Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (25 page)

Pizza on the Park.

Tarquin’s taking me to Pizza Express. I don’t believe it. The fifteenth richest man in the country is taking me to bloody Pizza Express.

“ … pizza,” I finish weakly. “Love the stuff.”

“Oh good!” says Tarquin. “I thought we probably didn’t want anywhere too flashy.”

“Oh no.” I pull what I think is a very convincing face. “I hate flashy places. Much better to have a nice quiet pizza together.”

“That’s what I thought,” says Tarquin, turning to look at me. “But now I feel rather bad. You’ve dressed up so nicely …” He pauses doubtfully, gazing at my outfit. (As well he might. I didn’t go and spend a fortune in Whistles for Pizza Express.) “I mean, if you wanted to, we could go somewhere a bit smarter. The Lanesborough’s just around the corner …”

He raises his eyes questioningly, and I’m about to say “Oh, yes, please!” when suddenly, in a blinding flash, I realize what’s going on. This is a test, isn’t it? It’s like choosing out of three caskets in a fairy tale. Everyone knows the rules. You
never
choose the gold shiny one. Or even the quite impressive silver one. What you’re supposed to do is choose the dull little lead one, and then there’s a flash of light and it turns into a mountain of jewels. So this is it. Tarquin’s testing me, to see whether I like him for himself.

Which, frankly, I find rather insulting. I mean, who does he think I am?

“No, let’s stay here,” I say, and touch his arm briefly. “Much more relaxed. Much more … fun.”

Which is actually quite true. And I do like pizza. And that yummy garlic bread. Mmm. You know, now I come to think about it, this is quite a good choice.

As the waiter hands us our menus, I give a cursory flash down the list, but I already know what I want. It’s what I always have
when I go to Pizza Express—Fiorentina. The one with spinach and an egg. I know, it sounds weird, but honestly, it’s delicious.

“Would you like an aperitif?” says the waiter, and I’m about to say what I usually do, which is Oh, let’s just have a bottle of wine, when I think, Sod it, I’m having dinner with a multimillionaire here. I’m bloody well going to have a gin and tonic.

“A gin and tonic,” I say firmly, and look at Tarquin, daring him to look taken aback. But he grins at me and says, “Unless you wanted champagne?”

“Oh,” I say, completely thrown.

“I always think champagne and pizza is a good combination,” he says, and looks at the waiter. “A bottle of Moet, please.”

Well, this is more like it. This is a lot more like it. Champagne and pizza. And Tarquin is actually being quite normal.

The champagne arrives and we toast each other and take a few sips. I’m really starting to enjoy myself. Then I spot Tarquin’s bony hand edging slowly toward mine on the table. And in a reflex action—completely without meaning to—I whip my fingers away, pretending I have to scratch my ear. A flicker of disappointment passes over his face and I find myself giving a really fake, embarrassed cough and looking intently at a picture on the wall to my left.

I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I
can
be attracted to him. It’s just a matter of self-control and possibly also getting very drunk. So I lift my glass and take several huge gulps. I can feel the bubbles surging into my head, singing happily “I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife! I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife!” And when I look back at Tarquin, he already seems a bit more attractive (in a stoaty kind of way). Alcohol is obviously going to be the key to our marital happiness.

My head is filled with a happy vision of our wedding day. Me in some wonderful designer dress; my mum and dad looking on proudly. No more money troubles ever.
Ever
. The fifteenth richest man in the country. A house in Belgravia. Mrs. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Just imagining it, I feel almost faint with longing.

I smile as warmly as I can at Tarquin, who hesitates—then smiles back. Phew. I haven’t wrecked things. It’s all still on. Now we just need to discover that we’re utter soul mates with loads of things in common.

“I love the—” I say.

“Do you—”

We both speak at once.

“Sorry,” I say. “Do carry on.”

“No,
you
carry on,” says Tarquin.

“Oh,” I say. “Well … I was just going to say again how much I love the picture you gave Suze.” No harm in complimenting his taste again. “I
love
horses,” I add for good measure.

“Then we should go riding together,” says Tarquin. “I know a very good livery near Hyde Park. Not quite the same as in the country, of course …”

“What a wonderful idea!” I say. “That would be such fun!”

There’s no way anyone’s getting me on a horse. Not even in Hyde Park. But that’s OK, I’ll just go along with the plan and then, on the day, say I’ve twisted my ankle or something.

“Do you like dogs?” asks Tarquin.

“I love dogs,” I say confidently.

Which is sort of true. I wouldn’t actually like to
have
a dog—too much hard work and hairs everywhere. But I like seeing Labradors running across the park. And cute little puppies. That kind of thing.

We lapse into silence, and I take a few sips of champagne.

“Do you like
EastEnders
?” I ask eventually. “Or are you a … a
Coronation Street
person?”

“I’ve never watched either, I’m afraid,” says Tarquin apologetically. “I’m sure they’re very good.”

“Well … they’re OK,” I say. “Sometimes they’re really good, and other times …” I tail off a bit feebly, and smile at him. “You know.”

“Absolutely,” exclaims Tarquin, as though I’ve said something really interesting.

There’s another awkward silence. This is getting a bit sticky.

“Are there good shops, where you live in Scotland?” I say at last. Tarquin pulls a little face.

“I wouldn’t know. Never go near shops if I can help it.”

“Oh right,” I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. “No, I … I hate shops, too. Can’t
stand
shopping.”

“Really?” says Tarquin in surprise. “I thought all girls loved shopping.”

“Not me!” I say. “I’d far rather be … out on the moors, riding along. With a couple of dogs running behind.”

“Sounds perfect,” says Tarquin, smiling at me. “We’ll have to do it sometime.”

This is more like it! Common interests. Shared pursuits.

And OK, maybe I haven’t been completely honest, maybe they aren’t exactly my interests at the moment. But they could be. They
can
be. I can easily get to like dogs and horses, if I have to.

“Or … or listening to Wagner, of course,” I say casually.

“Do you really like Wagner?” says Tarquin. “Not everyone does.”

“I
adore
Wagner,” I insist. “He’s my favorite composer.” OK, quick—what did that book say? “I love the … er … sonorous melodic strands which interweave in the Prelude.”

“The Prelude to what?” says Tarquin interestedly.

Oh shit. Is there more than one Prelude? I take a gulp of champagne, playing for time, desperately trying to recall something else from the book. But the only other bit I can remember is “Richard Wagner was born in Leipzig.”

“All the Preludes,” I say at last. “I think they’re all … fab.”

“Right,” says Tarquin, looking a bit surprised.

Oh God. That wasn’t the right thing to say, was it? Change the subject. Change the subject.

Luckily, at that moment, a waiter arrives with our garlic bread, and we can get off the subject of Wagner. And Tarquin orders some more champagne. Somehow, I think we’re going to need it.

Which means that by the time I’m halfway through my Fiorentina, I’ve drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and I’m … Well, frankly, I’m completely pissed. My face is tingling and my eyes are sparkling, and my arm gestures are a lot more erratic than usual. But this doesn’t matter. In fact, being pissed is a
good
thing—because it means I’m also delightfully witty and lively and am more-or-less carrying the conversation single-handedly. Tarquin is also pissed, but not as much as me. He’s got quieter and quieter, and kind of thoughtful. And he keeps gazing at me.

As I finish my last scraps of pizza and lean back pleasurably, he stares at me silently for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and produces a little box.

“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

I have to admit, for one heart-stopping moment I think, This is it! He’s proposing!

But of course, he’s not proposing, is he? He’s just giving me a little present.

I knew that.

So I open it, and find a leather box, and inside is a little gold brooch in the shape of a horse. Lots of fine detail; beautifully crafted. A little green stone (emerald?) for the eye.

Really
not my kind of thing.

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe in awe. “Absolutely … stunning.”

“It’s rather jolly, isn’t it?” says Tarquin. “Thought you’d like it.”

“I
adore
it.” I turn it over in my fingers then look up at him and blink a couple of times with misty eyes. God, I’m drunk. I think I’m actually
seeing
through champagne. “This is so thoughtful of you,” I murmur.

Plus, I don’t really wear brooches. I mean, where are you supposed to put them? Slap bang in the middle of a really nice top? I mean, come on. And they always leave great brooch-holes everywhere.

“It’ll look lovely on you,” says Tarquin after a pause—and suddenly I realize he’s expecting me to put it on.

Aaargh! It’ll ruin my lovely Whistles dress! And who wants a horse galloping across their tits, anyway!

“I
must
put it on,” I say, and open the clasp. Gingerly, I thread it through the fabric of my dress and clasp it shut, already feeling it pull the dress out of shape.

“It looks wonderful,” says Tarquin, meeting my gaze. “But then … you always look wonderful.”

I feel a dart of apprehension as I see him leaning forward. He’s going to try and hold my hand again, isn’t he? And probably kiss me. I glance at Tarquin’s lips—parted and slightly moist—and give an involuntary shudder. Oh God. I’m not quite ready for this. I mean, obviously I
do
want to kiss Tarquin, of course I do. In fact, I find him incredibly attractive. It’s just … I think I need some more champagne first.

“That scarf you were wearing the other night,” says Tarquin. “It was simply stunning. I looked at you in that, and I thought …”

Now I can see his hand edging toward mine.

“My Denny and George scarf!” I cut in brightly, before he can say anything else. “Yes, that’s lovely, isn’t it? It was my aunt’s, but she died. It was really sad, actually.”

Just keep talking, I think. Keep talking brightly and gesture a lot.

“But anyway, she left me her scarf,” I continue hurriedly. “So I’ll always remember her through that. Poor Aunt Ermintrude.”

“I’m really sorry,” says Tarquin, looking taken aback. “I had no idea.”

“No. Well … her memory lives on through her good works,” I say, and give him a little smile. “She was a very charitable woman. Very … giving.”

“Is there some sort of foundation in her name?” says Tarquin. “When my uncle died—”

“Yes!” I say gratefully. “Exactly that. The … the Ermintrude Bloomwood Foundation for … violinists,” I improvise, catching
sight of a poster for a musical evening. “Violinists in Mozambique. That was her cause.”

“Violinists in Mozambique?” echoes Tarquin.

“Oh, absolutely!” I hear myself babbling. “There’s a desperate shortage of classical musicians out there. And culture is so enriching, whatever one’s material circumstances.”

I can’t
believe
I’m coming out with all this rubbish. I glance apprehensively up at Tarquin—and to my complete disbelief, he looks really interested.

“So, what exactly is the foundation aiming to do?” he asks.

What am I getting myself into here?

“To … to fund six violin teachers a year,” I say after a pause. “Of course, they need specialist training, and special violins to take out there. But the results will be very worthwhile. They’re going to teach people how to make violins, too, so they’ll be self-sufficient and not dependent on the West.”

“Really?” Tarquin’s brow is furrowed. Have I said something that doesn’t make sense?

“Anyway,” I give a little laugh. “That’s enough about me and my family. Have you seen any good films recently?”

This is good. We can talk about films, and then the bill will come, and then …

“Wait a moment,” says Tarquin. “Tell me—how’s the project going so far?”

“Oh,” I say. “Ahm … quite well. Considering. I haven’t really kept up with its progress recently. You know, these things are always—”

“I’d really like to contribute something,” he says, interrupting me.

What?

He’d like to
what?

“Do you know who I should make the check payable to?” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Is it the Bloomwood Foundation?”

And as I watch, paralyzed in astonishment, he brings out a Coutts checkbook.

A pale gray Coutts checkbook.

The fifteenth richest man in the country.

“I’m … I’m not sure,” I hear myself say, as though from a great distance. “I’m not sure of the
exact
wording.”