Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (70 page)

“Yes?”

“I'm serious now. Whether you decide to take up my offer or not, don't fall into anything else.” He shakes his head. “You're too young to settle. Look into your heart—and go after what you really want.”

Sixteen

I
DON
'
T DECIDE
straight away. It takes me about two weeks of pacing around the flat, drinking endless cups of coffee, talking to my parents, Suze, Michael, my old boss Philip, this new television agent Cassandra . . . basically everyone I can think of. But in the end I know. I know in my heart what I really want to do.

Luke hasn't called—and to be honest, I shouldn't think I'll ever speak to him again. Michael says he's working about seventeen hours a day—trying simultaneously to salvage Brandon Communications and keep interest open in the States—and is very stressed indeed. Apparently he still hasn't got over the shock of discovering that Alicia was plotting against him—and that Bank of London was still considering moving with her. The shock of discovering he wasn't “immune to shit,” as Michael so poetically put it. “That's the trouble with having the whole world love you,” he said to me the other day. “One day, you wake up and it's flirting with your best friend instead. And you don't know what to do. You're thrown.”

“So—has Luke been thrown by all this?” I asked, twisting my fingers into a knot.

“Thrown?” exclaimed Michael. “He's been hurled across the paddock and trampled on by a herd of wild boar.”

Several times I've picked up the phone with a sudden longing to speak to him. But then I've always taken a deep breath and put it down again. That's his life now. I've got to get on with mine. My whole new life.

There's a sound at the door, and I look round. Suze is standing in the doorway, staring into my empty room.

“Oh, Bex,” she says miserably. “I don't like it. Put it all back. Make it messy again.”

“At least it's all feng shui now,” I say, attempting a smile. “It'll probably bring you loads of luck.”

She comes in and walks across the empty carpet to the window, then turns round.

“It seems smaller,” she says slowly. “It should look bigger without all your clutter, shouldn't it? But somehow . . . it doesn't work like that. It looks like a nasty bare little box.”

There's silence for a while as I watch a tiny spider climbing up the windowpane.

“Have you decided what you're going to do with it?” I say at last. “Are you going to get a new flatmate?”

“I don't think so,” says Suze. “I mean, there's no rush, is there. Tarkie said why not just have it as my office for a while.”

“Did he?” I turn to look at her with raised eyebrows. “That reminds me. Did I hear Tarquin here again last night? And creeping out this morning?”

“No,” says Suze, looking flustered. “I mean—yes.” She catches my eye and blushes. “But it was completely the last ever time. Ever.”

“You make such a lovely couple,” I say, grinning at her.

“Don't
say
that!” she exclaims in horror. “We're not a couple.”

“OK,” I say, relenting. “Whatever.” I look at my watch. “You know, we ought to be going.”

“Yes. I suppose so. Oh, Bex—”

I look at Suze—and her eyes are suddenly full of tears.

“I know.” I squeeze her hand tightly and for a moment neither of us says anything. Then I reach for my coat. “Come on.”

We walk along to the King George pub at the end of the road. We make our way through the bar and up a flight of wooden stairs to a large private room furnished with red velvet curtains, a bar, and lots of trestle tables set up on both sides. A makeshift platform has been set up at one end, and there are rows of plastic chairs in the middle.

“Hello!” says Tarquin, spotting us as we enter. “Come and have a drink.” He lifts his glass. “The red's not at all bad.”

“Is the tab all set up behind the bar?” says Suze.

“Absolutely,” says Tarquin. “All organized.”

“Bex—that's on us,” says Suze, putting her hand on me as I reach for my purse. “A good-bye present.”

“Suze, you don't have to—”

“I wanted to,” she says firmly. “So did Tarkie.”

“Let me get you some drinks,” says Tarquin—then adds, lowering his voice, “It's a pretty good turnout, don't you think?”

As he walks off, Suze and I turn to survey the room. There are tables set out round the room, and people are milling around, looking at neatly folded piles of clothes, shoes, CDs, and assorted bits of bric-a-brac. On one table is a pile of typed, photocopied catalogues, and people are marking them as they wander round.

I can hear a girl in leather jeans saying, “Look at this coat! Ooh, and these Hobbs boots! I'm definitely going to bid for those!” On the other side of the room, two girls are trying pairs of trousers up against themselves while their boyfriends patiently hold their drinks.

“Who
are
all these people?” I say disbelievingly. “Did you invite them all?”

“Well, I went down my address book,” says Suze. “And Tarquin's address book. And Fenny's . . .”

“Oh well,” I say with a laugh. “That explains it.”

“Hi, Becky!” says a bright voice behind me—and I swivel round to see Fenella's friend Milla, with a pair of girls I half-recognize. “I'm going to bid for your purple cardigan! And Tory's going to go for that dress with the fur, and Annabel's seen about six thousand things she wants! We were just wondering, is there an accessories section?”

“Over there,” says Suze, pointing to the corner of the room.

“Thanks!” says Milla. “See you later!” The three girls trip off into the melee, and I hear one of them saying, “I
really
need a good belt . . .”

“Becky!” says Tarquin, suddenly coming up behind me. “Here's some wine. And let me introduce Caspar, my chum from Christie's.”

“Oh hello!” I say, turning round to see a guy with floppy blond hair, a blue shirt, and an enormous gold signet ring. “Thank you so much for doing this! I'm really grateful.”

“Not at all, not at all,” says Caspar. “Now, I've been through the catalogue and it all seems fairly straightforward. Do you have a list of reserve prices?”

“No,” I say without pausing. “No reserves. Everything must go.”

“Fine.” He smiles at me. “Well, I'll go and get set up.”

As he walks off I take a sip of my wine. Suze has gone off to look round some of the tables, so I stand alone for a while, watching as the crowd grows. Fenella arrives at the door, and I give her a wave—but she's immediately swallowed up in a group of shrieking friends.

“Hi, Becky,” comes a hesitant voice behind me. I wheel round in shock, and find myself staring up at Tom Webster.

“Tom!” I exclaim in shock. “What are you doing here? How do you know about this?” He takes a sip from his glass and gives a little grin.

“Suze called your mum, and she told me all about it. She and my mum have put in some orders, actually.” He pulls a list out of his pocket. “Your mum wants your cappuccino maker. If it's for sale.”

“Oh, it's for sale,” I say. “I'll tell the auctioneer to make sure you get it.”

“And my mum wants that pink hat you wore to our wedding.”

“Right. No problem.” At the reminder of his wedding, I feel myself growing slightly warm.

“So—how's married life?” I say, examining one of my nails.

“Oh . . . it's all right,” he says after a pause.

“Is it as blissful as you expected?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Well, you know . . .” He stares into his glass, a slightly hunted look in his eye. “It would be unrealistic to expect everything to be perfect straight off. Wouldn't it?”

“I suppose so.”

There's an awkward silence between us. In the distance I can hear someone saying, “Kate Spade! Look, brand new!”

“Becky, I'm really sorry,” says Tom in a rush. “The way we behaved toward you at the wedding.”

“That's all right!” I say, a little too brightly.

“It's not all right.” He shakes his head. “Your mum was bang on. You're one of my oldest friends. I've been feeling really bad, ever since.”

“Honestly, Tom. It was my fault, too. I mean, I should have just admitted Luke wasn't there!” I smile ruefully. “It would have been a lot simpler.”

“But if Lucy was giving you a hard time, I can really understand why you felt you just had to . . . to . . .” He breaks off, and takes a deep swig of his drink. “Anyway. Luke seemed like a nice guy. Is he coming tonight?”

“No,” I say after a pause, and force a smile. “No, he isn't.”

After half an hour or so, people begin to take their seats on the rows of plastic chairs. At the back of the room are five or six friends of Tarquin's holding mobile phones, and Caspar explains to me that they're on the line to telephone bidders.

“They're people who heard about it but couldn't come, for whatever reason. We've been circulating the catalogues fairly widely, and a lot of people are interested. The Vera Wang dress alone attracted a great deal of attention.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling a sudden lurch of emotion, “I expect it did.” I look around the room, at the bright, expectant faces, at the people still taking a last look at the tables. A girl is leafing through a pile of jeans; someone else is trying out the clasp on my dinky little white case. I can't quite believe that after tonight, none of these things will be mine anymore. They'll be in other people's wardrobes. Other people's rooms.

“Are you all right?” says Caspar, following my gaze.

“Yes!” I say brightly. “Why shouldn't I be all right?”

“I've done a lot of house sales,” he says kindly. “I know what it's like. One gets very attached to one's possessions. Whether it's an eighteenth-century chiffonier, or . . .” He glances at the catalogue. “A pink leopard-print coat.”

“Actually—I never much liked that coat.” I gave him a resolute smile. “And anyway, that's not the point. I want to start again and I think—I
know—
this is the best way.” I smile at him. “Come on. Let's get going, shall we?”

“Absolutely.” He raps on his lectern and raises his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen! First, on behalf of Becky Bloomwood, I'd like to welcome you all here this evening. We've got quite a lot to get through, so I won't delay you—except to remind you that 25 percent of everything raised tonight is going to a range of charities—plus any remainder of the proceeds after Becky has paid off all her outstanding accounts.”

“I hope they're not holding their breath,” says a dry voice from the back, and everyone laughs. I peer through the crowd to see who it is—and I don't believe it. It's Derek Smeath, standing there with a pint in one hand, a catalogue in the other. He gives me a little smile, and I give a shy wave back.

“How did he know about this?” I hiss to Suze, who has come to join me on the platform.

“I told him, of course!” she says. “He said he thought it was a marvelous idea. He said when you use your brain, no one comes near you for ingenuity.”

“Really?” I glance at Derek Smeath again and flush slightly.

“So,” says Caspar. “I present Lot One. A pair of clementine sandals, very good condition, hardly worn.” He lifts them onto the table and Suze squeezes my hand sympathetically. “Do I have any bids?”

“I bid £15,000,” says Tarquin, sticking up his hand at once.

“Fifteen thousand pounds,” says Caspar, sounding a bit taken aback. “I have a bid of £15,000—”

“No, you don't!” I interrupt. “Tarquin, you can't bid £15,000!”

“Why not?”

“You have to bid
realistic
prices.” I give him a stern look. “Otherwise you'll be banned from the bidding.”

“OK . . . £1,000.”

“No! You can bid . . . £10,” I say firmly.

“All right, then. Ten pounds.” He puts his hand down meekly.

“Fifteen pounds,” comes a voice from the back.

“Twenty!” cries a girl near the front.

“Twenty-five,” says Tarquin.

“Thirty!”

“Thirt—” Tarquin catches my eye, blushes, and stops.

“Thirty pounds. Any further bids on 30 . . .” Caspar looks around the room, his eyes suddenly like a hawk's. “Going . . . going . . . gone! To the girl in the green velvet coat.” He grins at me, scribbles something on a piece of paper, and hands the shoes to Fenella, who is in charge of distributing sold items.

“Your first £30!” whispers Suze in my ear.

“Lot Two!” says Caspar. “Three embroidered cardigans from Jigsaw, unworn, with price tags still attached. Can I start the bidding at . . .”

“Twenty pounds!” says a girl in pink.

“Twenty-five!” cries another girl.

“I have a telephone bid of 30,” says a guy raising his hand at the back.

“Thirty pounds from one of our telephone bidders . . . Any advance on 30? Remember, ladies and gentlemen, this
will
be raising funds for charity . . .”

“Thirty-five!” cries the girl in pink, and turns to her neighbor. “I mean, they'd be more than that each in the shop, wouldn't they? And they've never even been worn!”

God, she's right. I mean, thirty-five quid for three cardigans is nothing. Nothing!

“Forty!” I hear myself crying, before I can stop myself. The whole room turns to look at me, and I feel myself furiously blushing. “I mean . . . does anyone want to bid 40?”

The bidding goes on and on, and I can't believe how much money is being raised. My shoe collection raises at least £1,000, a set of Dinny Hall jewelry goes for £200—and Tom Webster bids £600 for my computer.

“Tom,” I say anxiously, as he comes up to the platform to fill in his slip. “Tom, you shouldn't have bid all that money.”

“For a brand-new Apple Mac?” says Tom. “It's worth it. Besides, Lucy's been saying she wants her own computer for a while.” He gives a half-smile. “I'm kind of looking forward to telling her she's got your castoff.”

“Lot Seventy-three,” says Caspar beside me. “And one which I know is going to attract a great deal of interest. A Vera Wang cocktail dress.” He slowly holds up the inky purple dress, and there's an appreciative gasp from the crowd.

But actually—I don't think I can watch this go. This is too painful, too recent. My beautiful glittering movie-star dress. I can't even look at it without remembering it all, like a slow-motion cine-film. Dancing with Luke in New York; drinking cocktails; that heady, happy excitement. And then waking up and seeing everything crash around me.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, and get to my feet. I head quickly out of the room, down the stairs, and into the fresh evening air. I lean against the side of the pub, listening to the laughter and chatter inside, and take a few deep breaths, trying to focus on all the good reasons why I'm doing this.