Confessions of a Shopaholic (24 page)

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.”

“Well, I’ll make it payable to you, then, shall I?” he says. “And you can pass it on.” Briskly he starts to write.

Pay Rebecca Bloomwood.

The sum of.

Five . . .

Five hundred pounds. It must be. He wouldn’t just give five miserable . . .

Thousand pounds.

T. A. J. Cleath-Stuart.

I can’t believe my eyes. Five thousand pounds, on a check, addressed to me.

Five thousand pounds, which belongs to Aunt Ermintrude and the violin teachers of Mozambique.

If they existed.

“Here you are,” says Tarquin, and hands me the check—and as though in a dream, I find myself reaching out toward it.

Pay Rebecca Bloomwood the sum of five thousand pounds.

I read the words again slowly—and feel a wave of relief so strong, it makes me want to burst into tears. The sum of five thousand pounds. More than my overdraft and my VISA bill put together. This check would solve all my problems, wouldn’t it? It would solve all my problems in one go. And, OK, I’m not exactly violinists in Mozambique—but Tarquin would never know the difference, would he?

And anyway, what’s £5,000 to a multimillionaire like Tarquin? He probably wouldn’t even notice whether I paid it in or not. A pathetic £5,000, when he’s got £25 million! If you work it out as a fraction of his wealth it’s . . . well, it’s laughable, isn’t it? It’s the equivalent of about fifty pence to normal people. Why am I even hesitating?

“Rebecca?”

Tarquin is staring at me—and I realize my hand is still inches away from the check.
Come on, take it
, I instruct myself firmly.
It’s yours. Take the check and put it in your bag
. With a heroic effort, I stretch out my hand further, willing myself to close my fingers around the check. I’m getting closer . . . closer . . . almost there . . . my fingers are trembling with the effort . . .

It’s no good, I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t take his money.

“I can’t take it,” I say in a rush. I pull my hand away and feel myself flushing. “I mean . . . I’m not actually sure the foundation is accepting money yet.”

“Oh right,” says Tarquin, looking slightly taken aback.

“I’ll tell you who to make a check payable to when I’ve got more details,” I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. “You’d better tear that up.”

He slowly rips the paper, but I can’t look. I stare into my champagne glass, feeling like crying. Five thousand pounds. It would have changed my life. It would have solved everything. I would have written out checks immediately to Suze, to VISA, to Octagon . . . to all of them. Then I would have taken this check and presented it to Derek Smeath on Monday morning. Perhaps I wouldn’t have cleared every single penny of overdraft, but I would have made a start. A bloody good start.

Tarquin reaches for the box of matches on the table, sets the scraps of paper alight in the ashtray, and we both watch as they briefly flame. Then he puts down the matches, smiles at me, and says, “Do excuse me a minute.”

He gets up from the table and heads off toward the back of the restaurant, and I take another gulp of champagne. Then I lean my head in my hands and give a little sigh. Oh well, I think, trying to be philosophical. Maybe I’ll win £5,000 in a raffle or something. Maybe Derek Smeath’s computer will go haywire and he’ll be forced to cancel all my debts and start again. Maybe some utter stranger really
will
pay off my VISA bill for me by mistake.

Maybe Tarquin will come back from the loo and ask me to marry him.

I raise my eyes, and they fall with an idle curiosity on the Coutts checkbook, which Tarquin has left on the table. That’s the checkbook of the fifteenth richest unmarried man in the country. Wow. I wonder what it’s like inside? He probably writes enormous checks all the time, doesn’t he? He probably spends more money in a day than I spend in a year.

On impulse, I pull the checkbook toward me and open it. I don’t know quite what I’m looking for—really, I’m just hoping to find some excitingly huge amount. But the first stub is only for £30. Pathetic! I flip on a bit, and find £520. Payable to Arundel & Son, whoever they are. Then, a bit later on, there’s one for £7,515 to American Express. Well, that’s more like it. But I mean, really, it’s not the most exciting read in the world. This could be anybody’s checkbook. This could practically be mine.

I close it and push it back toward his place, and glance up. As I do so, my heart freezes. Tarquin is staring straight at me.

He’s standing by the bar, being directed to the other side of the restaurant by a waiter. But he isn’t looking at the waiter. He’s looking at me. As our eyes meet, my stomach lurches. Oh, damn.

Damn. What exactly did he see?

Quickly I pull my hand back from his checkbook and take a sip of champagne. Then I look up and pretend to spot him for the first time. I give a bright little smile, and after a pause he smiles back. Then he disappears off again and I sink back into my chair, trying to look relaxed.

OK, don’t panic, I instruct myself. Just behave naturally. He probably didn’t see you. And even if he did—it’s not the hugest crime in the world, is it, looking at his checkbook? If he asks me what I was doing, I’ll say I was . . . checking he’d filled in his stub correctly. Yes. That’s what I’ll say I was doing if he mentions it.

But he doesn’t. He comes back to the table, silently pockets his checkbook, and says politely, “Have you finished?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I have, thanks.”

I’m trying to sound as natural as possible—but I’m aware my voice sounds guilty, and my cheeks are hot.

“Right,” he says. “Well, I’ve paid the bill . . . so shall we go?”

And that’s it. That’s the end of the date. With impeccable courtesy, Tarquin ushers me to the door of Pizza on the Park, hails a taxi, and pays the driver the fare back to Fulham. I don’t dare ask him if he’d like to come back or go for a drink somewhere else. There’s a coldness about my spine which stops me uttering the words. So we kiss each other on the cheek and he tells me he had a delightful evening, and I thank him again for a lovely time.

And I sit in the taxi all the way back to Fulham with a jumpy stomach, wondering what exactly he saw.

I say good-night to the taxi driver and reach for my keys. I’m thinking that I’ll go and run a hot bath and sit in it, and calmly try to work out exactly what happened back there. Did Tarquin really see me looking through his checkbook? Maybe he just saw me pushing it back toward his place in a helpful manner. Maybe he saw nothing at all.

But then why did he suddenly become all stiff and polite? He must have seen something; suspected something. And then he’ll have noticed the way I flushed and couldn’t meet his eye. Oh God, why do I always have to look so guilty? I wasn’t even
doing
anything. I was just curious.

Perhaps I should have quickly said something—made some joke about it. Turned it into a lighthearted, amusing incident. But what kind of joke can you make about leafing through someone’s private checkbook? Oh God, I’m so
stupid
. Why did I ever touch the bloody thing? I should have just sat, quietly sipping my drink.