Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (51 page)

“No, he's not,” says Kate the bridesmaid. “I've just been looking in there.”

“Well, he must be . . . in the garden, then.”

“But you were in the garden!” says Lucy, narrowing her eyes. “Didn't you see him?”

“Erm . . . I'm not sure.” I look round the marquee hurriedly, wondering if I could pretend to spot him in the distance. But it's different when there are no milling crowds. Why did they have to stop milling?

“He must be somewhere!” says a cheerful woman. “Who saw him last?”

There's a deathly silence. Two hundred people are staring at me. I catch Mum's anxious eye, and quickly look away again.

“Actually . . .” I clear my throat. “Now I remember, he was saying he had a bit of a headache! So maybe he went to—”

“Who's seen him
at all
?” cuts in Lucy, ignoring me. She looks around the assembled guests. “Who here can say they've actually seen Luke Brandon in the flesh? Anyone?”

“I've seen him!” comes a wavering voice from the back. “Such a good-looking young man . . .”

“Apart from Tom's gran,” says Lucy, rolling her eyes. “Anyone?”

And there's another awful silence.

“I've seen his morning coat,” ventures Janice timidly. “But not his actual . . . body,” she whispers.

“I knew it. I knew it!” Lucy's voice is loud and triumphant. “He never was here, was he?”

“Of course he was!” I say, trying to sound confident. “I expect he's just in the—”

“You're not going out with Luke Brandon at all, are you?” Her voice lashes across the marquee. “You just made the whole thing up! You're just living in your own sad little fantasy land!”

“I'm not!” To my horror, my voice is thickening, and I can feel tears pricking at my eyes. “I'm not! Luke and I are a couple!”

But as I look at all the faces gazing at me—some hostile, some astonished, some amused—I don't even feel so sure of that anymore. I mean, if we were a couple, he'd be here, wouldn't he? He'd be here with me.

“I'll just . . .” I say in a trembling voice. “I'll just check if he's . . .”

And without looking anyone in the eye, I back out of the marquee.

“She's a bloody fruit loop!” I hear Lucy saying. “Honestly, Tom, she could be dangerous!”

“
You're
dangerous, young lady!” I hear Mum retorting, her voice shaking a little. “Janice, I don't know how you could let your daughter-in-law be so rude! Becky's been a good friend to you, over the years. And to you, Tom, standing there, pretending this has nothing to do with you. And this is the way you treat her. Come on, Graham. We're going.”

And a moment later, I see Mum stalking out of the marquee, Dad in tow, her lime-green hat quivering on her head. They head toward the front drive, and I know they're going back to our house for a nice, calming cup of tea.

But I don't follow them. I can't bring myself to see them—or anyone.

I walk quickly, stumbling slightly, toward the other end of the garden. Then, when I'm far enough away, I sink down onto the grass. I bury my head in my hands—and, for the first time today, feel tears oozing out of my eyes.

This should have been such a good day. It should have been such a wonderful, happy occasion. Seeing Tom get married, introducing Luke to my parents and all our friends, dancing together into the night . . . And instead, it's been spoiled for everyone. Mum, Dad, Janice, Martin . . . I even feel sorry for Lucy and Tom. I mean, they didn't want all this disruption at their wedding, did they?

For what seems like ages I sit without moving, staring down at the ground. From the marquee I can hear the sounds of a band starting up, and Lucy's voice bossing somebody about. Some children are playing with a bean bag in the garden and occasionally it lands near me. But I don't flicker. I wish I could just sit here forever, without having to see any of them ever again.

And then I hear my name, low across the grass.

At first I think Lucy's right, and I'm hearing imaginary voices. But as I look up, my heart gives an almighty flip and I feel something hard blocking my throat. I don't believe it.

It's him.

It's Luke, walking across the grass, toward me, like a dream. He's wearing morning dress and holding two glasses of champagne, and I've never seen him looking more handsome.

“I'm sorry,” he says as he reaches me. “I'm beyond sorry. Four hours late is . . . well, it's unforgivable.” He shakes his head.

I stare up at him dazedly. I'd almost started to believe that Lucy was right, and he only existed in my own imagination.

“Were you . . . held up?” I say at last.

“A guy had a heart attack. The plane was diverted . . .” He frowns. “But I left a message on your phone as soon as I could. Didn't you get it?”

I grab for my phone, realizing with a sickening thud that I haven't checked it for a good while. I've been too busy dealing with imaginary Luke to think about the real one. And sure enough, the little message icon is blinking merrily.

“No, I didn't get it,” I say, staring at it blankly. “I didn't. I thought . . .”

I break off and shake my head. I don't know what I thought anymore.

“Are you all right?” says Luke, sitting down beside me and handing me a glass of champagne. He runs a finger gently down my face and I flinch.

“No,” I say, rubbing my cheek. “Since you ask, I'm not all right. You promised you'd be here. You
promised,
Luke.”

“I
am
here.”

“You know what I mean.” I hunch my arms miserably round my knees. “I wanted you to be there at the service, not arrive when it's all nearly over. I wanted everyone to meet you, and see us together . . .” My voice starts to wobble. “It's just been . . . awful! They all thought I was after the bridegroom—”

“The bridegroom?” says Luke incredulously. “You mean the pale-faced nonentity called Tom?”

“Yes, him.” I look up and give a reluctant half-giggle as I see Luke's expression. “Did you meet him, then?”

“I met him just now. And his very unlovely wife. Quite a pair.” He takes a sip of champagne and leans back on his elbows. “By the way—she looked rather taken aback to meet me. Almost . . . gobsmacked, one might say. As did most of the guests.” He gives me a quizzical look. “Anything I should know?”

“Erm . . .” I clear my throat. “Erm . . . not really. Nothing important.”

“I thought as much,” says Luke. “So the bridesmaid who cried out, ‘Oh my God, he exists!' when I walked in. She's presumably . . .”

“Mad,” I say without moving my head.

“Right.” He nods. “Just checking.”

He reaches out for my hand, and I let him take it. For a while we sit in silence. A bird is wheeling round and round overhead, and in the distance I can hear the band playing “Lady in Red.”

“Becky, I'm sorry I was late.” His voice is suddenly grave. “There was really nothing I could do. I gave a lot of people a lot of grief, believe me.”

“I'm sure you did.” I exhale sharply. “You couldn't help it. Just one of those things.”

For a while longer we're both silent.

“Good champagne,” says Luke eventually, and takes a sip.

“Yes,” I say. “It's . . . very nice. Nice and . . . dry . . .” I break off and rub my face, trying to hide how nervous I am.

There's part of me that wants to sit here, making small talk for as long as we can. But another part is thinking, what's the point in putting it off any longer? There's only one thing I want to know. I feel a spasm of nerves in my stomach, but somehow force myself to take a deep breath and turn to him.

“So. How did your meetings in Zurich go? How's the . . . the new deal coming along?”

I'm trying to stay calm and collected—but I can feel my lips starting to tremble, and my hands are twisting themselves into knots.

“Becky . . .” says Luke. He stares into his glass for a moment, then puts it down. “There's something I need to tell you. I'm moving to New York.”

I feel cold and heavy. So this is the end to a completely disastrous day. Luke's leaving me. It's the end. It's all over.

“Right,” I manage, and give a careless shrug. “I see. Well—OK.”

There's silence—and I force myself to look up. The love in Luke's dark eyes hits me like a thunderbolt.

“And I'm really,
really
hoping . . .” He takes both my hands and squeezes them tight. “. . . that you'll come with me.”

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

17 September 2000

Dear Rebecca Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of 15 September.

I am glad that you are looking forward to flying with us and have already recommended us highly to all your friends. I agree that word-of-mouth business is invaluable for a company such as ours and may well send our revenues “rocketing.”

Unfortunately this does not, as you suggest, qualify you for “a special little thank-you” regarding luggage. Regal Airlines is unable to increase your luggage allowance beyond the standard 20 kg. Any excess weight will be subject to a charge; I enclose an explanatory leaflet.

Please enjoy your flight.

Mary Stevens
Customer Care Manager

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

19 September 2000

GOOD NEWS!
YOUR NEW CREDIT LIMIT IS £10,000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

We are delighted to announce that you have been given an increase to your credit limit. Your new credit limit of £10,000 is available for you to spend immediately and will be shown on your next statement.

You can use your new credit limit to do many things. Pay for a holiday, a car, even transfer balances from other cards!

However, we realize that some customers do not wish to take advantage of increased credit limits. If you would prefer your credit limit to remain at its original level, please call one of our Customer Satisfaction Representatives, or return the form below.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Hunt
Customer Satisfaction Manager

Seven

N
EW
Y
ORK!
I'm going to New York!
New York!

Everything is transformed.
This
is why Luke has been so secretive. We had a lovely long chat at the wedding, and Luke explained everything to me, and suddenly it all made sense. It turns out he's opening up a new office of Brandon Communications in New York, in partnership with some advertising supremo called Michael Ellis who is based in Washington. And Luke's going to go over there and head it up. He said he's been wanting to ask me all along to come with him—but he knew I wouldn't want to give up my career just to trail along with him. So—this is the best bit—he's been speaking to some contacts in television, and he reckons I'll be able to get a job as a financial expert on an American TV show! In fact, he says I'll get “snapped up” because Americans love British accents. Apparently one producer has already practically offered me a job just from seeing a tape Luke sent him. Isn't that great?

The reason he didn't say anything before was he didn't want to raise my hopes before things started looking definite. But now, apparently, all the investors are on board, and everyone's really positive, and they're hoping to finalize the deal as soon as possible. Michael Ellis's agency advertises for most of the big financial players—and he's already been talking to them all about the new company. So there are loads of potential clients out there for Luke, and that's before he's even started.

And guess what? We're going over there in three days' time! Hooray! Luke's going to have meetings with some of his backers—and I'm going to have some interviews with TV people and explore the city. God, it's exciting. In just seventy-two hours, I'll be there. In the Big Apple. The city that never sleeps. The—

“Becky?”

Oh shit. I snap to attention and hastily smile brightly. I'm sitting on the set of
Morning Coffee,
doing my usual phone-in, and Jane from Lincoln has been explaining over the line that she wants to buy a property but doesn't know which kind of mortgage to take out.

Oh, for goodness' sake. How many times have I explained the difference between repayment plans and endowment policies? You know, sometimes this job can be so interesting, hearing about people and their problems and trying to help them. But other times—to be honest—it's just as boring as
Successful Saving
ever was. I mean, mortgages
again
? I feel like yelling, “Didn't you watch last week's show?”

“Well, Jane!” I say, stifling a yawn. “You're right to be concerned about redemption penalties.”

As I speak, my mind begins to drift again toward New York. Just think. We'll have an apartment in Manhattan. In some amazing Upper East Side condo—or maybe somewhere really cool in Greenwich Village. Yes! It's just going to be perfect.

To be honest, I hadn't thought of Luke and me living together for . . . well, for ages. I reckon if we'd stayed in London, perhaps we wouldn't have. I mean, it's quite a big step, isn't it? But as Luke said, this is the chance of a lifetime for both of us. It's a whole new beginning. It's yellow taxicabs and skyscrapers, and Woody Allen and
Breakfast at Tiffany's.

The weird thing is that although I've never actually been to New York, I already feel an affinity toward it. Like for example, I adore sushi—and that was invented in New York, wasn't it? And I always watch
Friends,
unless I'm going out that night. And
Cheers.
(Except now I come to think of it, that's Boston. Still, it's the same thing, really.)

“So really, Jane, whatever you're buying,” I say dreamily, “be it a . . . a Fifth Avenue duplex . . . or an East Village walk-up . . . you must maximize the potential of your dollar. Which means . . .”

I stop as I see both Emma and Rory staring at me strangely.

“Becky, Jane is planning to buy a semidetached house in Skegness,” says Emma.

“And surely it's pounds?” says Rory, looking around, as though for support. “Isn't it?”

“Yes, well,” I say hurriedly. “Obviously, I was just using those as examples. The principles apply wherever you're buying. London, New York, Skegness . . .”

“And on that international note, I'm afraid we'll have to finish,” says Emma. “Hope that helped you, Jane, and thanks once again to Becky Bloomwood, our financial expert . . . do you have time for a last word, Becky?”

“The same message as ever,” I say, smiling warmly into the camera. “Look after your money . . .”

“And your money will look after you,” everyone choruses dutifully.

“And that brings us to the end of the show,” says Emma. “Join us tomorrow, when we'll be making over a trio of teachers from Teddington . . .”

“. . . talking to the man who became a circus performer at sixty-five . . .” says Rory.

“. . . and giving away £5,000 in ‘Go On—Have a Guess!' Good-bye!”

There's a frozen pause—then everyone relaxes as the signature music starts blaring out of the loudspeakers.

“So—Becky—are you going to New York or something?” says Rory.

“Yes,” I say, beaming back at him. “For two weeks!”

“How nice!” says Emma. “What brought this on?”

“Oh, I don't know . . .” I shrug vaguely. “Just a sudden whim.”

I'm not telling anyone at
Morning Coffee
yet about moving to New York. It was Luke's advice, actually. Just in case.

“Becky, I wanted a quick word,” says Zelda, one of the assistant producers, bustling onto the set with some papers in her hand. “Your new contract is ready to be signed, but I'll need to go through it with you. There's a new clause about representing the image of the station.” She lowers her voice. “After all that business with Professor Jamie.”

“Oh right,” I say, and pull a sympathetic face. Professor Jamie is the education expert on
Morning Coffee.
Or at least he was, until
The Daily World
ran an exposé on him last month in their series “Are They What They Seem?” revealing that he isn't a real professor at all. In fact, he hasn't even got a degree, except the fake one he bought from the “University of Oxbridge.” All the tabloids picked up the story, and kept showing photographs of him in the dunce's hat he wore for last year's telethon. I felt really sorry for him, actually, because he used to give good advice.

And I was a bit surprised at
The Daily World
being so vicious. I've actually written for
The Daily World
myself, once or twice, and I'd always thought they were quite reasonable, for a tabloid.

“It won't take five minutes,” says Zelda. “We could go into my office—”

“Well . . .” I say, and hesitate. Because I don't really want to sign anything at the moment. Not if I'm planning to switch jobs. “I'm in a bit of a hurry, actually.” Which is true, because I've got to get to Luke's office by twelve, and then start getting my stuff ready for New York. (Ha! Ha-ha!) “Can it wait till I come back?”

“OK,” says Zelda. “No problem.” She puts the contract back in its brown envelope and grins at me. “Have a great time. Hey, you know, you must do some shopping while you're there.”

“Shopping?” I say, as though it hadn't occurred to me. “Yes, I suppose I could.”

“Ooh yes!” says Emma. “You can't go to New York without shopping! Although I suppose Becky would tell us we should put our money into a savings plan instead.”

She laughs merrily and Zelda joins in. And I smile back, feeling a bit uncomfortable. Somehow, all the people at
Morning Coffee
have got the idea I'm incredibly organized with my money—and, without quite meaning to, I've gone along with it. Still, I don't suppose it really matters.

“A savings plan is a good idea, of course . . .” I hear myself saying. “But as I always say, there's no harm going shopping once in a while as long as you stick to a budget.”

“Is that what you're going to do, then?” asks Emma interestedly. “Give yourself a budget?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I say wisely. “It's the only way.”

Which is completely true. I mean, obviously I'm planning to give myself a New York shopping budget. I'll set realistic limits and I'll stick to them. It's really very simple.

Although what I'll do is make the limits fairly broad and flexible. Because it's always a good idea to allow some extra leeway for emergencies or one-offs.

“You're so virtuous!” says Emma, shaking her head. “Still—that's why you're the financial expert and I'm not . . .” Emma looks up as the sandwich man approaches us with a tray of sandwiches. “Ooh lovely, I'm starving! I'll have . . . bacon and avocado.”

“And I'll have tuna and sweet corn,” says Zelda. “What do you want, Becky?”

“Pastrami on rye,” I say casually. “Hold the mayo.”

“I don't think they do that,” says Zelda, wrinkling her brow. “They've got ham salad . . .”

“Then a bagel. Cream cheese and lox. And a soda.”

“Soda water, do you mean?” says Zelda.

“What's lox?” says Emma puzzledly—and I pretend I haven't heard. I'm not actually sure what lox is—but everyone eats it in New York, so it's got to be delicious.

“Whatever it is,” says the sandwich man, “I 'aven't got it. You can 'ave cheese and tomato and a nice packet of Hula Hoops.”

“OK,” I say reluctantly, and reach for my purse. As I do so, a pile of post that I picked up this morning falls out of my bag, onto the floor. Shit. Hastily, I gather all the letters up, and shove them into my Conran Shop carrier bag, hoping no one spotted them. But bloody Rory was looking straight at me.

“Hey, Becky,” he says, giving a guffawing laugh. “Was that a red bill I saw there?”

“No!” I say at once. “Of course not! It's a . . . a birthday card. A joke birthday card. For my accountant. Anyway, I must run. Ciao!”

OK, so that wasn't quite true. It was a red bill. To be honest, there have been quite a few red bills arriving for me over the last few days, which I'm completely intending to get round to paying off when I've got the cash. But I mean, I've got more important things happening in my life than a few crappy final demands. In a few months' time, I'm going to be living on the other side of the Atlantic. I'm going to be an American television star!

Luke says I'll probably earn twice in the States what I do here. If not more! So a few crummy bills won't exactly matter then, will they? A few outstanding pounds won't exactly ruin my sleep when I'm a household name and living in a Park Avenue penthouse.

God, and that'll completely suss that horrible John Gavin. Just imagine his face when I march in and tell him I'm going to be the new anchorwoman on CNN, on a salary six times what he earns. That'll teach him to be so nasty. I finally got round to opening his latest letter this morning, and it actually quite upset me. What does he mean, “excessive level of debt”? What does he mean, “special status”? You know, Derek Smeath would never have been so rude to me, not in a million years.

Luke's in a meeting when I arrive, but that's OK, because I don't mind hanging around. I love visiting the Brandon Communications offices—in fact, I pop in there quite a lot, just for the atmosphere. It's such a cool place—all blond-wood floors and spotlights and trendy sofas, and people rushing around being really busy and dynamic. Everyone stays really late every night, even though they don't have to—and at about seven o'clock someone always opens a bottle of wine and passes it around.

I've got a present to give his assistant Mel for her birthday, which was yesterday. I'm quite pleased with it actually—it's a gorgeous pair of cushions from the Conran Shop—and as I hand over the carrier bag, I actually hear her gasp, “Oh, Becky! You shouldn't have!”

“I wanted to!” I beam, and perch companionably on her desk as she admires them. “So—what's the latest?''

Ooh, you can't beat a good gossip. Mel puts down the carrier bag and gets out a box of toffees, and we have a lovely old natter. I hear all about her terrible date with an awful guy her mother's been trying to set her up with, and she hears all about Tom's wedding. And then she lowers her voice and starts filling me in on all the office gossip.

She tells me all about the two receptionists who haven't been speaking ever since they came to work in the same Next jacket and both refused to take it off—and the girl in accounts who has just come back from maternity leave and is throwing up every morning but won't admit anything.

“And here's a really juicy one!” she says, handing me the box of toffees. “I reckon Alicia's having an affair in the office.”

“No!” I stare at her in amazement. “Really? With who?”

“With Ben Bridges.”

I screw up my face, trying to place the name.

“That new guy who used to be at Coupland Foster Bright.”

“Him?” I stare at Mel. “Really?”

I have to say I'm surprised. He's very sweet, but quite short and pushy. Not what I would have said was Alicia's type.

“I keep seeing them together, kind of whispering. And the other day Alicia said she was going to the dentist—but I went into Ratchetts and there they were, having a secret lunch—”

She breaks off as Luke appears at the door of his office, ushering out a man in a purple shirt.

“Mel, order a taxi for Mr. Mallory, would you please?”

“Of course, Luke,” says Mel, switching into her efficient secretary voice. She picks up the phone and we grin at each other—then I walk into Luke's office.

His office is so smart. I always forget how grand he is. He's got a sweeping maple desk that was designed by some award-winning Danish designer, and on the shelves in the alcove behind it are all his shiny PR awards.

“Here you are,” he says, handing me a sheaf of papers. The top one is a letter from someone called “Howski and Forlano, U.S. Immigration Lawyers,” and as I see the words “your proposed relocation to the United States,” I feel a tingle of excitement which reaches right to my fingertips.

“This is really happening, isn't it?” I say, walking over to his floor-length window and gazing down at the busy street below. “We're really going to New York.”

“The flights are booked,” he says, grinning at me.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do know just what you mean,” he echoes, and wraps me in his arms. “And it's very exciting.”