Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (88 page)

“Oh, right. What sort of—”

“Kitchenware, flatware, hollowware, barware, stemware, glassware . . .” He pauses for breath. “And miscellaneous.”

“Right . . .”

“It can be a little overwhelming, deciding what you’re going to want in your new home.” He smiles at me. “So what I suggest is, you start with the basics. Think about your everyday needs—and work up from there. If you need me, just give me a shout!”

“Great! Thanks very much!”

Bud moves away and I look around the store with a fizz of anticipation. I haven’t been so excited since I used to write out lists for Father Christmas. And even then, Mum would stand over my shoulder, saying things like “I’m not sure Father Christmas can give you the
real
ruby slippers, darling. Why not ask for a nice coloring book instead?”

Now, no one’s telling me what I can or can’t have. I can write down anything I like! I can ask for those plates over there . . . and that jug . . . and that chair . . . I mean, if I wanted to, I could ask for everything! The whole shop!

You know. In theory.

But I’m not going to get carried away. I’ll start with everyday needs, just as Bud suggested. Feeling pleasantly grown-up, I wander toward a display of kitchen equipment and start perusing the shelves.

Ooh. Lobster crackers! Let’s get some of those. And those cute little corn holders. And those sweet little plastic daisies. I don’t know what they’re for, but they look so gorgeous!

I note the numbers carefully down on my list. OK. What else? As I look around again, my attention is caught by a gleaming array of chrome.

Wow. We just have to have a frozen yogurt maker. And a waffle maker. And a bread cooker, and a juicer, and a Pro Chef Premium Toaster Oven. I write down all the numbers and look around with a sigh of satisfaction. Why on earth have I never registered before? Shopping without spending any money!

You know, I should have got married a long time ago.

“Excuse me?” The girl with the ponytail is over in the knife section. “Do you know what poultry shears are?” She holds up a piece of equipment I’ve never seen before in my life.

“They’re . . . shears for poultry . . . I guess . . .”

For a moment we stare at each other blankly, then the girl shrugs, says “OK,” and writes it down on her list.

Maybe I’ll get some poultry shears too. And one of those cool herb-chopper things. And a professional blowtorch for making crème brûlée.

Not that I’ve ever made crème brûlée—but you know. When I’m married, I’m bound to. I have a sudden vision of myself in an apron, nonchalantly brûléeing with one hand and drizzling a homemade fruit coulis with the other, while Luke and an assortment of witty guests look on admiringly.

“So where else are you registering?” says the girl, picking up an egg whisk and peering at it.

I look at her in surprise. “What do you mean? Are you allowed more than one list?”

“Of course! I’m having three. Here, Williams-Sonoma, and Bloomies. It’s really cool there, you scan everything on this gun—”

“Three lists!” I can’t keep the elation out of my voice.

And actually, when you think about it, why stop at three?

So by the time I arrive at Elinor’s apartment that evening I’ve made appointments to register at Tiffany, Bergdorf, Bloomingdale’s, and Barneys, ordered the Williams-Sonoma catalogue, and started an online wedding list.

I haven’t managed to think any more about where we’re going to get married—but then, first things first.

As Elinor opens the door, music is playing and the apartment smells pleasantly of flowers. Elinor’s wearing a wrap dress and her hair looks slightly softer than usual—and as she kisses me she gives my hand a little squeeze.

“Luke’s already here,” she says as we walk along the corridor. “That’s a pretty pair of shoes. Are they new?”

“Er, actually, they are. They’re Dolce and Gabbana! Thanks!” I can’t help gaping at her in astonishment. I’ve never known Elinor to compliment me before. Not once.

“You look like you’ve lost a little weight,” she adds. “It suits you.”

I’m so gobsmacked I stop, right in the middle of the doorway—then have to hurry to catch up. Is Elinor Sherman finally, after all this time, going to start making an effort to be nice to me? I can’t quite believe it.

But then . . . come to think of it, she was quite nice at the end of the engagement party too. She said it had been a mistake about me not being on the door list and that she was really sorry.

Actually no, she didn’t exactly say she was sorry—she said she would sue the party planners. But still. That shows concern, doesn’t it?

God, maybe Elinor has a hidden nice side, I find myself thinking. Maybe there’s a whole different persona under that icy exterior. Yes! She’s all vulnerable and insecure but she’s put up a protective shell around herself. And I’m the only one who can see beneath it, and when I coax the true Elinor into the world, all New York society will marvel, and Luke will love me even more, and people will call me The Girl Who Changed Elinor Sherman, and—

“Becky?” Luke’s voice penetrates my thoughts. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing with a start that I’m blundering into the coffee table. “Yes, I’m fine!”

I sit down next to him on the sofa, Elinor hands me a glass of icy-cold wine, and I sip it, gazing out the window over the glittering Manhattan lights stretching into the distance. Elinor and Luke are in the middle of some discussion about the foundation, and I nibble a salted almond and tune out. Somehow I’ve arrived in the middle of a dreamlike picture in which Elinor is saying to a crowded room, “Becky Bloomwood is not only a model daughter-in-law, but a valued friend,” and I’m smiling modestly as people start applauding, when there’s a snapping sound, and I come to, slightly spilling my drink.

Elinor has closed the crocodile notebook she’s been writing in. She puts it away, turns down the music slightly, and looks directly at me.

“Rebecca,” she says.

“Yes?”

“I asked you here tonight because there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” She refreshes my drink and I smile at her.

“Oh yes?”

“As you know, Luke is a very wealthy young man.”

“Oh. Right,” I say, a little embarrassed. “Well . . . yes, I suppose so.”

“I’ve been speaking with my lawyers . . . and with Luke’s lawyers . . . and we are all agreed. So if I could just give you this . . .” She gives me a glittering smile and hands over a thick white envelope—then hands another to Luke.

As I take it I feel a tingle of anticipation. You see? Elinor’s already becoming friendlier. This is just like
Dallas.
She’s probably making me an associate of some family company or something, to welcome me into the dynasty. God, yes! And I’ll get to go to board meetings and everything and we’ll mount some amazing takeover together and I’ll wear big earrings . . .

Excitedly, I open the envelope and pull out a thick, typed document. But as I read the words I can feel my excitement ebb away.

Memorandum of Agreement
Between Luke James Brandon (hereinafter called “The Groom”) and Rebecca Jane Bloomwood (hereinafter called “The Bride”) of—

I don’t get it. Memorandum of what agreement? Is this—

Surely this isn’t a—

I look bewilderedly at Luke, but he’s flipping over the pages, looking as taken aback as me.

“Mother, what’s this?” he says.

“It’s simply a precaution,” says Elinor with a distant smile. “A form of insurance.”

Oh my God. It is. It’s a prenuptial contract.

Feeling slightly sick, I flip through the contract. It’s about ten pages long, with headings like “Property Settlement in the Case of Divorce.”

“Insurance against what, exactly?” Luke’s voice is unreadable.

“Let’s not pretend we’re living in a fairy-tale world,” says Elinor crisply. “We all know what might happen.”

“What’s that, exactly?”

“Don’t be obstructive, Luke. You know perfectly well what I mean. And bearing in mind Rebecca’s . . . shall we say, history of spending?” She glances meaningfully at my shoes—and with a start of humiliation I realize why she asked me about them.

She wasn’t trying to be nice. She was gathering ammunition to attack me.

Oh, how could I be so
stupid
? There is no soft center to Elinor. It just doesn’t exist.

“Let me get this straight,” I say, breathing hard. “You think I’m just after Luke for his money.”

“Becky, of course she doesn’t,” exclaims Luke.

“Yes, she does!”

“A prenuptial contract is simply a sensible premarital step.”

“Well, it’s a step I really don’t think we need to take,” says Luke with a little laugh.

“I would beg to differ,” says Elinor. “I’m only trying to protect you. Both of you,” she adds unconvincingly.

“What do you think, I’m going to . . . divorce Luke and get all his money?”

Just like you did with your husbands, I’m about to add, but stop myself just in time. “You think that’s why I want to marry him?”

“Becky—”

“You may, of course, look the contract over in your own time—”

“I don’t need to look it over.”

“Do I take it you’re refusing to sign?” Elinor gives me a triumphant look as though I’ve confirmed every suspicion she had.

“No!” I say in a trembling voice. “I’m not refusing to sign! I’ll sign whatever you like! I’m not going to have you think I want Luke’s money!” I grab the pen off the table and furiously start scrawling my signature on the first page, so hard I rip the paper.

“Becky, don’t be stupid!” exclaims Luke. “Mother—”

“It’s fine! I’ll sign every single . . . bloody . . .”

My face is hot and my eyes a little blurry as I turn the pages, signing again and again without even looking at the text above.
Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca Bloomwood.

“Well, I’m not signing it,” says Luke. “I never wanted a prenup! And I’m certainly not going to sign something I’ve never seen before in my life.”

“There. Done.” I put down my pen and pick up my bag. “I think I’ll go now. Bye, Elinor.”

“Becky—” says Luke. “Mother, what on
earth
possessed you to do this?”

As I head out of Elinor’s apartment my head is still pounding. I wait for the lift for a few seconds—but when it doesn’t come, head for the stairs instead. I feel shaky with fury, with mortification. She thinks I’m a gold digger.

Is that what everyone thinks?

“Becky!” Luke is coming down the stairs after me, three at a time. “Becky, wait. I’m so sorry. I had no idea . . .” As we reach the ground floor he envelops me in his arms and I stand there rigidly.

“Believe me. That was as much of a shock for me as it was for you.”

“Well . . . you know . . . I think you should sign it,” I say, staring at the floor. “You should protect yourself. It’s only sensible.”

“Becky. This is me. This is
us.
” Gently he lifts my chin until I haven’t got anywhere to look except into his dark eyes. “I know you’re angry. Of course you are. But you have to excuse my mother. She’s lived in America a long time. Prenups are standard issue here. She didn’t mean—”

“She did,” I say, feeling a fresh surge of humiliation. “That’s exactly what she meant. She thinks I’ve got some plan to . . . to take all your money and spend the whole lot on shoes!”

“That’s not your plan?” Luke feigns shock. “You’re telling me this now? Well, if you’re going to change the ground rules, perhaps we
should
have a prenup—”

I give a half-smile—but I’m still raw inside.

“I know loads of people have prenups here,” I say. “I know that. But she shouldn’t just . . . draw one up without consulting either of us! Do you know how she made me feel?”

“I know.” Luke strokes my back soothingly. “I’m furious with her.”

“You’re not.”

“Of course I am.”

“No, you’re not! You’re never furious with her! That’s the trouble.” I break away from his arms, trying to keep calm.

“Becky?” Luke stares at me. “Is something else wrong?”

“It’s not just this. It’s . . . everything! The way she’s taken over the wedding. The way she was so supercilious and horrible with my parents . . .”

“She’s naturally a very formal person,” says Luke defensively. “It doesn’t mean she’s trying to be supercilious. If your parents really got to know her—”

“And the way she uses you!” I know I’m on dangerous ground—but now I’ve started, I can’t stop everything pouring out. “You’ve given her hours and hours of your time. You’ve provided staff for her charity. You’ve even fallen out with Michael because of her. I just don’t understand it! You
know
Michael cares about you. You
know
he’s only got your best interests at heart. But because of your mother, you’re not even talking to him.”

Luke’s face flinches, and I can see I’ve touched a nerve.

“And now she wants us to move to this building. Don’t you see? She just wants to get her claws into you! She’ll have you running errands for her all day long, and she’ll never leave us alone . . . Luke, you’re already giving her so much!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Luke’s expression is gradually becoming tighter. “She’s my mother.”

“I know she is! But come on. She was never even interested in you before you became a success over here. Remember our first trip to New York? You were so desperate to impress her—and she didn’t even make the effort to see you! But now that you’ve made it here, you’ve got a name, you’ve got contacts in the media, you’ve got resources—and all of a sudden she wants to get all the credit and just
use
you . . .”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true! You just can’t see it! You’re too dazzled by her!”

“Look, Becky, it’s easy for you to criticize,” says Luke hotly. “You have a fantastic relationship with your mother. I barely saw mine when I was growing up—”

“Exactly!” I cry, before I can stop myself. “That proves my point! She didn’t give a shit about you then either!”

Oh, bugger. I shouldn’t have said that. A flash of pain passes through Luke’s eyes and suddenly he looks about ten years old.

“You know that’s not true,” he says. “My mother wanted me. It wasn’t her fault.”