Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (43 page)

“Really?” I say, trying to hide my delight. I always get a little thrill when Luke rings, because, to be honest, he doesn't do it that much. I mean, he phones to arrange times of meeting and that kind of stuff—but he doesn't often phone for a chat. Sometimes he sends me e-mails, but they're not what you'd call chatty, more . . . Well, I don't exactly want to give away our intimate secrets—but put it like this, the first time I got one, I was quite shocked! (But I sort of look forward to them now.)

“He said he'll pick you up from the studio tomorrow at twelve. And the Mercedes has had to go into the garage, so you'll be going down in the MGF.”

“Really?” I say. “That's so cool!”

“I know,” says Suze, beaming back at me. “Isn't it great? Oh, and he also said can you pack light, because the boot isn't very big.”

I stare at her, my smile fading.

“What did you say?”

“Pack light,” repeats Suze. “You know: not much luggage, maybe one small bag or holdall . . .”

“I know what ‘pack light' means!” I say, my voice shrill with alarm. “But . . . I can't!”

“Of course you can!”

“Suze, have you
seen
how much stuff I've got?” I say, going to my bedroom door and flinging it open. “I mean, just look at that.”

Suze follows my gaze uncertainly, and we both stare at my bed. My big acid-green suitcase is full. Another pile of clothes is sitting beside it. And I haven't even
got
to makeup and stuff yet.

“I can't do it, Suze,” I wail. “What am I going to do?”

“Phone Luke and tell him?” suggests Suze, “and say he'll have to hire a car with a bigger boot?”

For a moment I'm silent. I try to imagine Luke's face if I tell him he has to hire a bigger car to hold my clothes.

“The thing is,” I say at last, “I'm not sure he'd
completely
understand . . .”

The doorbell rings and Suze gets up.

“That'll be Special Express for my parcel,” she says. “Listen, Bex, it'll be fine! Just . . . prune away a few things.” She goes to answer the door and I'm left staring at my jumbled bed.

Prune away? But prune away what, exactly? I mean, it's not as though I've packed a load of stuff I don't need. If I just start removing things at random my whole system will collapse.

Come on. Think laterally. There
must
be a solution.

Maybe I could . . . secretly fix a trailer onto the car when Luke isn't looking?

Or maybe I could
wear
all my clothes, on top of each other, and say I'm feeling a bit chilly . . .

Oh, this is hopeless. What am I going to do?

Distractedly, I wander out of my room and into the hall, where Suze is handing a padded envelope to a man in uniform.

“That's great,” he says. “If you could just sign there . . . Hello!” he adds cheerfully to me, and I nod back, staring blankly at his badge, which reads:
Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning.

“Here's your receipt,” says the man to Suze, and turns to leave. And he's halfway out of the door, when the words suddenly start jumping about in my mind.

Anything.

Anywhere.

By tomorrow—

“Hey, wait!” I call, just as the door's about to slam. “Could you just hold on one sec—”

695 S
OHO
S
QUARE
L
ONDON W
1 5A
S

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD

4 September 2000

Dear Becky:

You may remember, when we spoke two weeks ago you assured me the first draft of your book would be with me within days. I'm sure it's on its way—or has it possibly gotten lost in the post? Maybe you could send me another copy?

As far as the author photograph goes, just wear whatever you feel comfortable with. An Agnes B top sounds fine, as do the earrings you described. And thanks for sending me a Polaroid of your orange sandals—I'm sure they will look great.

I look forward to seeing the manuscript—and again, let me say how thrilled and delighted we are that you're writing for us.

With all best wishes,

Pippa Brady
Editor

Helping you to help yourself

COMING SOON!
Jungle Survival
by Brig. Roger Flintwood

Three

A
T FIVE TO TWELVE
the next day I'm sitting under the bright lights of the
Morning Coffee
set, wondering how much longer we'll be. Normally my financial advice slot is over by eleven forty, but they got so engrossed with the psychic who reckons she's the reincarnated spirit of Mary Queen of Scots that everything's overrun since then. And Luke will be here any minute, and I've still got to change out of this stuffy suit . . .

“Becky?” says Emma, who's one of the presenters of
Morning Coffee
and is sitting opposite me on a blue sofa. “This sounds like quite a problem.”

“Absolutely,” I say, dragging my mind back to the present. I glance down at the sheet in front of me, then smile sympathetically at the camera. “So, to recap, Judy, you and your husband Bill have inherited some money. You'd like to invest some of it in the stock market—but he's refusing.”

“It's like talking to a brick wall!” comes Judy's indignant voice. “He says I'll lose it all, and it's his money too, and if all I want to do is gamble it away, then I can go to . . .”

“Yes,” interrupts Emma smoothly. “Well. This does sound quite a problem, Becky. Two partners disagreeing about what to do with their money.”

“I just don't understand him!” exclaims Judy. “This is our one chance to make a serious investment! It's a fantastic opportunity! Why can't he
see
that?”

She breaks off—and there's an expectant silence around the studio. Everyone's waiting for my answer.

“Judy . . .” I pause thoughtfully. “May I ask a question? What outfit is Bill wearing today?”

“A suit,” says Judy, sounding taken aback. “A gray suit for work.”

“What kind of tie? Plain or patterned?”

“Plain,” says Judy at once. “All his ties are plain.”

“Would he ever wear, say . . . a polka-dot tie?”

“Never!”

“I see.” I raise my eyebrows. “Judy, would it be fair to say Bill is generally quite an unadventurous person? That he doesn't like taking risks?”

“Well . . . yes,” says Judy. “Now that you say it, I suppose he is.”

“Ah!” says Rory suddenly, on the other side of the sofa. Rory is the other presenter of
Morning Coffee.
He's very chiseled-looking and is great at flirting with film stars, but he's not exactly the Brain of Britain. “I think I see where you're going here, Becky.”

“Yes, thanks Rory,” says Emma, rolling her eyes at me. “I think we all do. So Becky, if Bill doesn't like risk—are you saying he's right to avoid the stock market?”

“No,” I reply. “Actually, I'm not saying that at all. Because maybe what Bill isn't quite seeing is that there's more than one kind of risk. If you invest in the stock market, yes, you risk losing some money in the short term. But if you simply tuck it away in the bank for years and years, an even greater risk is that this inheritance will be eroded over time by inflation.”

“Aha,” puts in Rory wisely. “Inflation.”

“In twenty years' time, it could well be worth very little—compared to what it would probably have achieved on the market. So if Bill is only in his thirties and wants to make a long-term investment—although it seems risky, it's in many ways
safer
to choose a balanced stock market portfolio.”

“I see!” says Emma, and gives me an admiring look. “I would never have looked at it like that.”

“Successful investment is often simply a question of thinking laterally,” I say, smiling modestly.

I
love
it when I get the answer right and everyone looks impressed.

“Does that help you, Judy?” says Emma.

“Yes,” says Judy. “Yes, it does! I've videotaped this call, so I'll show it to Bill tonight.”

“Oh right!” I say. “Well, check what kind of tie he's wearing first.”

Everyone laughs, and I join in after a pause—though I wasn't actually joking.

“Time for one more quick call,” says Emma. “And we have Enid from Northampton, who wants to know if she's got enough money to retire on. Enid, is that right?”

“Yes, that's right,” comes Enid's voice down the line. “My husband Tony's recently retired, and I was on holiday last week—just at home with him, cooking and so forth. And he . . . we got to thinking . . . how about I retire early, too? But I wasn't sure I had enough saved up, so I thought I'd call in.”

“What kind of financial provision have you made for retirement, Enid?” I ask.

“I've a pension which I've contributed to all my life,” says Enid hesitantly, “and I've a couple of savings plans . . . and I've a recent inheritance which should see off the mortgage . . .”

“Well!” says Emma brightly. “Even
I
can see that you're pretty well set up, Enid. I'd say, happy retirement!”

“Right,” says Enid. “I see. So—there's no reason for me not to retire. It's just as Tony said.” There's silence apart from her breathing unsteadily down the line, and Emma gives me a quick glance. I know the producer, Barry, must be yelling into her earpiece to fill the space.

“So good luck, Enid!” she says brightly. “Becky, on the subject of retirement planning—”

“Just . . . hold on a moment,” I say, frowning slightly. “Enid, there's no obvious financial reason for you not to retire. But . . . what about the most important reason of all? Do you actually
want
to retire?”

“Well.” Enid's voice falters slightly. “I'm in my fifties now. I mean, you have to move on, don't you? And as Tony said, it'll give us a chance to spend more time together.”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

There's another silence.

“I do. Yes. It's a good crowd, at work. I'm older than most of them, but somehow that doesn't seem to matter when we're having a laugh . . .”

“Well, I'm afraid that's all we've got time for,” cuts in Emma, who has been listening intently to her earpiece. She smiles at the camera. “Good luck in your retirement, Enid . . .”

“Wait!” I say quickly. “Enid, please stay on the line if you'd like to talk about this a bit more. OK?”

“Yes,” says Enid after a pause. “Yes, I'd like that.”

“We're going to go to weather now,” says Rory, who always perks up as the finance slot comes to an end. “But a final word, Becky?”

“Same as always,” I say, smiling at the camera. “Look after your money . . .”

“. . . and your money will look after you!” chime in Rory and Emma. After a frozen pause, everyone relaxes and Zelda, the assistant producer, strides onto the set.

“Well done!” she says. “Great stuff. Now, Becky, we've still got Enid on line four. But we can get rid of her if you like . . .”

“No!” I say. “I really want to talk to her. You know, I reckon she doesn't want to retire at all!”

“Whatever,” says Zelda, ticking something on her clipboard. “Oh, and Luke's waiting for you at reception.”

“Already?” I look at my watch. “Oh God . . . OK—can you tell him I won't be long?”

I honestly don't intend to spend that long on the phone. But once I get talking to Enid, it all comes out—about how she's dreading retirement, and how her husband just wants her at home to cook for him. How she really loves her job and she was thinking about taking a computer course but her husband says it's a waste of money . . . By the end I'm completely outraged. I've said exactly what I think, several times over, and am in the middle of asking Enid if she considers herself a feminist, when Zelda taps me on the shoulder and suddenly I remember where I am.

It takes me about another five minutes to apologize to Enid and say I've got to go, then for her to apologize to
me—
and for us both to say good-bye and thank you and don't mention it, about twenty times. Then, as quickly as possible, I head to my dressing room and change out of my
Morning Coffee
outfit into my driving outfit.

I'm quite pleased with my appearance as I look at myself in the mirror. I'm wearing: a Pucci-esque multicolored top, frayed denim cutoffs, my new sandals, Gucci shades (Harvey Nichols sale—half price!), and my treasured pale blue Denny and George scarf.

Luke's got a real thing about my Denny and George scarf. When people ask us how we met, he always says, “Our eyes met across a Denny and George scarf,” which is actually kind of true. He lent me some of the money I needed to buy it, and he still maintains I never paid him back so it's partly his. (Which is
so
not true. I paid him back straight away.)

Anyway, I tend to wear it quite a lot when we go out together. Also when we stay in together. In fact, I'll tell you a small secret—sometimes we even . . .

Actually, no. You don't need to know that. Forget I mentioned it.

As I eventually hurry into reception I glance at my watch—and oh God, I'm forty minutes late. And there's Luke sitting on a squashy chair, wearing the gorgeous polo shirt I bought him in the Ralph Lauren sale. He's talking intently on his mobile phone and sipping a cup of coffee and frowning at something in the paper. But then he looks up and his dark eyes meet mine, and his whole face breaks into a smile. A true, affectionate smile, which makes him seem like a different person.

When I first knew Luke, I only ever saw him businesslike and polite, or scarily angry, or—very occasionally—amused. Even after we started seeing each other, it was a long time before he really let his guard down. In fact, the first time he really, really laughed, I was so surprised, I snorted lemonade through my nose.

Even now, whenever I see his face creasing into a real smile, I feel a bit of a lift inside. Because I know he's not like that with everyone. He's smiling like that because it's me. For me.

“I'm really sorry I took so long,” I say. “I was just . . .”

“I know,” says Luke, closing his paper and standing up. “You were talking to Enid.” He gives me a kiss and squeezes my arm. “I saw the last couple of calls. Good for you.”

“You just won't believe what her husband's like!” I say as we go through the swing doors and out into the car park. “No wonder she wants to keep working!”

“I can imagine.”

“He just thinks she's there to give him an easy life.” I shake my head fiercely. “You know, I'm never going to just . . . stay at home and cook your supper. Never in a million years.”

There's a short silence, and I look up to see Luke's amused expression.

“Or . . . you know,” I add hastily. “Anyone's supper.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” says Luke mildly. “I'm especially glad if you're never going to cook me Moroccan couscous surprise.”

“You know what I mean,” I say, flushing slightly. “And you promised you weren't going to talk about that anymore.”

My famous Moroccan evening was quite soon after we started going out. I really wanted to show Luke that I could cook—and I'd seen this program about Moroccan cooking which made it look really easy and impressive. Plus there was some gorgeous Moroccan tableware on sale in Debenhams, so it should have all been perfect.

But that soggy couscous. It was the most revolting stuff I've ever seen in my life. Even after I tried Suze's suggestion of stir-frying it with mango chutney. And there was so
much
of it, all swelling up in bowls everywhere . . .

Anyway. Never mind. We had quite a nice pizza in the end.

We're approaching Luke's convertible in the corner of the car park, and he bleeps it open.

“You got my message, did you?” he says. “About luggage?”

“Yes, I did. Here it is.”

I hand him the dinkiest little suitcase in the world, which I got from a children's gift shop in Guildford. It's white canvas with red hearts stenciled round it, and I use it as a vanity case.

“Is that it?” says Luke, looking astonished, and I stifle a giggle. Ha! This'll show him who can pack light.

All I've got in this case is my makeup and shampoo—but Luke doesn't need to know that, does he?

“Yes, that's it,” I say, raising my eyebrows slightly. “You did say, ‘pack light.' ”

“So I did,” says Luke. “But this—” He gestures at the case. “I'm impressed.”

As he opens the boot, I get into the driving seat and adjust the seat forward so I can reach the pedals. I've always wanted to drive a convertible!

The boot slams behind me, and Luke comes round, a quizzical look on his face.

“You're driving, are you?”

“Part of the way, I thought,” I say carelessly. “Just to take the pressure off you. You know, it's very dangerous to drive for too long.”

“You can drive, can you, in those shoes?” He's looking down at my clementine sandals—and I have to admit, the heel is a bit high for pedaling. But I'm not going to let him know that. “They're new, aren't they?” he adds, looking more closely at them.

And I'm about to say yes, when I remember that the last time I saw him, I had new shoes on—and the time before that, too. Which is really weird and must be one of those random cluster things.

“No!” I reply instead. “Actually, I've had them for ages. Actually . . .” I clear my throat. “They're my driving shoes.”

“Your driving shoes,” echoes Luke skeptically.

“Yes!” I say, and start the engine before he can say any more. God, this car is amazing! It makes a fantastic roaring sound, and a kind of screech as I move it into gear.

“Becky—”

“I'm fine!” I say, and slowly move off across the car park into the street. Oh, this is such a fantastic moment. I wonder if anybody's watching me. I wonder if Emma and Rory are looking out the window. And that sound guy who thinks he's so cool with his motorbike. He hasn't got a convertible, has he? Accidentally on purpose, I lean on the horn, and as the sound echoes round the car park I see at least three people turning to look. Ha! Look at me! Ha-ha-ha . . .

“My petal,” says Luke beside me. “You're causing a traffic jam.”

I glance into my rear mirror—and there are three cars creeping along behind me. Which is ridiculous, because I'm not going
that
slowly.

“Try moving it up a notch,” suggests Luke. “Ten miles an hour, say?”

“I
am,
” I say crossly. “You can't expect me just to whiz off at a million miles an hour! There is a speed limit, you know.”

I reach the exit, smile nonchalantly at the porter at the gate, who gives me a surprised look, and pull out into the road. I signal left and take a last glance back to check if anyone I know has just come out and is watching me admiringly. Then, as a car behind me starts to beep, I carefully pull in at the pavement.