Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (131 page)

Shut up,
I retort mentally.
No, I couldn’t. Go away.

I dump the pizza in my basket, then move along the displays more swiftly, putting in punnets of white peaches, miniature pears, several cheeses, dark chocolate truffles, a French strawberry gâteau. . . .

But Jess’s voice is constantly in my head.

You’re throwing money away. What happened to the budget? You think indulging yourself like this will bring Luke back?

“Stop it!” I say aloud, feeling rattled. God, I’m going crazy. Defiantly I shove three tins of Russian caviar into my overflowing basket and stagger to the checkout. I drop the basket down on the counter and reach inside my bag for my credit card.

As the girl behind the till starts unloading all my stuff, she smiles at me.

“The gâteau’s delicious,” she says, carefully packing it into a box. “And so are the white peaches. And caviar!” She looks impressed. “Are you having a dinner party?”

“No!” I say, taken aback. “I’m not having a dinner party. I’m just . . . I’m . . .”

All of a sudden I feel like a fool. I look at my piles of stupid, overpriced food bleeping through the register and feel my face flame. What am I doing? What am I buying all this stuff for? I don’t need it. Jess is right.

Jess is right.

The very thought makes me wince. I don’t want to think about Jess.

But I can’t help it. I can’t escape the thoughts wheeling round in my head like big black crows. Out of nowhere I hear Luke’s voice.
She’s a good person . . . she’s honest, reliable, and hardworking. . . . you could learn a lot from your sister. . . .

You could learn a lot from your sister.

And suddenly it hits me like a bolt of lightning. Oh my God. This is the answer.

“That’ll be a hundred and thirty pounds, seventy-three pence,” says the girl behind the checkout.

“I—I have to go,” I say. “Now.”

“But your food!” says the girl.

“I don’t need any of it.”

I turn and stumble out of the shop, still clutching my credit card in my hand. It’s all fallen into place. I must go and learn from Jess.

Like Yoda.

I’ll be her apprentice and she’ll teach me all her frugal ways. She’ll show me how to become a good person, the kind of person that Luke wants. And I’ll learn how to save my marriage.

She tried to help me before and I didn’t listen. But this time I’ll be grateful. I’ll pay attention to every word she says.

I start walking along the street more and more quickly, until I’m breaking into a run. I have to go to Cumbria. Right this minute.

I sprint all the way home, and up about three flights of stairs before I realize my lungs are nearly exploding and I’m never going to make it all the way up to the penthouse. Puffing like a steam engine, I sit down for a few minutes, then take the lift up the rest of the way. I burst into the apartment and run to the bedroom, where I pull a bright red leather suitcase out from under the bed and start throwing things randomly into it, like they do on the telly. A T-shirt . . . some underwear . . . a pair of turquoise pumps with diamanté buckles . . . I mean, it doesn’t matter what I take, does it? I just have to get up there and build bridges with Jess.

At last I snap the case shut and haul it off the bed. I grab a jacket, wheel the case down the hall and out onto the landing, then turn and double-lock the front door. I take one last look at it, then step into the lift, feeling strong with a new resolve. Everything’s going to change from this moment on. My new life starts here. Off I go, to learn what’s really important in—

Oh. I forgot my hair straighteners.

Instinctively I jab at the halt button. The lift, which was about to descend, gives a kind of grumpy little bump but stays put.

I can’t possibly go without my hair straighteners. And my Kiehl’s lip balm.

OK, I might have to rethink the whole it-doesn’t-matter-what-you-take strategy.

I hurry back out of the lift, unlock the front door, and head back into the bedroom. I haul another case out from under the bed, this one bright lime green, and start tossing things into that too.

Finally I pick up my Angel bag. And as I glimpse my reflection in the mirror, with no warning, Luke’s voice resounds through my head:
I just hope the handbag was worth it, Becky.

I stop still. For a few moments I feel a bit sick.

I almost feel like leaving it behind.

Which would be just ridiculous. How can I leave behind my most prized possession?

I heft it over my shoulder, trying to recapture the desire and excitement I felt when I first saw it. It’s an
Angel bag,
I remind myself defiantly. I have the most coveted item in existence. People are fighting over these. There are waiting lists all over the world.

I shift uncomfortably. Somehow it feels heavier on my shoulder than before. Which is very weird. A bag can’t just get heavier, can it?

Oh, right. I put my mobile phone charger in there. That’s why.

OK. Enough of this. I’m going, and I’m taking the bag with me.

I descend to the ground floor and wheel the cases out of the gates. A lit-up taxi comes barreling along, and I stick out my hand. I load in my cases, feeling suddenly rather stirred up by what I’m planning to do.

“Euston Station, please,” I say to the driver, my voice catching in my throat. “I’m going to reconcile with my long-lost-found-then-estranged sister.”

The driver eyes me, unmoved.

“Is that the back entrance you want, love?”

Honestly. You’d think taxi drivers would have some sense of drama. You’d think they’d learn it at taxi school.

The roads are clear, and we arrive at Euston in about ten minutes. As I totter toward the ticket booth, dragging my cases behind me, I feel as though I’m in some old black-and-white movie. There should be clouds of steam everywhere, and the shriek and whistle of trains, and I should be wearing a well-cut tweed suit and fur stole, with marcelled hair.

“A ticket to Cumbria, please,” I say with a throb of emotion, and drop a fifty-pound note on the counter.

This is where a lantern-jawed man should notice me and offer me a cocktail, or get grit out of my eye. Instead, a woman in an orange nylon uniform is regarding me as though I’m a moron.

“Cumbria?” she says. “Where in Cumbria?”

Oh. That’s a point. Does Jess’s village even have a station?

Suddenly I have a blinding flash of memory. When I first met Jess, she talked about coming down from—

“North Coggenthwaite. A return, please. But I don’t know when I’m coming back.” I smile bravely. “I’m going to reconcile with my long-lost-found—”

The woman cuts me off unsympathetically.

“That’ll be a hundred and seventy-seven pounds.”

What?
How
much? I could fly to Paris for that.

“Er . . . here you are,” I say, handing over some of my Tiffany clock cash.

“Platform nine. Train leaves in five minutes.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I turn and start walking briskly over the concourse to platform nine. But as the huge intercity train comes into view, my confidence wanes a little. People are streaming round me, hugging friends, hefting luggage, and banging carriage doors.

I’ve come to a standstill. My hands feel sweaty round the suitcase handles. This has all felt like a kind of game up until now. But it’s not a game. It’s real and I can’t quite believe I’m really going to go through with it.

Am I really going to travel hundreds of miles to a strange place—to see a sister who hates me?

Seventeen

Oh my God. I’m here.

It’s five hours later and I’m actually here, in Cumbria, in Jess’s village. I’m in the North!

I’m walking along the main road of Scully—and it’s so scenic! It’s just like Gary described, with the drystone walls and everything. On either side of me are old stone houses with slate roofs. Beyond the houses are steep, craggy hills with rocks jutting out and sheep grazing on the grass, and looming high above all the others is one huge hill which is practically a mountain.

As I pass a gorgeous little stone cottage I notice a curtain twitching and someone peering out at me. I suppose I do look a teeny bit conspicuous with my red and lime green suitcases. My wheels are trundling noisily on the road, plus my hatbox is banging up and down with every step I take. As I walk past a bench, two old ladies in print dresses and cardigans eye me suspiciously and I can see one pointing to my pink suede shoes. I give them a friendly smile and am about to say “I got them at Barneys!” when they get up and shuffle off together, still glancing back at me. I take a few more strides along the street, then stop, panting slightly.

It’s quite hilly, isn’t it? Not that there’s anything wrong with hills. This isn’t a problem for me at all. But even so, I might just take a few moments to admire the countryside and get my breath back. The taxi driver offered to take me to the door, but I told him I’d rather walk the last bit, just to steady my nerves. I’m starting to feel a bit jittery about seeing Jess again, which is ridiculous because I had hours on the train to prepare.

I even ended up getting some expert help! I’d popped into the train bar and ordered a Bloody Mary—just for a bit of Dutch courage—and there was a whole group of Shakespearean actors, swigging wine and smoking, on tour with
Henry V
. We got to chatting and I ended up telling them the whole story and how I was off to try and reconcile with Jess. And they all got quite stirred up. They said it was just like
King Lear,
and ordered Bloody Marys all round, and insisted on coaching me in my speech.

I’m not sure I’ll do
every
single thing they suggested. Like calling myself a “wretched wench.” But a lot of their tips were really helpful! For example, never upstage your fellow actor, which means never stand so they have to turn away from the audience. They all agreed this was the worst possible thing I could do to my sister, and if I did, there would be zero chance of a reconciliation and frankly they wouldn’t blame her. I pointed out there wouldn’t be an audience, but they said nonsense, a crowd would gather.

The wind is blowing my hair all over the place, and I can feel my lips getting chapped by the strong northern air, so I get out my lip salve and put some on. Then, with a twinge, I reach for my mobile phone for the millionth time to see if Luke has called and I’ve somehow missed it. But there’s no signal at all. We must be out of the area. I stare for a minute at the blank little display, my heart beating with stupid hope. If there’s no signal, maybe he’s tried to call! Maybe he’s phoning right this minute and he just can’t get through. . . .

But deep down inside I know it’s not true. Six hours have gone by since he left. If he wanted to call, he would have called before now.

Our row has been echoing angrily round my brain all day. Luke’s harsh voice. The way he looked at me just before he left, so disappointed and weary. All the things he said. To my horror, tears suddenly start pricking at my eyes, and I furiously blink them back. I’m not going to cry. It’s all going to be OK. I’m going to make amends and turn into a new person and Luke won’t even recognize me.

Determined, I start wheeling my cases up the hill again, until I reach the corner of Hill Rise. I stop and peer along the gray stone terrace of cottages, stiff with apprehension. This is Jess’s road. She lives in one of these houses!

I’m reaching in my pocket to check the exact number when suddenly I notice a movement in an upstairs window a few houses along. I look up—and it’s Jess! She’s standing at the window, gaping down at me in utter astonishment.

Despite everything that’s happened between us, I feel a swell of emotion at the sight of her familiar face. This is my sister, after all. I start running up the street, my cases trundling behind me, my hatbox bouncing up and down. I reach the door, breathless, and am about to lift the knocker, when the door opens. Jess is standing in front of me in pale brown cords and a sweatshirt, looking aghast.

“Becky . . . what the hell are you doing here?”

“Jess, I want to learn from you,” I say in a wobbly voice, and lift my hands in supplication like the Shakespearean actors told me. “I’ve come to be your apprentice.”

“What?” She takes a step backwards in horror. “Becky, have you been
drinking
?”

“No! I mean, yes. A few Bloody Marys, maybe . . . but I’m not drunk, I promise! Jess, I want to be a good person.” The words come tumbling out in a rush. “I want to learn from you. And get to know you. I know I’ve made mistakes in life . . . but I want to learn from them. I’m sorry I didn’t listen before, but now I’m ready. Jess, I want to be like you.”

There’s an ominous silence.

“You want to be like me?” she says at last. “I thought I was a ‘skinflint miserable cow.’ ”

Damn. I was hoping she might have forgotten about that.

“Er . . . I’m really sorry I said that,” I mutter, abashed. “I didn’t mean it.”

Jess isn’t looking convinced. Quickly I cast my mind back to the coaching session on the train. “Time has healed the wounds between us. . . .” I begin, reaching out for her hand.

“No, it hasn’t!” says Jess, pulling it away. “And you’ve got a bloody nerve coming here.”

“But I’m asking you to help me, as my sister!” I say desperately. “I want to learn from you! You’re Yoda, and I’m—”

“Yoda?”
Jess’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“You don’t
look
like Yoda,” I add hastily. “Nothing like! I just meant—”

“Yeah, well, I’m not interested,” Jess interrupts. “In you, or your latest stupid idea. Just go away.”

She slams the front door shut, leaving me standing on the street. Jess has shut the door on me? Me, her own sister?

“But I’ve come all the way here from London!” I call through the door.

There’s no reply.

I refuse to give up. Not just like that.

“Jess!” I start hammering on the door. “You have to let me in! Please! I know we’ve had our differences—”

“Leave my door alone!” The door is wrenched open and Jess is standing there again. But this time she doesn’t just look hostile. She looks positively livid. “Becky, we haven’t just had our differences! We
are
different. I have no time for you. Frankly, I wish I’d never met you. And I have no idea what you’re doing here.”

“You don’t understand,” I say quickly, before she can slam the door again. “Everything’s gone wrong. Luke and I have argued. I . . . I did something stupid.”

“Well, there’s a surprise.” Jess folds her arms.

“I know I’ve brought it on myself.” My voice starts to tremble. “I know it’s my own fault. But I think our marriage is in real trouble. I really do.”

As I say the words, I can feel tears threatening again. I blink hard, trying to hold them off.

“Jess . . . please help me. You’re the only person I can think of. If I could learn from you, maybe Luke would come round. He likes you.” I feel a tightening in my throat, but force myself to look right at her. “He likes you better than he likes me.”

Jess shakes her head, but I can’t tell whether it’s because she doesn’t believe me or she doesn’t care.

“Go home,” she says flatly.

“But—”

“Don’t you understand English? Go home!” She waves her hand as though she’s shooing a dog.

“But . . . I’m your family!” My voice is starting to shake. “Family help each other! Family watch out for one another. Jess, I’m your
sister
—”

“Well, that’s not my fault,” says Jess curtly. “I never asked to be your sister. Bye, Becky.”

She slams the door shut again, so hard that I flinch. I lift my hand to knock again—but there’s no point, is there?

I’ve come all this way for nothing.

What do I do now? Slowly, I turn round and start trundling my suitcases back along the street.

The thought of going straight home again is unbearable. All those hours on the train—to what? An empty flat. An empty flat and no husband.

And at the thought of Luke, suddenly I can’t keep control of myself any longer. Tears start pouring down my cheeks and I can’t help but begin sobbing. As I reach the corner, a couple of women with prams look at me curiously, but I barely notice. I’m crying too hard. My makeup must have smeared everywhere . . . and I haven’t got a free hand to get a hankie, so I’m having to sniff. . . . I need to stop. I need to sort myself out.

There’s a kind of village green to my left, with a wooden bench in the middle. I head for it, then drop my cases and sink down, my head in my hands, and give way to a stream of fresh tears.

Here I am, hundreds of miles away from home, all on my own and no one wants to know me. And it’s all my own fault. I’ve ruined everything.

And Luke will never love me again.

I have a sudden vision of me moving out. Packing up my shoes. Luke telling me he wants to keep the Indonesian game-lan. . . .

Dimly I hear a man’s voice above my head. “Now, now. What’s all this?”

I look up blearily to see a middle-aged man in tan cords and a green jumper looking down at me, half disapproving, half concerned.

“Is it the end of the world?” he says in abrupt tones. “You’ve old people trying to take naps around here.” He gestures at the cottages around the green. “You’re making so much noise, you’re scaring the sheep.”

He gestures up at the hill, where, sure enough, a couple of sheep are looking inquisitively down at me.

“I’m very sorry I’m disturbing the peace,” I gulp. “But things aren’t going that brilliantly for me at the moment.”

“A tiff with the boyfriend,” he states as though it’s a foregone conclusion.

“No, I’m married, actually.” I lift my left hand so he can see my ring. “But my marriage is in trouble. In fact, I think it might be over. And I’ve come all this way to see my sister but she won’t even speak to me. . . .” I can feel tears spilling over onto my cheeks again. “My mum and dad are away on a therapy cruise, and my husband’s gone to Cyprus with Nathan Temple, and my best friend likes someone else more than me, and I haven’t got anyone to talk to. And I just don’t know where to go! I mean, literally, I don’t know where to go after I get up from this bench. . . .”

I give an enormous hiccup, reach for a tissue, and wipe my streaming eyes. Then I look up.

The man looks nonplussed.

“Tell you what, love,” he says a bit more kindly. “How does a cup of tea sound?”

“A cup of tea sounds wonderful.” I falter. “Thank you very much.”

He heads across the green, carrying both my suitcases as though they weigh nothing, while I totter behind with my hatbox.

“I’m Jim, by the way,” he says over his shoulder.

“I’m Becky.” I blow my nose. “This is really kind of you. I was going to have a cup of tea in London, but I’d run out of milk. In fact . . . that’s kind of how I ended up here.”

“Long way for a cup of tea,” he observes dryly.

That was only this morning, I suddenly realize. It seems a million years ago now.

“We’re not about to run out of milk, anyway,” he adds, turning into a cottage with
SCULLY STORES
in black lettering above the doorway. A bell starts tinkling as we walk in, and from somewhere at the back I can hear a dog barking.

“Oh.” I look around with fresh interest. “This is a shop!”

“This is
the
shop,” he corrects me. He puts down my cases and gently moves me off the mat, at which point the bell stops tinkling. “Been in the family for fifty-five years.”

“Wow.” I look around the cozy store. There are racks of fresh bread, shelves with tins and packets lined up neatly, old-fashioned jars of sweets, and a display of postcards and gift items. “This is lovely! So . . . are you Mr. Scully?”

Jim looks bemused. “Scully is the name of the village we’re in, love.”

“Oh yes.” I blush. “I forgot.”

“My name’s Smith. And I think you need that cup of tea. Kelly?” He raises his voice, and a few moments later a girl appears through a door at the back. She’s about thirteen, skinny, with fine brown hair pulled into a ponytail and carefully made-up eyes. She’s wearing jeans and a pink sleeveless T-shirt, and is holding a
Heat
magazine.

“I was minding the shop, honest, Dad,” she says at once. “I just went upstairs for a magazine—”

“It’s OK, love. I’d like you to make a nice cup of tea for this lady. She’s been through a bit of . . . distress.”

“Oh, right.” Kelly peers at me a bit doubtfully, and it suddenly occurs to me that I must look an absolute fright.

“Would you like to sit down?” Jim pulls out a chair.

“Thanks,” I say gratefully. I put down my hatbox and fish in my Angel bag for my makeup case. I snap open my mirror and peer at myself—and oh God. I have never looked worse in my life. My nose is all red, my eyes are bloodshot, my eyeliner is smudged like a panda, and a streak of turquoise “24-hour eye dazzle” has somehow ended up on my cheek.

I quickly take out a cleansing wipe and get rid of the whole lot until my face is bare and pink, staring sadly at me from the mirror. Half of me feels like leaving it at that. Why should I put on any makeup? What’s the point, if my marriage is over?

“Here you are.” A steaming cup of tea appears in front of me on the counter, and I look up to see Kelly watching me avidly.

“Thank you so much,” I say, my voice still a little unsteady. “You’re really sweet.”

“It’s no trouble,” says Kelly, as I take the first delicious sip. God, a cup of tea is the answer to everything.

“Is that . . .” I look up, to see Kelly suddenly gawping at my bag with eyes like dinner plates. It must have been hidden behind the hatbox before. “Is that . . . a real Angel bag?”