Shopaholic on Honeymoon (3 page)

‘We can still do it,’ he says impatiently, pulling his hands away. ‘We can do a shorter version. We can still go to plenty of places.’

‘Like, how long?’

There’s a pause, then he says, ‘A month?’

‘A
month
?’ I stare at him in horror. ‘We can’t have a life-changing experience in a month! I wanted us to explore South America … sleep in little huts …’

‘Why little huts?’ puts in Luke.

Does he understand nothing?

‘Because! We’re travellers! I wanted to do yoga in India … maybe even go to the Arctic! I wanted us to change as people.’

He gives a slight laugh. ‘Can you
honestly
see me doing yoga?’

‘Not at the moment, no,’ I say heatedly. ‘That’s the point. I want you to change.’

‘Oh, you want me to
change
.’ He flares with sudden anger. ‘Two weeks into our marriage and I’m already not up to scratch. Well, great.’

‘That’s not what I mean! I’m doing this for
you
.’ I feel so angry I could cry. ‘You’ve never had any time off. You need to take stock. You need to do this.’

‘Well, I’m sorry. I can’t.’

‘You
can
. You can if you want to. Everything’s in place for you to do it.’ I’m breathing hard, my face flushed. ‘The question is … do you want to?’

He doesn’t reply. He’s not even looking at me. I guess that tells me all I need to know.

‘I won’t argue with you, Luke,’ I say in a trembling, dignified voice. ‘There’s clearly nothing more to say. I’m going out for a drink. Goodbye.’

I grab my bag and head a few steps towards the door before I find myself turning round, still churning with indignation.

‘I wish I’d never married you!’ The words fly out before I can think whether I mean them or not. ‘I thought I’d married someone who can see the big picture. That’s all.’

I stride out of the door, not really knowing where I’m going, but determined to get out.

* * *

Our hotel is in a small side street near St Mark’s Square and within a few minutes I find that I’ve automatically headed there, along with all the other tourists.

Well, fine. I’ll just sit and have a drink and soak up St Mark’s Square. If I’m going home in two weeks’ time, I’d better enjoy every second of this honeymoon that’s left. I look around at the colonnade and the pigeons and the shiny domes, and heave a great sigh. As I take a seat at Florian’s café, my heart feels like a lump of sand in my chest, and it’s not even because I’ve seen the price of a cappuccino.

I know Luke runs a business. I know he has responsibilities. But what about his responsibility to us as a couple? To himself? If he doesn’t take a year off and travel now, he never will. And it was all so perfect. It was all so exciting.

Miserably I order a glass of Prosecco, which costs exactly the same as I once paid for a Moschino scarf at Century 21 in New York. Mind you, I immediately lost the scarf on the subway, so maybe I can make this drink last longer. The trick is to sip it very slowly. Veeery sloooowly.

Except there’s something incredibly depressing about sipping a glass of Prosecco at 0.1 bubbles an hour. After about twenty minutes I’ve had enough. Rebelliously, I take a few deep, delicious slurps and empty the glass, then immediately order another one. Maybe I’ll sit here all evening, drinking Prosecco. It’ll cost me the same amount as a small car, but maybe I don’t care.

The late-afternoon light is making the square all gleamy-goldy and a band is playing, and if I hadn’t just argued with my new husband, it would all be totally gorgeous. Morosely I watch a couple having a picture taken in the middle of the square. They’re both wearing straw hats and have sunburnt arms and look really happy. I expect they’re on honeymoon too, but I bet the husband isn’t trying to bail out in the middle.

Surely it’s against the marriage vows to bail out of your honeymoon? Talk about lack of commitment. Talk about lack of priorities. Talk about—

‘Is this seat taken?’

I look up in shock. Luke is standing in front of me, silhouetted against the evening light, his eyes unreadable and his hair burnished at the ends. He should grow his hair, I find myself thinking randomly. Loosen up a bit.

Huh. Like
that
’s ever going to happen.

‘Go ahead.’ I jerk my chin at the other chair. I’m not going to smile and I’m not going to pretend everything’s OK. And nor can he have any of my Prosecco.

Luke pulls out a chair and I pretend to be very interested in the man playing the accordion in the band.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Luke at length, and I give the merest little shrug.
Sorry
doesn’t clarify anything. Is he sorry because he’s flying home tomorrow and wishes he’d married some Brandon C. clone who wouldn’t even want a honeymoon? Is he sorry because this marriage has clearly been a huge mistake and it’s going to be a nightmare sorting out the divorce? Is he sorry I chose Florian’s to come and drown my sorrows in, because I could have done so at half the price round the corner?

‘I was inspired by your art set,’ he adds. ‘So I came up with my own picture.’

He slowly unrolls a piece of paper and spreads it across the table. Reluctantly I raise my eyes to look at it, and the first shock I get is: he can draw.

‘You never told me you can draw!’ I say, almost accusingly.

‘Did Art A-level,’ he shrugs. ‘But this is more of a …’ He pauses. ‘Conceptual piece.’

‘Right.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Let me just …’ I clear my throat. ‘Assess it.’

I stare resolutely down at the picture, not wanting to give anything away. It shows the globe, all coloured in with blues and greens. There’s a drawing of me and Luke, standing on the globe, holding suitcases, hand-in-hand, with arrows curving all round the world. He’s drawn the Pyramids in Egypt and the Eiffel Tower in Paris and Ayers Rock in Australia and penguins at the South Pole. He’s even got my shoes right: red and white polka-dot wedges. And right at the bottom there’s a drawing of a calendar, showing twelve pages with one month on each page.

I can’t quite speak.

‘What do you think?’ he says again.

As I look at the little drawings of him and me, my eyes feel suddenly hot. We look so positive and dynamic and, somehow,
together
. Even if my hair is a bit weird. (Is that really what he thinks it looks like?)

‘Does it have a title?’ I say at last.

‘
Honeymoon Interrupted Briefly But Then Resumed
,’ he says.

I lift my eyes and see him gazing at me with that warm, familiar, Luke look.

‘Right.’ I swallow. ‘Well, that’s a good title.’

‘Is it a good plan?’

I’m searching for an answer when the waiter arrives with my second glass of Prosecco.

‘Good idea,’ says Luke. ‘I’ll have one of those, too, please.’ He reaches into a small paper bag and produces something with a flourish. ‘And look what I bought.’

He lifts up a Venetian carnival mask – black edged with gold – and covers his eyes. ‘I’ll need it for the ball next week.’

‘Really?’ I gaze at him, half-wanting to laugh, he looks so ridiculous.

‘Really.’ He takes the mask down and meets my eyes, suddenly serious. ‘Let’s do it, Becky. Let’s do it all. Europe, South America, yoga, penguins … whatever. And for as long as it takes.’

‘Right.’ I swallow hard, marshalling my thoughts. I should be triumphant. I mean, I won. I got my way. But now that I have, I feel suddenly anxious. ‘You’re sure? What about all your commitments? What about all the … stuff?’

‘The stuff is in my head,’ he says. ‘The stuff doesn’t exist. You’re right. Big picture. One life.’

‘Two lives,’ I correct him. ‘You’re in it with me now. Sorry about that.’

Luke smiles and reaches for my hand, and for a while we just sit: listening to the music, watching the pigeons flap about and sharing the Prosecco.

And as we sit there, I start to feel sparks of fresh excitement. We’re going to do it. We’re going to go round the world together! The truth is, I landed this whole year-long honeymoon idea on Luke out of the blue and he got swept away and it’s no wonder he’s had a wobble. But now, it’s as if we’re starting again. The two of us.

‘One proviso, Becky,’ Luke suddenly adds, looking up. ‘We’ve done our shopping, OK? We don’t need to buy souvenirs from everywhere we go. It’ll get ridiculous.’

‘Fine.’ I beam at him. ‘No problem. In fact, I totally agree. I just need to buy a few sets of marbled stationery and then I’m done.’

‘Marbled stationery?’ He stares at me. ‘What’s marbled stationery?’

Honestly. Does he not keep his eyes open as he walks around a city? He needs to learn to be more observant.

‘Marbled stationery! That gorgeous handblocked, traditional paper! You
have
to buy marbled stationery in Venice. I’m going to get some photo albums and some notecards and some pencils. They’ll be brilliant presents,’ I add. ‘I can give some to Suze for Christmas. And Mum. In fact, I’ll be sorted for everyone. I won’t need to buy anything else at all.’

‘OK,’ says Luke after a pause. ‘Marbled stationery, then that’s
it
.’

‘That’s it,’ I agree.

‘Nothing else.’

‘Nothing else.’ I nod firmly, and raise my glass to him, feeling suddenly ecstatic. We’ve patched up our fight and the sun is shining and we’re drinking Prosecco and we’re going to a masked ball next week! And I already know exactly which marbled stationery shop I’m going to go to.

This is going to be a
fabulous
honeymoon.

Dear Mrs Brandon

Thank you for your letter of 10
^th
July.

I was interested to hear of your proposal to ‘turn London into a new Venice’.

Introducing a fleet of gondolas to the Thames is certainly an innovative idea. I fear, however, that gondolas would not be suited to the tidal waters of the Thames and it would be unlikely that, as you suggest, Londoners would ‘start travelling everywhere by water’.

As for your proposal to attire London taxi drivers in ‘gorgeous matching costumes like gondoliers’, this is also interesting, and we appreciated your enclosed sketches. However, we think it unlikely that our taxi drivers would agree to wear ‘military-style Westwood jackets’ and ‘retro peaked caps’, nor agree to greet passengers with ‘
Ciao, bella
’.

We thank you for your interest in London’s continuing prosperity and growth and wish you an enjoyable honeymoon.

With best wishes

Philip Woodhouse

Assistant to the Mayor

OK. Don’t panic. Don’t
panic
.

I’ll escape from this. Of course I will. It’s not like I’ll be trapped here in this hideous confined space, with no hope of release,
for ever
… is it?

As calmly as possible, I assess the situation. My ribs are squashed so that I can hardly breathe, and my left arm is pinned behind me. Whoever constructed this ‘restraining fabric’ knew what they were doing. My right arm is also pinned at an awkward angle. If I try to reach my hands forward, the ‘restraining fabric’ bites into my wrists. I’m stuck. I’m powerless.

My face is reflected, ashen, in the mirror. My eyes are wide and desperate. My arms are criss-crossed with black shiny bands. Is one of them supposed to be a shoulder strap? Does that webbing stuff go around the waist?

Oh God. I should never
ever
have tried on the size 4.

‘How are you doing in there?’ It’s Mindy, the sales assistant, calling from outside the cubicle curtain, and I start in alarm. Mindy is tall and rangy with muscled thighs that start three inches apart. She looks like she probably runs up a mountain every day and doesn’t even
know
what a KitKat
is
.

She’s asked three times how I’m doing and each time I’ve just called out shrilly, ‘Great, thanks!’ But I’m getting desperate. I’ve been struggling with this ‘Athletic Shaping All-in-One’ for ten minutes. I can’t keep putting her off for ever.

‘Amazing fabric, right?’ says Mindy enthusiastically. ‘It has three times the restraining power of normal spandex. You totally lose a size, right?’

Maybe I have, but I’ve also lost half my lung capacity.

‘Are you doing OK with the straps?’ comes Mindy’s voice. ‘You want me to come in the fitting room and help you adjust it?’

Come in the fitting room?
There’s no way I’m letting a tall, tanned, sporty Angeleno come in here and see my cellulite.

‘No, it’s fine, thanks!’ I squawk.

‘You need some help getting it off?’ she tries again. ‘Some of our customers find it tricky the first time.’

I have a hideous vision of me gripping on to the counter and Mindy trying to haul the all-in-one off me while we both pant and sweat with the effort and Mindy secretly thinks, ‘I
knew
all British girls were heifers.’

No way. Not in a million years. There’s only one solution left. I’ll have to buy it. Whatever it costs.