Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (26 page)

“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.

But in my defense … he left it on the table, didn’t he? He can’t be that secretive about it. And I don’t
know
that he saw me looking through it, do I? Maybe I’m just paranoid.

As I put my key into the lock, I’m actually feeling quite positive. OK, so Tarquin wasn’t that friendly just now—but he might have been feeling ill or something. Or maybe he just didn’t want to rush me. What I’ll do is, tomorrow I’ll send a nice chatty note to him, saying thanks again, and suggesting we go and see some Wagner together. Excellent idea. And I’ll mug up a bit about the Preludes, so that if he asks me which one again, I’ll know exactly what to say. Yes! This is all going to be fine. I need never have worried.

I swing the door open, taking off my coat—and then my heart gives a flip. Suze is waiting for me in the hall. She’s sitting on the stairs, waiting for me—and there’s a reproachful expression on her face.

“Oh, Bex,” she says, and shakes her head. “I’ve just been speaking to Tarquin.”

“Oh right,” I say, trying to sound natural—but aware that my voice is a frightened squeak. I turn away, take my coat, and slowly unwind my scarf, playing for time. What exactly has he said to her?

“I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you
why?”
she says after a pause.

“Well,” I falter, feeling sick. God, I could do with a cigarette.

“I’m not
blaming
you, or anything. I just think you should have …” She shakes her head and sighs. “Couldn’t you have let him down more gently? He sounded quite upset. The poor thing was really keen on you, you know.”

This isn’t quite making sense. Let him down more gently?

“What exactly—” I lick my dry lips. “What exactly did he say?”

“Well, he was only really phoning to tell me you’d left your umbrella behind,” says Suze. “Apparently one of the waiters came rushing out with it. But of course I asked him how the date had gone …”

“And … and what did he say?”

“Well,” says Suze, and gives a little shrug. “He said you’d had a really nice time—but you’d pretty much made it clear you didn’t want to see him again.”

“Oh.”

I sink down onto the floor, feeling rather weak. So that’s it. Tarquin did see me leafing through his checkbook. I’ve ruined my chances with him completely.

But he didn’t tell Suze what I’d done. He protected me. Pretended it was my decision not to carry things on. He was a gentleman.

In fact—he was a gentleman all evening, wasn’t he? He was kind to me, and charming, and polite. And all I did, all throughout the date, was tell him lies.

Suddenly I want to cry.

“I just think it’s such a shame,” says Suze. “I mean, I know it’s up to you and everything—but he’s such a sweet guy. And he’s had a crush on you for ages! You two would go perfectly together.” She gives me a wheedling look. “Isn’t there
any
chance you might go out with him again?”

“I … I honestly don’t think so,” I say in a scratchy voice. “Suze … I’m a bit tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

And without meeting her eye, I get up and slowly walk down the corridor to my room.

I
HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE
felt as terrible as I do when I wake up the next morning. Never.

The first thing I feel is pain. Exploding sparks of pain as I try to move my head; as I try to open my eyes; as I try to work out a few basics like: Who am I? What day is it? Where should I be right now?

For a while I lie quite still, panting with the exertion of just being alive. In fact, my face is growing scarlet and I’m almost starting to hyperventilate, so I force myself to slow down and breathe regularly.
In … out, in … out
. And then surely everything will come back to me and I will feel better.
In … out, in … out
.

OK … Rebecca. That’s right. I’m Rebecca Bloomwood, aren’t I?
In … out, in … out
.

What else? Dinner. I had dinner somewhere last night.
In … out, in … out
.

Pizza. I had pizza. And who was I with, again?
In … out, in …

Tarquin.

Out
.

Oh God. Tarquin.

Leafing through checkbook. Everything ruined. All my own fault.

A familiar wave of despair floods over me and I close my eyes, trying to calm my throbbing head. At the same time, I remember that last night, when I went back to my room, I found the half bottle of malt whisky which Scottish Prudential once gave me, still sitting on my dressing table. I opened it up—even though I don’t like whisky—and drank … well, certainly a few cupfuls. Which might possibly explain why I’m feeling so ill now.

Slowly I struggle to a sitting position and listen for sounds of Suze, but I can’t hear anything. The flat’s empty. It’s just me.

Me and my thoughts.

Which, to be honest, I can’t endure. My head’s pounding and I feel pale and shaky—but I’ve got to get moving; distract myself. I’ll go out, have a cup of coffee somewhere quiet and try to get myself together.

I manage to get out of bed, stagger to my chest of drawers, and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. My skin’s green, my mouth is dry, and my hair’s sticking to my skin in clumps. But worst of all is the expression in my eyes: a blank, miserable self-loathing. Last night I was given a chance—a fantastic opportunity on a silver platter. I threw it in the bin—and hurt a really sweet, decent chap, to boot. God, I’m a disaster. I don’t deserve to live.

I head to King’s Road, to lose myself in the anonymous bustle. The air’s crisp and fresh, and as I stride along it’s almost possible to forget about last night. Almost, but not quite.

I go into Aroma, order a large cappuccino, and try to drink it normally. As if everything’s fine and I’m just another girl out on a Sunday for some shopping. But I can’t do it. I can’t escape my thoughts. They’re churning round in my head, like a record that won’t stop, over and over and over.