha here.”

“Oh.” I push my hair back off my face, trying to place the name. “Er…hi.”

“Just checking you’re still all set for the shoot on Friday?” she says chattily. “I can’t wait to see your house!”

Vogue
. Shit. I’d totally forgotten about it.

How could I forget about a
Vogue
photo shoot? God, my life must really be in pieces.

“So, is everything OK?” Martha’s voice is trilling gaily down the phone. “You haven’t had the baby yet, or anything?”

“Well, no…” I hesitate. “But I am in hospital.” As I say the words I realize I shouldn’t really have my mobile on in a hospital. But this is
Vogue
on the phone. There must be an exemption for
Vogue,
surely.

“Oh no!” Her voice falls in dismay. “You know, we’re having such bad luck with this piece! One of the yummy mummies had her twins early, which was
really
annoying, and the other has had pre-eclampy-something and is on bed rest! We can’t do the interview or anything! Are you on bed rest?”

“I…hang on a minute….”

I put the phone down on the bed, trying to galvanize my spirits. I have never felt less like having my picture taken in my life. I’m fat, I’m tear-stained, my hair is terrible, my marriage is crumbling away…. I give a deep, shuddery sigh, and then catch sight of my blurry reflection in a nearby glass-fronted cupboard. Hunched over, head drooping. I look defeated. I look
awful.

In an immediate reflex action I sit up straighter. What am I saying? Is my
life
over too? Just because my husband had an affair?

No way. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I’m not going to give up. Maybe my life
is
in pieces. But I can still be yummy. I’ll be the yummiest bloody mummy-to-be they’ve ever seen.

I lift the phone to my ear again. “Hi, Martha?” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Sorry about that. It’s all fine for the shoot on Friday. I’m coming out of hospital today, so I’ll be there!”

“Great!” I can hear the relief in Martha’s voice. “Can’t wait! It’ll only take two or three hours, and I promise we won’t exhaust you! I’m sure you have lots of lovely clothes, but our stylist will bring along some pieces too…. Now let me just check your address. You live at thirty-three Delamain Road?”

I never got that stuff for Fabia, it suddenly occurs to me. But I’ve still got time. It’ll be fine.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Lucky thing, those houses are amazing! We’ll see you there then, eleven o’clock.”

“See you then!”

I switch off the phone and breathe out hard. I’m going to be in
Vogue.
I’m going to be yummy. And I’m going to save my marriage.

FROM: Becky Brandon

TO: Fabia Paschali

SUBJECT: Tomorrow

Hello, Fabia!

Just to confirm, I will be coming tomorrow with a Vogue crew and the shoot will last from around 11am till 3pm.

I have got the purple top and the Chloe bag, but unfortunately, although I’ve tried everywhere, I can’t locate the Olly Bricknell shoes you want. Is there anything else that you’d like?

Again, thanks so much and look forward to seeing you tomorrow!

Becky

FROM: Fabia Paschali

TO: Becky Brandon

SUBJECT: Re: Tomorrow

Becky,

No shoes, no house.

Fabia

KENNETH PRENDERGAST

Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers

Forward House

394 High Holborn

London WC1V 7EX

Mrs. R Brandon

37 Maida Vale Mansions

Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

26 November 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

I have noted your new shareholdings in Sweet Confectionary, Inc., Estelle Rodin Cosmetics, and The Urban Spa plc. I cannot, however, agree that these are the “best investments in the world.”

Please let me reiterate. Free chocolates, samples of perfume, and discount spa treatments—while pleasant—are no sound basis for investment. I urge you to reconsider your current investment strategy and would be pleased to advise you further.

Yours sincerely,

Kenneth Prendergast

Family Investment Specialist

SEVENTEEN

THESE BLOODY, BLOODY SHOES. There is not a single pair of them left in London. Especially not in green. No wonder Fabia wants them, they’re like the Holy Grail or something, except there aren’t even any clues in paintings. I spent yesterday trying all my contacts, every supplier I know, every shop,
everywhere
. I even called my old colleague Erin at Barneys in New York and she just laughed pityingly.

In the end, Danny stepped in to help. He made some calls around and finally tracked down a pair to a model he knows who is on a shoot in Paris. In return for a sample jacket, she gave them to a friend who was coming over to London last night. He met up with Danny and now he’s going to deliver them to me.

That’s the plan. But he isn’t here yet. And it’s already five past ten and I’m starting to panic. I’m standing on the corner of Delamain Road, dressed in my yummiest outfit of red print wrap dress, Prada heels, and a vintage-style fake fur stole, and all the cars keep slowing down to look. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best place to meet. I must look like some eight months’ pregnant hooker for pervy people.

I take out my phone and, yet again, redial Danny’s number.
“Danny?”

“We’re here! We’re coming. We’re just driving over a bridge…whoa!”

Danny was supposed to be dropping the shoes round last night—only he went off clubbing instead, with some photographer he met on holiday. (Don’t ask. He started to tell me about the night they spent together in Marrakech, and honestly, I had to put my hands over the baby’s ears.) He’s shrieking with laughter, and I can hear the roar of his friend’s Harley-Davidson. How can he be having fun? Doesn’t he know how stressed out I am?

I’ve barely slept since Luke has been gone. And when I
did
get to sleep last night, I had the most awful dream. I dreamed I went to the top of the Oxo Tower, but Luke didn’t show up. I stood for hours in the wind and gale and rain pouring down on me and then at last Luke appeared, but he’d somehow turned into Elinor and she started yelling at me. And then all my hair fell off….

“Excuse me!”

A woman holding two small children by the hand is approaching, and giving me an odd look.

“Oh. Sorry.” I come to, and move out of the way.

In real life, I haven’t spoken to Luke since he left. He’s tried to call several times, but I just sent short texts back saying sorry I missed him and everything’s OK. I didn’t want to talk to him until he’d read my letter—which only happened last night, according to the tracking system. Somebody at the Geneva office signed for it at 6:11 p.m., so he must have read it by now.

The die is cast. By six o’clock tonight I’ll know, one way or another. Either he’ll be there, waiting for me, or…

Nausea rises through me and I shake my head briskly. I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to get through this shoot first. I take a bite of a Kit Kat for energy, and glance down again at the printed page that Martha e-mailed me. It’s an interview with one of the other yummy mummies-to-be from the article, which Martha said would “give me an idea.” The other yummy is called Amelia Gordon-Barraclough. She’s posing in a vast Kensington nursery wearing a beaded kaftan and about fifty-nine bracelets, and all her quotes sound totally smug.

“We commissioned all our nursery furniture from artisans in Provence
.
”

Well. Huh. I’ll say we got all ours from artisans in…outer Mongolia. No, we
sourced
it. People in glossy magazines never just buy something from a shop, they source it, or discover it in a junkyard, or get left it by their famous designer godmother.

“My husband and I do couples’ yoga together twice a day in our ‘retreat room.’ We feel it creates harmony in our relationship.”

With a pang, I have a sudden memory of Luke and me doing couples’ yoga on our honeymoon.

At least, we were doing yoga, and we were a couple.

A lump is rising in my throat. No. Stop it. Think confident. Think yummy. I’ll say that Luke and I do something much
cooler
than yoga. Like that thing I read about the other day. Qi-something.

My thoughts are broken by the roar of a motorbike, and I look up to see a Harley speeding along the quiet residential street.

“Hi!” I wave my arms. “Here!”

“Hey, Becky!” The motorbike comes to a throbbing halt beside me. Danny pulls off a motorbike helmet and leaps off the back, a shoe box in his hand. “There you go!”

“Oh, Danny, thanks.” I give him an enormous hug. “You saved my life.”

“No problem!” Danny says, getting back on the bike. “Let me know how it goes! This is Zane, by the way.”

“Hi!” I wave at Zane, who is in leathers from head to foot and raises a hand in greeting. “Thanks for the delivery!”

The motorbike zooms off again. I take hold of the handle of my suitcase, which is filled with spare outfits and props, and pick up the armful of flowers I bought this morning to make the house look nice. I head toward number thirty-three, somehow manhandle the case up the steps, and ring the doorbell. There’s no answer.

After a pause I ring again and call “Fabia!” But there’s still no reply.

She can’t have forgotten it’s this morning.

“Fabia! Can you hear me?” I beat on the door.
“Fa-bi-a!”

There’s dead silence. No one’s there. I feel a beat of panic. What am I going to do?
Vogue
will be here any—

“Cooee! Hello there!” A voice from the street heralds me and I turn to see a girl leaning out of the window of a Mini Cooper. She’s skinny, has glossy hair, a Kabbala bracelet, and a huge engagement rock. She has to be from
Vogue
.

“Are you Becky?” she calls.

“Yes!” I force a bright smile. “Hi! Are you Martha?”

“That’s right!” Her eyes are running up and down the storys. “You’ve got a
gorgeous
house! I can’t wait to see inside!”

“Oh. Er…thanks!”

There’s an expectant pause and I lean casually against one of the pillars. Like I’m just hanging out on my front steps. Like people do.

“Everything all right?” asks Martha, looking puzzled.

“Fine!” I attempt an easy gesture. “Just you know…enjoying the air…”

I’m thinking frantically. Maybe we could do the whole shoot out here on the steps. Yes. I could say the front door is the best feature of the house and the rest of it isn’t worth bothering with….

“Becky, have you lost your key?” says Martha, still looking puzzled.

Genius.
Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Yes! Silly me!” I hit myself on the head. “And none of the neighbors have got one, and there’s no one in….”

“Oh no!” Martha’s face falls.

“I know.” I give a regretful shrug. “I’m really sorry. But if we can’t get in…”

As I say the words, the front door opens and I nearly fall into the house. Fabia has appeared, rubbing her eyes and wearing an orange Marni dress.

“Hi, Becky.” She sounds so
drifty
. Like she’s on tranquilizers or something.

“Wow!” Martha’s face lights up. “Someone
was
in! How lucky! Who’s this?”

“This is Fabia. Our…lodger.”

“Lodger?”
Fabia wrinkles her nose.

“Lodger and good friend,” I amend hastily, putting an arm round her. “We’re very close….”

Thank God, down on the street a car has pulled up behind the Mini and is starting to hoot.

“Oh, shut up!” says Martha. “Becky, we’re just going to get some coffees. Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks! I’ll just wait here at home. At my home.” I put a proprietorial hand on the doorknob. “See you soon!”

I watch the car disappear, then wheel round to Fabia. “I thought you weren’t in! OK, we need to get going. I’ve got the stuff for you. Here’s the bag, and the top….” I hand her the carriers.

“Great.” Her eyes focus on them greedily. “Did you get the shoes?”

“Of course!” I say. “My friend Danny got a model to bring them over from Paris. Danny Kovitz, the designer?”

As I produce the box, I feel a dart of triumph. No one else in the world can get hold of these. I am
so
connected. I wait for Fabia to gasp or say, “You’re incredible!” Instead she opens the shoe box, peers at them for a few moments, then wrinkles her brow.

“These are the wrong color.” She puts the lid back on and pushes them toward me. “I wanted green.”

Is she color-blind? They’re the most gorgeous shade of pale sage green, plus they have
Green
printed in big letters on the box.

“Fabia, these
are
green.”

“I wanted more of a…” She waves an arm. “Bluey-green.”

I’m trying really hard to keep my patience. “Do you mean…turquoise?”

“Yeah!” Her face brightens. “Turquoise. That’s what I meant. These ones are too pale.”

I do not believe it. These shoes have traveled all the way from Paris via a fashion model and a world-famous designer and she doesn’t want them?

Well, I’ll have them.

“Fine,” I say, and take the box back. “I’ll get you the turquoise pair. But I really need to get into the house….”

“I don’t know.” Fabia leans against the door frame and examines a drawn thread on her sleeve. “It’s not that convenient, to be honest.”

Not convenient? It has to be convenient!

“But we agreed on today, remember? The people from
Vogue
are already here!”

“Couldn’t you put them off?”

“You don’t put
Vogue
off!” My voice rises in agitation. “They’re
Vogue
!”

She gives one of her careless shrugs, and all of a sudden I’m livid. She knew I was coming. It was all planned. She can’t do this to me!

“Fabia.” I lean close, breathing hard. “You are not wrecking my only chance to be in
Vogue.
I got you the top. I got you the bag. I got you the shoes! You have to let me into this house, or…or…”

“Or
what
?” says Fabia.

“Or…I’ll phone up Barneys and get you blacklisted!” I hiss in sudden inspiration. “That won’t be much fun if you’re living in New York, will it?”

Fabia turns pale. Ha. Gotcha.

“Well, where am I supposed to go?” she says sulkily, taking her arm off the door frame.

“I don’t know! Go and have a hot-stone massage or something! Just get out!” I shove my suitcase into the house and push past her into the hall.

Right. I have to be quick. I snap open my case, take out a silver-framed picture of me and Luke at our wedding and put it prominently on the hall table. There. It looks like my house already!

“Where is your husband, anyway?” says Fabia, watching me with folded arms. “Shouldn’t he be doing this too? You look like some kind of single mother.”

Her words hit me unawares. For a few seconds I don’t trust myself to answer.

“Luke’s…abroad,” I say at last. “But I’m meeting him later on. At six o’clock. At the viewing platform at the Oxo Tower. He’ll be there.” I take a deep breath. “I know he will.”

There’s a hotness in my eyes and I blink fiercely. I’m not going to disintegrate.

“Are you all right?” Fabia stares at me.

“It’s just…quite an important day for me.” I get out a tissue and dab my eyes. “Could I have a glass of water?”

“Jesus.” I can hear Fabia muttering as she heads toward the kitchen. “It’s only bloody
Vogue
.”

OK. I’m getting there. Twenty minutes have passed, Fabia has finally gone, and the house is really feeling as though it’s mine. I’ve taken down all Fabia’s photographs and replaced them with ones of me and my family. I’ve put
B
and
L
initial cushions on the sofa in the living room. I’ve arranged flowers in vases everywhere. I’ve memorized the contents of the kitchen cupboards and even planted some Post-it notes on the fridge, saying things like “We need more organic quinoa, darling” and “Luke—remember Couples’ Qi-gong on Saturday!”

Now I’m hastily decanting some of my own shoes into Fabia’s shoe cupboard, because they’re bound to ask me about my accessories. I’m just counting how many pairs of Jimmy Choos there are, when the doorbell suddenly rings, and I jump in a flurry of panic. I shove the rest of the shoes into the cupboard, check my reflection, and head down the stairs with trembling legs.

This is it! All my
life
I’ve wanted to itemize my clothes in a magazine!

As I reach the hall I do a quick recap in my head. Dress: Diane von Furstenburg. Shoes: Prada. Tights: Topshop. Earrings: present from Mum.

No, that’s not cool enough. I’ll call them…model’s own. No,
vintage
. I’ll say I found them sewn into a 1930s corset which I bought from an old atelier in a backstreet in Paris. Perfect.

I swing open the front door, plastering a bright smile on my face—and freeze.

It’s not
Vogue
. It’s Luke.

He’s wearing an overcoat and holding an overnight case and it looks like he didn’t shave this morning.

“What the hell is this?” he says with no preamble, lifting up my letter.

I stare back at him, dumbstruck. This isn’t right. He’s supposed to be at the Oxo Tower looking all romantic and loving. Not here on the doorstep, disheveled and moody.

“I…” I swallow. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I
doing
here?” he echoes incredulously. “I’m reacting to this! You didn’t answer any of my calls, I had no bloody idea what was going on…. ‘Meet me at the top of the Oxo Tower.’” He shakes the letter at me. “What
is
all this crap?”

Crap?

“It’s not crap!” I cry, stung. “I was trying to save our marriage, in case you hadn’t realized—”

“Save our marriage?” He stares at me. “At the Oxo Tower?”

“It works in films! You were supposed to turn up, and it was all supposed to be lovely, like in
Sleepless in Seattle.
…”

My voice is thickening with disappointment. I
so
thought it was going to work. I
so
thought he was going to be there, and we’d run into each other’s arms, and be a happy family again.

“OK, I’m obviously missing something.” Luke is frowning down at the letter again. “This letter doesn’t even make
sense.
‘I know you had an———’ Blank. What did I have? An embolism?”