Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (112 page)

“Italy.”

The waiter appears with my Happy Juice and Luke’s beer.

“But I don’t want to be separated from you!” I say as the waiter retreats. “This is our honeymoon!”

“We have had ten solid months together. . . .” Luke gently points out.

“I know. But still . . .” I take a disconsolate sip of Happy Juice. “Where are you going in Italy?”

“Nowhere exciting,” Luke says after a pause. “Just a . . . northern Italian city. Very dull. I recommend you stay here. Enjoy the sunshine.”

“Well . . .” I look around, feeling torn. It
is
pretty nice here. “Which city?”

There’s silence.

“Milan,” Luke says reluctantly.

“Milan?” I nearly fall off my chair with excitement. “You’re going to Milan? I’ve never been to Milan! I’d love to go to Milan!”

“No,” says Luke. “Really?”

“Yes! Definitely! It’s the fashion capital of the world! I mean, it’s got Prada . . . and Dolce—” I break off as I catch his expression. “And . . . er . . . it’s a place of great cultural interest which no modern traveler should miss. Luke, I
have
to come.”

“OK.” Luke shakes his head ruefully. “I must be mad, but OK.”

Elated, I lean back in my chair and take a big slurp of Happy Juice. This honeymoon just gets better and better!

Two

OK, I cannot believe Luke was planning to come to Milan without me. How could he come here without me? I was
made
for Milan.

No. Not Milan,
Milano
.

I haven’t actually seen much of the city yet except for a taxi and our hotel room—but for a world traveler like me, that doesn’t actually matter. You can pick up the vibe of a place in an instant, like bushmen in the wild. And as soon as I looked round the hotel foyer at all those chic women in Prada and D&G, kissing each other while simultaneously downing espressos, lighting cigarettes, and flinging their shiny hair about, I just knew, with a natural instinct: this is my kind of city.

I take a gulp of room-service cappuccino and glance across at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Honestly, I look Italian! All I need is some capri pants and dark eyeliner. And maybe a Vespa.

“Ciao,”
I say casually, and flick my hair back.
“Sì. Ciao.”

I could so be Italian. Except I might need to learn a few more words.

“Sì.”
I nod at myself.
“Sì. Milano.”

Maybe I’ll practice by reading the paper. I open the free copy of
Corriere della Sera,
which arrived with our breakfast, and start perusing the lines of text. The first story is all about the president washing his piano. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what
presidente
and
lavoro pieno
must mean.

“You know, Luke, I could really live in Italy,” I say as he comes out of the bathroom. “I mean, it’s the perfect country. It has everything! Cappuccinos . . . yummy food . . . Everyone’s so elegant. . . . You can get Gucci cheaper than at home. . . .”

“And the art,” says Luke, deadpan. “Da Vinci’s
The Last Supper,
for instance.”

I was just
about
to mention the art.

“Well, obviously the art,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I mean, the art goes without saying.”

I flick over a page of
Corriere della Sera
and briskly skim the headlines. Then my brain suddenly clicks.

I put the paper down and stare at Luke again.

What’s happened to him?

I’m looking at the Luke Brandon I used to know back when I was a financial journalist. He’s completely clean-shaven, and dressed in an immaculate suit, with a pale green shirt and darker green tie. He’s wearing proper shoes and proper socks. His earring is gone. His bracelet is gone. The only vestige of our travels is his hair, which is still in tiny plaits.

I can feel a bubble of dismay growing inside. I liked him the way he was, all laid-back and disheveled.

“You’ve . . . smartened up a bit!” I say. “Where’s your bracelet?”

“In my suitcase.”

“But the woman in the Masai Mara said we must never take them off!” I say in shock. “She said that special Masai prayer!”

“Becky . . .” Luke sighs. “I can’t go into a meeting with an old bit of rope round my wrist.”

Old bit of rope?
That was a sacred bracelet, and he knows it.

“You’ve still got your plaits!” I retort. “If you can have plaits, you can have a bracelet!”

“I’m not keeping my plaits!” Luke looks incredulous. “I’ve got a haircut booked in”—he consults his watch—“ten minutes.”

A haircut?

This is all too fast. I can’t bear the idea of Luke’s sun-bleached hair being snipped off and falling to the floor. Our honeymoon hair, all gone.

“Luke, don’t,” I say, before I can stop myself. “You can’t.”

“What’s wrong?” Luke turns and looks at me more closely. “Becky, are you OK?”

No. I’m not OK.

“You can’t cut off your hair,” I say desperately. “Then it will all be over!”

“Sweetheart . . . it
is
over.” Luke comes over and sits down beside me. He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. “You know that, don’t you? It’s over. We’re going home. We’re going back to real life.”

“I know!” I say, after a pause. “It’s just . . . I really love your hair long.”

“I can’t go into a business meeting like this.” Luke shakes his head so the beads in his hair click together. “You know that as well as I do!”

“But you don’t have to cut it off!” I say, suddenly inspired. “Plenty of Italian men have long hair. We’ll just take the plaits out!”

“Becky . . .”

“I’ll do it! I’ll take them out! Sit down.”

I push Luke down onto the bed and carefully edge out the first few little beads, then gently start to unbraid his hair. As I lean close, I can smell the business-y smell of Luke’s expensive Armani aftershave, which he always wears for work. He hasn’t used it since before we got married.

I shift round on the bed and carefully start unbraiding the plaits on the other side of his head. We’re both silent; the only sound in the room is the soft clicking of beads. As I pull out the very last one, I feel a lump in my throat—which is ridiculous.

I mean, we couldn’t stay on our honeymoon forever, could we? And I am looking forward to seeing Mum and Dad again, and Suze, and getting back to real life. . . .

But still. I’ve spent the last ten months with Luke. We haven’t spent more than a few hours out of each other’s sight. And now that’s all ending.

Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll be busy with a new job . . . and all my friends. . . .

“Done!”

I reach for my Paul Mitchell Gloss Drops, put some on Luke’s hair, and carefully brush it out. It’s a bit wavy, but that’s OK. He just looks European.

“You see?” I say at last. “You look brilliant!”

Luke surveys his reflection doubtfully and for an awful moment I think he’s going to say he’s still getting a haircut. Then he smiles.

“OK. Reprieved. But it will have to come off sooner or later.”

“I know,” I say, suddenly feeling light again. “But just not today.”

I watch as Luke gathers some papers together and puts them in his briefcase.

“So . . . who exactly are you meeting with today?”

Luke did tell me, on the flight from Colombo—but they were serving free champagne at the time, and I’m not entirely sure I took it all in.

“We’re going after a new client. The Arcodas Group.”

“That’s right. Now I remember. So what are they? Fund managers?”

Luke’s company is called Brandon Communications, and it’s a PR agency for financial institutions like banks and building societies and investment houses. That’s kind of how we met, actually, during my days on
Successful Saving
magazine.

“Nope.” Luke snaps his briefcase shut. “We want to broaden out of finance.”

“Really?” I look at him in surprise.

“It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. The company’s successful as it is, but I want to go bigger. Wider. The Arcodas Group is a very large corporation with lots of different interests. They own property developments . . . sports centers . . . shopping malls . . .”

“Shopping malls?” I say, suddenly alert. “Do you get a discount?”

“If we get the account. Maybe.”

“So, does Arcodas have any shopping malls in Milan?” I say, trying to sound helpful. “Because I could go and visit one. For research.”

“They haven’t got any in Milan. They’re only over here for a retail conference.” Luke puts his briefcase down and gives me a long look.

“What?” I say.

“Becky . . . I know this is Milan. But please. Don’t go crazy today.”

“Go crazy?” I say, a little offended. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’re going to go shopping. . . .”

How does he know that? Honestly, Luke has such a nerve. How does he know I’m not going to go and see some famous statues or something?

“I’m not going to go shopping!” I say haughtily. “I simply mentioned the shopping malls to show an interest in your work.”

“I see.” Luke gives me a quizzical look, which bugs me.

“I’m actually here for the culture.” I lift my chin. “And because Milan is a city I’ve never seen.”

“Uh-huh.” Luke nods. “So you weren’t planning to visit any designer shops today?”

“Luke,” I say kindly, “I am a professional personal shopper. Do you really think I’m going to get excited by a few designer shops?”

“Frankly, yes,” says Luke.

I feel a slight swell of indignation. Didn’t we make vows to each other? Didn’t he promise to respect me and not ever doubt my word?

“You think I came here just to go shopping? Well, take this!” I reach for my bag, then take out my purse and thrust it at him.

“Becky, don’t be silly—”

“Take it! I’ll just have a simple walk around the city! I’ll go and look at the cathedral.”

“OK, then.” Luke shrugs and pockets my purse.

Damn. I didn’t think he’d actually take it.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I have another credit card hidden in my bag, which Luke doesn’t know about.

“Fine,” I say, folding my arms. “Keep my money. I don’t care!”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” says Luke. “You can always use the credit card you keep hidden in your bag.”

What?

How does he know about that? Has he been
spying
on me?

This has to be grounds for divorce, surely.

“Have it!” I say furiously, reaching into my bag. “Have everything! Take the shirt off my back!” I throw my credit card at him. “You may think you know me, Luke. But you don’t. All I want is to soak up a little culture, and maybe invest in the odd souvenir or local artifact.”

“Local artifact?” echoes Luke. “By ‘local artifact’ do you mean ‘Versace shoes’?”

“No!” I say, after a short pause.

Which is true.

True-ish.

I was thinking more of Míu Míu. Apparently it’s really cheap over here!

“Look, Becky, just don’t go overboard, OK?” says Luke. “We’re up to our luggage limits as it is.” He glances at our open cases. “What with the South American ritual mask and the voodoo stick . . . Oh, and let’s not forget the ceremonial dancing swords. . . .”

How many times is Luke going to give me grief about the ceremonial dancing swords? Just because they ripped his stupid shirt.

“For the millionth time, they’re presents!” I say. “We couldn’t have shipped them. We have to have them with us
as we arrive,
otherwise we won’t look like proper travelers!”

“That’s fine. All I’m saying is, we don’t have room for South American masks
and
six extra pairs of boots.”

Oh, he thinks he’s so funny.

“Luke, I’m not like that anymore, OK?” I say, a little crushingly. “I’ve grown up a little. I would have thought you might have noticed.”

“If you say so.” Luke picks up my credit card, scrutinizes it, then gives it back to me. “You’ve only got a couple of hundred pounds left on this one, anyway.”

What?

“How do you know that?” I say in outrage. “That’s my private credit card!”

“Then don’t hide the statement under the mattress. The maid in Sri Lanka found it when she was making the bed and gave it to me.” He kisses me and picks up his briefcase. “Enjoy the city!”

As the door closes I feel a tad disgruntled. Little does Luke know. Little does Luke know I was actually planning to buy him a
present
today. Years ago, when I first met him, Luke had this belt which he really loved, made of gorgeous Italian leather. But he left it in the bathroom one day and it got hot leg-wax on it.

Which was not entirely my fault. Like I told him, when you’re in total agony, you don’t think “What would be the most suitable implement to scrape burning wax off my shins?” You just grab the nearest thing.

Anyway. So I was planning to buy him a replacement today. A little “end of honeymoon” gift. But maybe he doesn’t deserve it if he’s going to spy on me and read my private credit card statements. I mean, what a cheek. Do I read
his
private letters?

Well, actually I do. Some of them are really interesting! But the point is—

Oh my God. I freeze, struck by a dreadful thought. Does that mean he saw how much I spent in Hong Kong that day he went off to see the stock exchange?

Fuck.

And he hasn’t said anything about it. OK, maybe he does deserve a present, after all.

I take a sip of cappuccino. Anyway, I’m the one laughing, not Luke. He thinks he’s so clever, but what he doesn’t know is that I’ve got a secret genius plan.

Half an hour later I arrive downstairs at reception, wearing tight black trousers (not quite capri but close enough), a striped T-shirt, and a scarf knotted round my neck, European-style. I head straight for the foreign exchange desk and beam at the woman behind it.

“Ciao!”
I say brightly.
“Il . . .”

I trail off into silence.

What was I thinking? That if I started confidently enough, with hand gestures, Italian would just pour naturally out of my mouth?

“I’d like to change some money into euros, please,” I say, switching into English. I reach into my bag and triumphantly pull out a bundle of creased-up notes. “Rupees, dirhams, ringgits . . .” I dump the notes on the counter and reach for some more. “Kenyan dollars . . .” I peer at a strange pink note I don’t recognize. “Whatever that one is . . .”

It is incredible how much money I was carrying around with me without even noticing! I had loads of rupees in my bath bag, and a whole bunch of Ethiopian birrs inside a paperback book. Plus there were loads of odd notes and coins floating around at the bottom of my carry-on bag.

And the point is, this is free money! This is money
we already had
.

I watch excitedly as the woman sorts it all into piles. “You have seventeen different currencies here,” she says at last, looking a bit dazed.

“We’ve been to lots of countries,” I explain. “So, how much is it all worth?”

As the woman starts tapping on a small computer, I feel quite excited. Maybe the exchange rates on some of these have moved in my favor. Maybe this is all worth loads!

Then I feel a bit guilty. After all, it’s Luke’s money too. Abruptly I decide that if it’s more than a hundred euros, I’ll give half back to him. That’s only fair. But that’ll still leave me with fifty! Not bad, for doing absolutely nothing!

“After commission . . .” The woman looks up. “Seven forty-five.”