Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (91 page)

He looks at me—and just for an instant I think I can see deep inside him, to a part of him I rarely have access to. Softer and quieter and full of doubts like everyone else.

Then he blinks—and it’s as though he’s closed the camera shutter. Back into normal mode. Businesslike. Sure of himself.

“Anyway. I’m glad Michael and I were able to make up,” he says, taking a sip from the water bottle he’s carrying.

“Me too.”

“He saw my point of view in the end. The publicity that we’ll get through the foundation will benefit the company enormously. The fact that it’s my mother’s charity is largely irrelevant.”

“Yes,” I say reluctantly. “I suppose so.”

I really don’t want to get into a conversation about Luke’s mother right now, so I open the vows book again.

“Hey, here’s one in rhyme . . .”

As we arrive back at Penn Station, it’s crowded with people. Luke heads off to a rest room, and I head to a kiosk to buy a candy bar. I walk straight past a stand of newspapers—then stop. Hang on a minute. What was that?

I retrace my steps and stare at the
New York Post.
Right at the top, flagging an inside feature, is a little picture of Elinor.

I grab the paper and turn quickly to the inside page.

There’s a headline, “How to Fight Charity Fatigue.” Then there’s a picture of Elinor with a frosty smile, standing on the steps of some big building and handing over a check to some man in a suit. My eyes run puzzledly over the caption.
Elinor Sherman has battled against apathy to raise money for a cause she believes in.

Wasn’t the photo opportunity supposed to be for Luke?

I scan the piece quickly, searching for any mention of Brandon Communications. For any mention of Luke. But I get to the end of the page—and his name hasn’t appeared once. It’s as though he doesn’t figure at all.

I stare down at the page in disbelief.

After everything he’s done for her.
How
can she treat him like this?

“What’s that?”

I give a startled jump at Luke’s voice. For an instant I consider hiding the paper under my coat. But then, there’s no point, is there? He’ll see it sooner or later.

“Luke . . .” I hesitate—then swivel the page so he can see it.

“Is that my mother?” Luke looks astounded. “She never told me anything was set up. Let me have a look.”

“Luke . . .” I take a deep breath. “It doesn’t mention you anywhere. Or the company.”

I wince as I see him scanning the page; as I watch the sheer disbelief growing on his face. It’s been a hard enough day already, without discovering that his mother has completely screwed him.

“Didn’t she even tell you she was doing the interview?”

Luke doesn’t reply. He takes out his mobile, jabs in a number, and waits for a few moments. Then he makes a noise of frustration.

“I forgot. She’s gone back to Switzerland.”

I’d forgotten that too. She’s gone to “visit her friends” again, in time for the wedding. This time she’s staying for two whole months, which means she’s having the full works. She must have done the interview just before she left.

I try to take Luke’s hand, but he doesn’t respond. God knows what he’s thinking.

“Luke . . . maybe there’s some explanation—”

“Let’s forget it.”

“But—”

“Just forget it.” There’s an edge to his voice that makes me flinch. “It’s been a long, difficult day. Let’s just get home.”

I, REBECCA JANE BLOOMWOOD, do make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.

FIRST: I hereby revoke all former Wills and Codicils by me made.

SECOND: (a) I give and bequeath to SUSAN CLEATH-STUART my collection of shoes, all my jeans, my tan leather coat, all my makeup except the Chanel lipstick, my leather floor cube, my red Kate Spade handbag,
¹
my silver ring with the moonstone, and my painting of two elephants.

(b) I give and bequeath to my mother JANE BLOOMWOOD all my remaining handbags, my Chanel lipstick, all my jewelry, my Barneys white cotton duvet set, my waffle-weave dressing gown, my suede cushions, my Venetian glass vase, my collection of jam spoons, and my Tiffany watch.
²

(c) I give and bequeath to my father GRAHAM BLOOMWOOD my chess set, my CDs of classical music that he gave me for Christmas, my Bill Amberg weekend bag, my titanium desk lamp, and the incomplete manuscript of my self-help book
Manage Money the Bloomwood Way,
all rights of which are hereby passed to him.

(d) I give and bequeath to my friend DANNY KOVITZ all my old copies of
British Vogue,
³
my lava lamp, my customized denim jacket, and my juicer.

(e) I give and bequeath to my friend ERIN GAYLER my Tse cashmere jumper, my Donna Karan evening dress, all my Betsey Johnson dresses, and my Louis Vuitton hair bobbles.

THIRD: I bequeath all the rest, residue, and remainder of my property of whatsoever kind or character and wheresoever situated, apart from any clothes found in carrier bags at the bottom of the wardrobe,
⁴
to LUKE JAMES BRANDON.

1. Unless she would prefer the new DKNY bag with the long straps.

2. Also my Tiffany keyring, which I have lost, but must be in the apartment somewhere.

3. Plus any other magazines I subsequently buy.

4. Which are to be disposed of discreetly, in secret.

Eleven

T
HIS IS NOT
a good time.

In fact, it’s horrendous. Ever since he saw that piece in the paper, Luke has been really withdrawn and silent. He won’t talk about it, and the atmosphere in the apartment is getting really tense, and I just don’t know how to make things better. A few days ago I tried buying some soothing scented candles, but they didn’t really smell of anything except candle wax. So then yesterday I tried rearranging the furniture to make it more feng shui and harmonious. But Luke came into the living room just as I’d jammed a sofa leg into the DVD player, and I don’t think he was very impressed.

I wish he’d open up to me, like they do on
Dawson’s Creek
. But whenever I say, “Do you want to talk?” and pat the sofa invitingly, instead of saying, “Yes, Becky, I have some issues I’d like to share,” he either ignores me or tells me we’ve run out of coffee.

I know he’s tried calling his mother, but the patients at her stupid Swiss clinic aren’t allowed mobile phones, so he hasn’t been able to speak to her. I also know that he’s been on the phone to Michael several times. And that the assistant who had been assigned to work for the Elinor Sherman Foundation is now back working for Brandon Communications. When I asked him about it, though, he just shut off and wouldn’t say anything. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to admit any of it has happened.

The only thing that is going at all well at the moment is the wedding preparations. Robyn and I have had several meetings with the event designer, whose ideas for the room are absolutely spectacular. Then we had the dessert tasting at the Plaza the other day, and I nearly swooned at all the amazing, out-of-this-world sweets there were to choose from. It was champagne all the way through, and deferential waiters, and I was treated exactly like a princess . . .

But if I’m really honest, even that didn’t feel quite as relaxed and wonderful as it should. Even while I was sitting there, being served poached white peaches with pistachio mousse and anise biscotti on a gilded plate, I couldn’t help feeling little pricks of guilt through the pleasure, like tiny pinpoints of light through a blanket.

I think I’ll feel a lot better when I’ve broken the news to Mum.

I mean, not that there’s any reason to feel bad. Because I couldn’t do anything about it while they were in the Lake District, could I? I wasn’t exactly going to interrupt their nice relaxing holiday. But they get back tomorrow. So then what I’ll do is very calmly phone up Mum, and tell her that I really appreciate everything she’s done, and it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, but that I’ve decided . . .

No. That
Luke
and I have decided . . .

No. That Elinor has very kindly offered . . . That we have decided to accept . . .

Oh God. My insides are churning, just thinking about it.

OK, I won’t think about it yet. Anyway, I don’t want to come out with some stilted, awkward speech. Much better just to wait until the moment and be spontaneous.

As I arrive at Barneys, Christina is sorting through a rack of evening jackets.

“Hi!” she says as I walk in. “Did you sign those letters for me?”

“What?” I say distractedly. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. I’ll do it today.”

“Becky?” Christina looks at me more closely. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine! I’m just . . . I don’t know, the wedding . . .”

“I saw India from the bridal atelier last night. She said you’d reserved a Richard Tyler dress?”

“Oh yes, I have.”

“But I could have sworn I heard you telling Erin the other day about a dress at Vera Wang.”

I look away and fiddle with the zip of my bag. “Well. The thing is, I’ve kind of reserved more than one dress.”

“How many?”

“Four,” I say after a pause. I needn’t tell her about the one at Kleinfeld.

Christina throws back her head in a laugh. “Becky, you can’t wear more than one dress! You’re going to have to fix on one in the end, you know.”

“I know,” I say weakly, and disappear into my fitting room before she can say anything else.

My first client is Laurel, who is here because she’s been invited on a corporate weekend, dress “casual,” and her idea of casual is a pair of track pants and a Hanes T-shirt.

“You look like shit,” she says as soon she walks in. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I smile brightly. “I’m just a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“Are you fighting with your mother?”

My head jerks up.

“No,” I say cautiously. “Why do you ask that?”

“It’s par for the course,” says Laurel, taking off her coat. “All brides fight with their mothers. If it’s not over the ceremony, it’s over the floral arrangements. I threw a tea strainer at mine because she cut three of my friends off the guest list without asking.”

“Really? But then you made up.”

“We didn’t speak for five years afterward.”

“Five years?” I stare at her, aghast. “Just over a wedding?”

“Becky, there’s no such thing as
just
a wedding,” says Laurel. She picks up a cashmere sweater. “This is nice.”

“Mmm,” I say distractedly. Oh God, now I’m really worried.

What if I fall out with Mum? What if she gets really offended and says she never wants to see me again? And then Luke and I have children and they never get to know their grandparents. And every Christmas they buy presents for Granny and Grandpa Bloomwood, just in case, but every year they sit under the tree unopened, and we quietly put them away, and one year our little girl says, “Mummy, why does Granny Bloomwood hate us?” and I have to choke back my tears and say, “Darling, she doesn’t hate us. She just—”

“Becky? Are you all right?”

I snap into the present, to see Laurel peering at me concernedly. “You know, you really don’t look yourself. Maybe you need a break.”

“I’m fine! Honestly.” I summon up a professional smile. “So . . . here are the skirts I was thinking of. If you try this beige one, with the off-white shirt . . .”

As Laurel tries on different pieces, I sit on a stool, nodding and making the odd absent comment, while my mind still frets on the subject of Mum. I feel like I’ve got so far into this mess, I’ve lost all sense of proportion. Will she flip out when I tell her about the Plaza? Won’t she? I just can’t tell.

I mean, take what happened at Christmas. I thought Mum was going to be devastated when I told her Luke and I weren’t coming home, and it took me ages to pluck up the courage to tell her. But to my astonishment, she was really nice about it and told me that she and Dad would have a lovely day with Janice and Martin, and I mustn’t worry. So maybe this will be the same. When I explain the whole story to her, she’ll say, “Oh darling, don’t be silly, of course you must get married wherever you want to.”

Or else she’ll burst into tears, say how could I deceive her like this, and she’ll come to the Plaza over her dead body.

“So I was going into Central Park for my marathon training, and who should I see, standing right there like a Barbie doll?”

Laurel’s voice filters into my mind and I look up.

“Not the blond intern?”

“Right! So my heart starts thumping, I’m walking toward her and I’m wondering what I’m going to say. Do I yell at her? Do I hit her? Do I completely ignore her? You know, which will give me most satisfaction? And of course half of me wants to run away and hide . . .”

“So what happened?” I say eagerly.

“When I got up close, it wasn’t even her. It was some other girl!” Laurel puts a hand to her head. “It’s like, now she’s messing with my mind. Not content with taking my husband, wrecking my life, stealing my jewelry . . .”

“She’s stolen your jewelry?” I say in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I must have told you this. No? Things started going missing around the time Bill was taking her back to our apartment. An emerald pendant my grandmother gave me. A couple of bracelets. Of course, I had no idea what was going on, so I thought I was being careless. But then it all came out, and I realized. It had to be her.”

“Couldn’t you do anything?” I say, appalled.

“Oh, I did. I called the police.” Laurel’s chin tightens as she buttons up her dress. “They went and asked her some questions, but they didn’t get anywhere. Of course they didn’t.” She gives me a strange little smile. “Then Bill found out. He went crazy. He went to the police and told them . . . well, I don’t know exactly what he told them. But that same afternoon the police called me back and said they were dropping the case. It was obvious they thought I was just some vindictive, spurned wife. Which of course I was.”

She stares at herself in the mirror and slowly the animation seeps out of her face. “You know, I always thought he would come to his senses,” she says quietly. “I thought he’d last a month. Maybe two. Then he’d crawl back, I’d send him away, he’d crawl back again, we’d fight, but eventually . . .” She exhales slowly. “But he’s not. He’s not coming back.”

She meets my eye in the mirror and I feel a sudden pang of outrage. Laurel’s the nicest person in the world. Why would her stupid husband leave her?

“I like this dress,” she adds, sounding more cheerful. “But maybe in the black.”

“I’ll go and get one for you,” I say. “We have it on this floor.”

I walk out of the personal shopping department and head toward the rack of Dries van Noten dresses. It’s still early for regular shoppers and the floor is nearly empty. But as I’m searching for another dress in Laurel’s size, I’m suddenly aware of a familiar figure in the corner of my vision. I turn, puzzled, but the figure has gone.

Weird. Eventually I find the dress, and pick out a matching fringed stole. I turn around—and there he is again. It’s Danny. What on earth is he doing in Barneys? As I get nearer, I stare at him. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is awry, and he’s got a wild, fidgety look.

“Danny!” I say—and he visibly jumps. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh!” he says. “Nothing! Just . . . browsing.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine! Everything’s fine.” He glances at his watch. “So—I guess you’re in the middle of something?”

“I am, actually,” I say regretfully. “I have a client waiting. Otherwise we could go and have a coffee.”

“No. That’s fine,” he says. “You go. I’ll see you later.”

“OK,” I say, and walk back to my fitting room, rather puzzled.

Laurel decides to take three of the outfits I chose for her, and when she leaves she gives me a big hug. “Don’t let the wedding get you down,” she says. “You shouldn’t listen to me. I have a somewhat jaded view. I know you and Luke will be happy.”

“Laurel.” I squeeze her tightly back. “You’re the best.”

God, if I ever meet that stupid husband of hers I’m going to let him have it.

When she’s gone, I consult my schedule for the rest of the day. I’ve got an hour before my next client, so I decide to wander up to the bridal department and look at my dress again. It’s definitely between this one and the Vera Wang. Or maybe the Tracy Connop.

Definitely one of those three, anyway.

As I walk out onto the sales floor again, I stop in surprise. There’s Danny, standing by a rack of tops, fingering one casually. What on earth is he still doing here? I’m about to call out to him, and say does he want to come and see my dress and then go for a quick cappuccino? But then, to my astonishment, he glances around, surreptitiously bends down, and reaches for something in his canvas bag. It’s a T-shirt with glittery sleeves, on a hanger. He shoves it onto the rack, looks around again, and reaches for another one.

I stare at him in utter stupefaction. What does he think he’s doing?

He looks around again—then reaches into his bag and pulls out a small laminated sign, which he props up at the end of the display.

What the hell is he up to?

“Danny!” I say, heading toward him.

“What?” He gives a startled jump, then turns and sees me. “Sssh! Jesus, Becky!”

“What are you doing with those T-shirts?” I hiss.

“I’m stocking myself.”

“What do you mean, stocking yourself?”

He jerks his head toward the laminated sign and I read it in disbelief.

THE DANNY KOVITZ COLLECTION
AN EXCITING NEW TALENT AT BARNEYS

“They’re not all on Barneys hangers,” says Danny, thrusting another two T-shirts on the rack. “But I figure that won’t matter.”

“Danny . . . you can’t do this! You can’t just . . . put your stuff on the racks!”

“I’m doing it.”

“But—”

“I have no choice, OK?” says Danny, turning his head. “Randall’s on his way here right now, expecting to see a Danny Kovitz line at Barneys.”

I stare at him in horror.

“I thought you said he would never check!”

“He wouldn’t have!” Danny shoves another hanger onto the rack. “But his stupid girlfriend has to poke her nose in. She never showed any interest in me before, but as soon as she hears the word Barneys, it’s like Oh, Randall, you should support your brother! Go to Barneys tomorrow and buy one of his pieces! So I’m saying, you
really
don’t have to do that—but now Randall’s got the idea in his head, he’s like, well, maybe I will pop in and take a look! So I’m up sewing all fucking night . . .”

“You made all of these last night?” I say incredulously, and reach for one of the T-shirts. A piece of leather braid falls off, onto the floor.

“So maybe the finish isn’t quite up to my usual standards,” says Danny defensively. “Just don’t manhandle them, OK?” He starts to count the hangers. “Two . . . four . . . six . . . eight . . . ten. That should be enough.”

“Danny . . .” I glance around the sales floor to see Carla, one of the assistants, giving us an odd look. “Hi!” I call brightly. “Just . . . helping one of my clients . . . for his girlfriend . . .” Carla gives us another suspicious look, then moves away. “This isn’t going to work!” I mutter as soon as she’s out of earshot. “You’re going to have to take these down. You wouldn’t even be stocked on this floor!”

“I need two minutes,” he says. “That’s all. Two minutes for him to come in, see the sign, then go. Come on, Becky. No one’s even going to . . .” He freezes. “Here he is.”