Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (132 page)

I feel a huge inward twinge, which I manage to hide with a weak smile. If she only knew.

“Yes. It’s a real Angel bag.”

“Dad, she’s got an Angel bag!” Kelly exclaims to Jim, who’s unloading bags of sugar from a box. “I showed you about them in
Glamour
magazine!” Her eyes are shining with excitement. “All the film stars have got them! They’ve sold out at Harrods! Where did you get yours?”

“In . . . Milan,” I say after a pause.

“Milan!” breathes Kelly. “That’s so cool!” Now her eyes have fallen on the contents of my makeup bag. “Is that Stila lip gloss?”

“Er . . . yes.”

“Emily Masters has got Stila lip gloss,” she says wistfully. “She thinks she’s all that.”

I look at her lit-up eyes and flushed cheeks, and suddenly I want to be thirteen again. Going to the shops on Saturday to spend my allowance. With nothing to worry about except biology homework and whether James Fullerton fancied me.

“Look . . . have this,” I say, scrabbling in my makeup bag for a brand-new Stila lip gloss in grapefruit. “I’m never going to use it.”

“Really?” Kelly gasps. “Are you sure?”

“And do you want this cream blusher?” I hand over the box. “Not that you need blusher . . .”

“Wow!”

“Now, wait just a moment,” comes Jim’s voice from across the shop. “Kelly, you can’t take this lady’s makeup off her.” He shakes his head at her. “Give them back, love.”

“She offered, Dad!” says Kelly, her translucent skin staining pink. “I didn’t ask for them or anything—”

“Honestly, Jim. Kelly can have them. I’m never going to use them. I only bought them in the first place because you got a free perfume if you spent over eighty quid. . . .”

Suddenly tears spring up in my eyes again. God, Jess is right. I’m a total flake.

“Are you OK?” says Kelly in alarm. “Have them back—”

“No, I’m fine.” I force a smile. “I just need to . . . think about something else.”

I dab my eyes with a tissue, get to my feet, and wander over to the gift display. I might as well get some souvenirs while I’m here. I pick up a pipe rack for Dad and a painted wooden tray which Mum will like. I’m just looking at a glass model of Lake Windermere and wondering whether to get it for Janice, when I notice two women standing outside the window. As I watch, they’re joined by a third.

“What are they waiting for?” I say in puzzlement.

“This,” says Jim. He looks at his watch, then puts out a sign reading
TODAY’S BREAD HALF PRICE.

Immediately the women come bustling into the shop.

“I’ll take two bloomers, please, Jim,” says one with metal-gray hair and a beige mac. “Have you any reduced croissants?”

“Not today,” says Jim. “All full price.”

“Oh . . .” She thinks for a moment. “No, I won’t bother.”

“I’ll take three large wholemeal,” chimes in the second woman. She’s wearing a green head scarf and holding a big brown handbag. “Who’s this?” She jerks her thumb at me. “We saw you crying on the green. Are you a tourist?”

“They always get themselves lost,” says the first woman. “Which hotel are you at, love? Does she speak English?
Speke Inglese?
”

“She looks Danish,” says the third woman knowledgeably. “Who speaks Danish?”

“I’m English,” I say. “And I’m not lost. I was upset because . . .” I hesitate, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Because my marriage is in trouble. And I came up here to ask my sister for help, but she wouldn’t give it to me.”

“Your sister?” says the woman in the head scarf suspiciously. “Who’s your sister?”

“She lives in this village.” I take a sip of tea. “She’s called Jessica Bertram.”

The women look like I’ve hit them over the head with a hammer. I look around in confusion, to see Jim’s jaw has dropped by about a foot.

“
You’re
Jess’s sister?” he says.

“Well . . . yes. I am. Her half sister.”

I look around the shop, but no one’s moved. Everyone is still gaping at me as if I’m an alien.

“I know we’re a bit different to look at . . .” I begin.

“She said you were mad,” says Kelly bluntly.

“Kelly!” says Jim.

“What?” I look from face to face. “She said
what
?”

“Nothing!” says Jim, darting a warning look at Kelly.

“We all knew she was going to see her long-lost sister,” says Kelly, ignoring him. “And when she came back, she said you were crazy and lived in a fantasy world. I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s true!”

I can feel my cheeks growing bright red.

“I’m not
crazy
!” I say. “I’m normal! I’m just . . . a bit different from Jess. We like different things. She likes rocks. I like . . . shops.”

“Are you not interested in rocks, then?” says the woman with the green head scarf.

“Not really,” I admit. “In fact . . . that was a bit of an issue between us.”

“What happened?” Kelly asks, clearly rapt.

“Well . . .” I scuff my foot awkwardly on the floor. “I told Jess I’d never heard of a more boring hobby than rocks in my life, and that it suited her.”

There’s a universal gasp of incredulity.

“You don’t want to be rude about rocks to Jess,” says the beige-mac woman, shaking her head. “She loves those rocks of hers, bless her.”

“Jess is a good girl,” chimes in the green–head-scarf woman, giving me a stern look. “Sturdy. Reliable. She’d make a fine sister.”

“Couldn’t hope for better,” agrees the third woman, pulling her cable-knit cardigan around her.

Their looks make me feel defensive.

“It’s not my fault! I want to reconcile with her! But she isn’t interested in being my sister! I just don’t know how it all went wrong. I so wanted to be friends. I arranged this whole weekend for her, but she didn’t like any of it. And she was so
disapproving
. We ended up having a huge row . . . and I called her all sorts of things. . . .”

“What things?” Kelly asks avidly.

“Well . . .” I rub my nose. “I said she was a misery. I said she was really boring. . . .”

There’s another huge gasp. Kelly raises a hand as though to stop me, but I don’t want to stop. This is cathartic. Now I’ve started, I want to confess everything.

“. . . and the most skinflint person I’d ever met in my life.” I’m goaded by their appalled faces. It’s like I’m on the crest of a roller coaster. “With zero dress sense, who must have had a fun bypass operation—”

I realize there’s a tinkling sound in the air. A tinkling sound which, now that I think about it, has been going on for a few seconds. Cold to the core, I turn round.

Jess is standing in the doorway, her face pale.

“Jess!” I stammer. “God, Jess! I wasn’t . . . I didn’t
mean
any of . . . I was just explaining. . . .”

“I heard you were in here,” she says, speaking with an obvious struggle. “I came to see if you were OK. To see if you wanted a bed for the night. But . . . I think I’ve changed my mind.” She looks directly at me. “I knew you were shallow and spoiled, Becky. I didn’t realize you were a two-faced bitch as well.”

She turns and strides out, closing the door behind her with a bang.

Kelly is bright red; Jim’s looking anywhere but me. The whole atmosphere is prickling with awkwardness.

Then the woman in the green head scarf folds her arms.

“Well,” she says. “You buggered that one up, didn’t you, love?”

I’m in a state of total shock.

I came up here to reconcile with Jess—and all I’ve done is made things worse.

“Here you are, love,” says Jim, placing a fresh mug of tea in front of me. “Three sugars.”

The three women are all drinking cups of tea too. Jim’s introduced them to me as Edie (green head scarf), Lorna (metal-gray hair), and Bea (cable-knit cardigan) and has even produced a cake. I get the feeling they’re all waiting for me to do something else to entertain them.

“I’m not a two-faced bitch,” I say in despair. “Honestly! I’m nice! I came here to build bridges! I mean, I know Jess and I don’t get along. But I wanted to learn from her. I thought she could help me save my marriage. . . .”

There’s a sharp intake of breath around the shop.

“Is her marriage in trouble as well?” Edie says to Jim, and clicks her tongue. “Dear, oh, dear.”

“It never rains but it pours,” booms Lorna lugubriously. “Run off with a fancy woman, has he?”

Jim glances at me, then leans toward the women, lowering his voice.

“Apparently he’s gone to Cyprus with a man called Nathan.”

“Oh.” Edie’s eyes open very wide. “Oh, I
see
.”

“What are you going to do, Becky?” says Kelly, biting her lip.

Go home,
flashes through my mind.
Give up.

But I keep seeing Jess’s pale face in my mind, and feeling a little stab in my heart. I know just what it’s like to be bitched about. I’ve known enough horrible bitches in my time. An image comes to me of Alicia Bitch Long-legs, the meanest, snidest girl I ever knew.

I can’t bear it if my own sister thinks I’m like her.

“I have to apologize to Jess,” I say, looking up. “I know we’ll never be friends. But I can’t go home with her thinking the worst of me.” I take a sip of scalding tea, then look up. “Is there anywhere I can stay around here?”

“Edie runs a bed-and-breakfast,” says Jim. “Got any rooms free, Edie?”

Edie reaches into her huge brown bag, then brings out a notebook and consults it.

“You’re in luck,” she says, looking up. “I’ve one deluxe single left.”

“Edie’ll take good care of you,” Jim says, so kindly that I feel ridiculous tears welling up again.

“Could I take it for tonight, please?” I say, wiping my eyes. “Thank you very much.” I take another sip of tea, then notice my mug. It’s blue pottery with
Scully
handpainted on it in white. “This is nice,” I say with a gulp. “Do you sell them?”

“On the rack at the back,” says Jim, looking at me with amusement.

“Could I have two? I mean, four?” I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. “And I just want to say . . . thank you. You’re all being so nice.”

The bed-and-breakfast is a large white house directly across the green. Jim carries my suitcases and I carry my hatbox and my carrier bag full of souvenirs, and Edie follows behind me, giving me a list of rules I have to keep.

“No gentleman visitors after eleven . . . no parties of more than three people in the room . . . no abuse of solvents or aerosol cans . . . payment in advance, cash or check accepted, much obliged,” she concludes as we reach the lit-up door.

“All right from here, Becky?” says Jim, putting my cases down.

“I’ll be fine. And thank you so much,” I say, feeling so grateful, I half-want to give him a kiss. But I don’t quite dare to—so I just watch as he walks off across the grass again.

“Much obliged,” repeats Edie meaningfully.

“Oh!” I say, realizing she means she wants to be paid. “Absolutely!”

I scrabble inside my bag for my purse, and my fingers brush against my mobile phone. From force of habit I pull it out and peer at the display. But there’s still no signal.

“You can use the pay phone in the hall if there’s anyone you want to call,” says Edie. “We have a pull-down privacy hood.”

Is there anyone I want to call?

With a twinge I think of Luke in Cyprus, still furious with me; Mum and Dad engrossed in a therapy workshop on their cruise; and Suze, picnicking on some picturesque sun-dappled lawn with Lulu and all their children in cute overalls.

“No. It’s OK,” I say, trying to smile. “I haven’t got anyone to call. To be honest . . . no one will have even noticed I’ve gone.”

5 jun 03 16:54
to Becky
from Suze

Bex. Sorry I missed u. Why aren’t u answering the phone? Had disastrous day at picnic. We all got stung by wasps. I miss u. Am coming to London to visit. Call me.

Suzexxxx

6 jun 03 10:02
to Becky
from Suze

Hi, Bex, I’m here. Where RU? Please call!!!!

Suzex

6 jun 03 2:36
to Becky
from Suze

Bex. Where RU????????????????

Suzexxxx

Eighteen

I don’t sleep well.

In fact, I’m not sure I sleep at all. I seem to have spent the whole night staring at the uneven ceiling of Edie’s B&B, my mind going round and round in circles. Except I must have slept for a bit, because when I wake up in the morning my head is full of a terrible dream where I turned into Alicia Bitch Long-legs. I was wearing a pink suit and laughing with a horrible sneer and Jess was looking all pale and crushed. In fact, now that I think about it, Jess looked a bit like me.

Just the thought of it makes me queasy. I have to do something about this.

I’m not hungry, but Edie has cooked a full English breakfast and doesn’t seem impressed when I say I normally have just a piece of toast. So I nibble at some bacon and eggs and pretend to have a go at the black pudding, all the while avoiding the attempts at conversation by a kindly German couple on holiday. After a final sip of coffee I leave to find Jess.

As I head up the hill to her house, the morning sun is in my eyes, and a cool wind blows through my hair. Across the green I can see Jim outside his store, unloading crates of apples from a delivery truck, and he lifts his hand in greeting. I wave back, my spirits lifted. This
feels
like a day for reconciliations. Fresh starts and clean slates.

I approach the all-too-familiar brown front door, ring the bell, and wait.

There’s no reply.

OK, I am really tired of people not being in when I want to have emotional reunions with them. I squint up at the windows, wondering whether she might be hiding. Maybe I should throw some stones up at the windowpanes.

Except what if I broke one? Then she’d
really
hate me.

I ring the bell a few more times, then give up and walk back down the path. I sit on a piece of wall and settle myself comfortably. This is fine. It’s a lovely day. I’ll just wait, and when she arrives back home I’ll spring up with a speech about how sorry I am.

The wall isn’t quite as comfortable as I first thought, and I shift a few times, trying to find a good position. I check the time, then watch an old lady and her little dog walk slowly along the pavement on the other side of the road.

Then I check the time again. Five minutes have gone by.

God, how on earth do stalkers do it? They must get bored out of their minds.

I get up to stretch my legs and walk up to Jess’s house again. I ring the bell, just to be on the safe side, then meander back to the wall again. As I do so, I see a policeman coming up the street toward me. What’s a policeman doing here, out on this little street at ten o’clock in the morning? I thought they were all tied to their desks by paperwork or zooming around inner cities in squad cars.

I feel a bit apprehensive as I see that he’s looking directly at me. But I’m not doing anything wrong, am I? I mean, it’s not like stalking is against the law.

Oh. Well, OK, maybe stalking
is
against the law. But I’ve only been doing it for five minutes. Surely that doesn’t count. And anyway, how does he know I’m stalking anyone? I might just be sitting here for pleasure.

“All right?” he says as he approaches.

“Fine, thanks!”

He looks at me expectantly.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“Could you move along, miss? This isn’t a public seat.”

“Why should I?” I say boldly. “That’s what is wrong with this country! Anyone who doesn’t conform is persecuted! Why shouldn’t you be able to sit on a wall without being harassed?”

“That’s my wall,” he says, and gestures to the front door. “This is my house.”

“Oh, right.” I flush red and leap to my feet. “I was just . . . er . . . going. Thanks! Really nice wall!”

OK. Stalking over. I’ll have to come back later.

I trail down the hill to the village green, and find myself turning toward the shop. As I enter, Kelly is sitting behind the till with a copy of
Elle,
and Jim is arranging apples on the display rack.

“I went to see Jess,” I say morosely. “But she wasn’t there. I’ll have to wait till she comes back.”

“Shall I read out your horoscope?” says Kelly. “See if it says anything about sisters?”

“Now, young lady,” says Jim reprovingly. “You’re supposed to be revising for your exams. If you’re not working, you can go and wait at the tea shop.”

“No!” says Kelly hastily. “I’m revising!” She pulls a face at me, then puts
Elle
down and reaches for a book called
Elementary Algebra
.

God, algebra. I’d totally forgotten that existed. Maybe I’m quite glad I’m not thirteen anymore.

I need a sugar rush, so I head toward the biscuit section and grab some chocolate digestives and Orange Club biscuits. Then I drift over to the stationery shelf. You can never have too much stationery, so I pick up a packet of thumbtacks in the shape of sheep, which will always come in useful. And I might as well get the matching stapler and folders.

“All right there?” says Jim, eyeing my full arms.

“Yes, thanks!”

I take my goodies over to the till, where Kelly rings them up.

“D’you want a cup of tea?” she says.

“Oh, no, thanks.” I say politely. “I couldn’t intrude. I’d get in the way.”

“Get in the way of what?” she retorts. “Nobody’ll be in until four, when the bread comes down. And you can test me on my French vocab.”

“Oh, well.” I brighten. “If I’d be
useful
. . .”

Three hours later I’m still there. I’ve had three cups of tea, about half a packet of chocolate digestives, and an apple, and I’ve stocked up on a few more presents for people at home, like a set of toby jugs and some place mats, which everyone needs. Plus I’ve been helping Kelly with her work. Except now we’ve progressed from algebra and French vocab revision to Kelly’s outfit for the school disco. We’ve got every single magazine open, and I’ve made her up with each eye different, just to show her what the possibilities are. One side is really dramatic, all smoky shadow and a spare false eyelash I found in my makeup bag; the other is all silvery and sixties, with white space-age mascara.

“Don’t let your mother see you like that,” is all Jim keeps saying as he walks by.

“If only I had my hairpieces,” I say, studying Kelly’s face critically. “I could give you the most fantastic ponytail.”

“I look amazing!” Kelly’s goggling at herself in the mirror.

“You’ve got wonderful cheekbones,” I tell her, and dust shimmery powder onto them.

“This is so much fun!” Kelly looks at me, eyes shining. “God, I wish you lived here, Becky! We could do this every day!”

She looks so excited, I feel ridiculously touched.

“Well . . . you know,” I say. “Maybe I’ll visit again. If I patch things up with Jess.”

But even at the thought of Jess, my insides kind of crumble. The more time goes by, the more nervous I am at seeing her again.

“I wanted to do makeovers like this with Jess,” I add, a bit wistfully. “But she wasn’t interested.”

“Well, then, she’s dumb,” says Kelly.

“She’s not. She’s . . . she likes different things.”

“She’s a prickly character,” Jim puts in, walking by with some bottles of cherryade. “It’s hard to credit you two are sisters.” He dumps the bottles down and wipes his brow. “Maybe it’s in the upbringing. Jess had it pretty hard going.”

“Do you know her family, then?” I ask.

“Aye.” He nods. “Not well, but I know them. I’ve had dealings with Jess’s dad. He owns Bertram Foods. Lives over in Nailbury. Five miles away.”

Suddenly I’m burning all over with curiosity. Jess has barely told me a word about her family, despite my subtle probing.

“So . . . what are they like?” I say, as casually as I can. “Her family.”

“Like I say, she’s had a pretty hard time. Her mum died when she was fifteen. That’s a difficult age for a girl.”

“I never knew that!” Kelly’s eyes widen.

“And her dad . . .” Jim leans pensively on the counter. “He’s a good man. A fair man. Very successful. He built up Bertram Foods from nothing, through hard work. But he’s not what you’d call . . . warm. He was always as tough on Jess as he was on her brothers. Expected them to fend for themselves. I remember Jess when she started big school. She got into the high school over in Carlisle. Very academic.”

“I tried for that school,” says Kelly to me, pulling a face. “But I didn’t get in.”

“She’s a clever girl, that Jess,” says Jim admiringly. “But she had to catch three buses every morning to get there. I used to drive past on my way here—and I’ll remember the sight till I die. The early-morning mist, no one else about, and Jess standing at the bus stop with her big schoolbag. She wasn’t the big, strong lass she is now. She was a skinny little thing.”

I can’t quite find a reply. I’m thinking about how Mum and Dad used to take me to school by car every day. Even though it was only a mile away.

“They must be rich,” says Kelly, rooting around in my makeup bag. “If they own Bertram Foods. We get all our frozen pies from them,” she adds to me. “And ice cream. They’ve a huge catalog!”

“Oh, they’re well off,” says Jim. “But they’ve always been close with their money.” He rips open a cardboard box of Cup-a-Soups and starts stacking them on a shelf. “Bill Bertram used to boast about it. How all his kids worked for their pocket money.” He straightens a bundle of chicken and mushroom sachets on the shelf. “And if they couldn’t afford a school trip or whatever . . . they didn’t go. Simple as that.”

“School trips?” I can’t get my head round this. “But everyone knows parents pay for school trips!”

“Not the Bertrams. He wanted to teach them the value of money. There was a story going around one year that one of the Bertram boys was the only kid in school not to go to the pantomime. He didn’t have the money and his dad wouldn’t bail him out.” Jim resumes stacking the soups. “I don’t know if that was true. But it wouldn’t surprise me.” He gives Kelly a mock-severe look. “You don’t know you’re born, young lady. You’ve got the easy life!”

“I do chores!” retorts Kelly at once. “Look! I’m helping out here, aren’t I?”

She reaches for some chewing gum from the sweets counter and unwraps it, then turns to me. “Now I’ll do you, Becky!” She riffles in my makeup bag. “Have you got any bronzer?”

“Er . . . yes,” I say, distracted. “Somewhere.”

I’m still thinking about Jess standing at the bus stop, all little and skinny.

Jim is squashing the empty Cup-a-Soup box down flat. He turns and gives me an appraising look.

“Don’t worry, love. You’ll make up with Jess.”

“Maybe.” I try to smile.

“You’re sisters. You’re family. Family always pull through for each other.” He glances out the window. “Ay-up. They’re gathering early today.”

I follow his gaze, and see two old ladies hovering outside the shop. One of them squints at the bread display, then turns and shakes her head at the other.

“Does
nobody
buy bread full price?” I say.

“Not in this village,” says Jim. “Except the tourists. But we don’t get so many of those. It’s mostly climbers who want to have a go at Scully Pike—and they don’t have much call for bread. Only emergency services.”

“How d’you mean?” I say, puzzled.

“When the stupid buggers get stuck.” Jim shrugs and reaches for the half-price sign. “No matter. I’ve got to thinking of bread as a loss leader, like.”

“But it’s so yummy when it’s all fresh and new!” I say, looking along the rows of plump loaves. Suddenly I feel really sorry for them, like they haven’t been asked to dance. “
I’ll
buy some. Full price,” I add firmly.

“I’m about to reduce it,” Jim points out.

“I don’t care. I’ll have two big white ones and a brown one.” I march over to the bread display and pluck the loaves off the shelf.

“What are you going to do with all that bread?” says Kelly.

“Dunno. Make toast.” I hand Kelly some pound coins and she pops the three loaves into a bag, giggling.

“Jess is right, you are mad,” she says. “Shall I do your eyes now? What look do you want?”

“Customers’ll be coming in,” warns Jim. “I’m about to put the sign up.”

“I’ll just do one eye,” says Kelly, quickly reaching for a palette of eye shadows. “Then when they’ve all gone, I’ll do the other one. Close your eyes, Becky.”

She starts to brush eye shadow onto my eyelid, and I close my eyes, enjoying the brushing, tickling sensation. I’ve always adored having my makeup done.

“OK,” she says. “Now I’m doing some eyeliner. Keep still. . . .”

“Sign’s going up now,” comes Jim’s voice. There’s a pause—then I hear the familiar tinkling sound, and the bustle of people coming in.

“Er . . . don’t open your eyes yet, Becky.” Kelly sounds a bit alarmed. “I’m not sure if this has gone right. . . .”

“Let me see!”

I open them and grab my makeup mirror. One of my eyes is a wash of bright pink eye shadow, with shaky red eyeliner across the top lid. I look like I have some hideous eye disease.

“Kelly!”

“It said in
Elle
!” she says defensively, gesturing to a picture of a catwalk model. “Pink and red is in!”

“I look like a monster!” I can’t help bursting into giggles at my lopsided face. I have never looked so terrible in my life. I glance up to see if any of the customers have noticed and my laughter dies away.

Jess is coming into the shop along with the other reduced-price shoppers.

She looks so cold and hostile, a far cry from that skinny eleven-year-old waiting for the bus in the early morning. Her gaze runs dismissively over the magazines, the open makeup case, and all my makeup scattered over the counter. Then she turns away without speaking and begins to root through the basket of reduced cans.

The bustle of the shop has dwindled to nothing. I’m sure everyone knows exactly what’s been going on.

I glance at Jim, who gives me an encouraging nod.

“Er . . . Jess,” I begin. “I came to see you this morning. I wanted to explain. . . .”

“Nothing to explain.” She turns over the cans roughly, not even looking at me. “I don’t know what you’re still doing here.”

“She’s doing makeovers with me,” Kelly says loyally. “Aren’t you, Becky?”