And then I stop.
Wait just a moment. The new Rebecca has more self-control than this. The new Rebecca isn’t even interested in fashion.
Slowly I put the phone down. I reach for the remote and zap the TV to a different channel. A nature program. Yes, that’s more like it. There’s a close-up of a tiny green frog and a sober voice-over talking about the effect of drought on the ecosystem. I turn up the volume and settle back, pleased with myself. This is much more me. I’m not going to give those sunglasses a second thought. I’m going to learn about this tiny frog and the ecosystem, and global warming. Maybe Luke and I will talk about all these important issues, over breakfast.
NK Malone.
Stop it. Stop it. Watch the frog, and that tiny red beetle thing …
I’ve wanted NK Malone sunglasses for so long. And £200 is amazing value for three pairs.
I could always give one pair away as a present.
And I deserve a little treat, don’t I? After everything I’ve been though? Just one little final luxury and that’s the end. I promise.
Grabbing the phone, I redial the number. I give my name and address, thank the woman very much indeed, then put down the receiver, a content smile on my face. This day is turning out perfect. And it’s only nine o’clock!
I turn off the nature program, snuggle back down under the covers, and close my eyes. Maybe Luke and I will spend all day here, in this lovely room. Maybe we’ll have oysters and champagne sent up. (I hope not, actually, because I hate oysters.) Maybe we’ll …
Nine o’clock, interrupts a little voice in my mind. I frown for a second, shake my head, then turn over to get rid of it. But it’s still there, prodding annoyingly at my thoughts.
Nine o’clock. Nine …
And suddenly I sit bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide in dismay. Oh my God.
Nine-thirty.
Derek Smeath.
I promised to be there. I promised. And here I am, with half an hour to go, all the way over at the Ritz. Oh God. What am I going to do?
I switch off the TV, bury my head in my hands, and try to think calmly and rationally. OK, if I got going straight away, I might make it. If I got dressed as quickly as possible, and ran downstairs and jumped in a taxi—I might just make it. Fulham’s not that far away. And I could be a quarter of an hour late, couldn’t I? We could still have the meeting. It could still happen.
In theory, it could still happen.
“Hi,” says Luke, putting his head round the bathroom door. He’s got a white towel wrapped round his body, and a few drops of water are glistening on his shoulders. I never even noticed his shoulders last night, I think, staring at them. God, they’re bloody sexy. In fact, all in all, he’s pretty damn …
“Rebecca? Is everything OK?”
“Oh,” I say, starting slightly. “Yes, everything’s great. Lovely! Oh, and guess what? I just bought the most wonderful …”
And then for some reason I stop myself midstream.
I’m not exactly sure why.
“Just … having breakfast,” I say instead, and gesture to the room-service tray. “Delicious.”
A faintly puzzled look passes over Luke’s face, and he disappears back into the bathroom. OK, quick, I tell myself. What am I doing to do? Am I going to get dressed and go? Am I going to make the meeting?
But my hand’s already reaching for my bag as though it’s got a will of its own; I’m pulling out a business card and punching a number into the phone.
Because, I mean, we don’t actually need to have a meeting, do we? I’m going to send him a nice big check.
And I’d probably never make it in time, anyway.
And he probably won’t even mind. He’s probably got loads of other stuff he’d prefer to be doing instead.
“Hello?” I say into the phone, and feel a tingle of pleasure as Luke comes up behind me and begins to nuzzle my ear. “Hello, yes. I’d … I’d like to leave a message for Mr. Smeath.”
FINE FRAMES LTD.
The happy home working family
230A BURNSIDE ROAD LEEDS L6 4ST
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
7 April 2000
Dear Rebecca:
I write to acknowledge receipt of 136 completed Fine Frames (“Sherborne” style—blue). Thank you very much for your fine work. A check for £272 is enclosed, together with an application form for your next frame-making pack.
Our quality control manager, Mrs. Sandra Rowbotham, has asked me to inform you that she was extremely impressed with the quality of your first batch. Novices rarely come up to the exacting standards of the Fine Frames Quality Promise—it is clear you have a natural gift for frame-making.
I would therefore like to invite you to come and demonstrate your technique at our next Framemakers’ Convention, to be held in Wilmslow on June 21. This is an occasion when all the members of the Fine Frames homeworking family gather under one roof, with a chance to exchange frame-making tips and anecdotes. It’s a lot of fun, believe me!
We very much look forward to hearing from you.
Happy frame-making!
Malcolm Headley
Managing Director
P.S. Are you the same Rebecca Bloomwood who gives advice on Morning Coffee?
• ENDWICH BANK •
FULHAM BRANCH
3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
10 April 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your recent deposit of £1,000.
Bearing in mind the relatively healthy state of your current account at the present time, I suggest that we might postpone our meeting for the moment.
However, be assured that I shall be keeping a close eye on the situation and will be in touch, should matters change in any way.
With best wishes.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath Manager
P.S. I look forward to your next performance on Morning Coffee.
• ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE •
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Warmest thanks to Susan Kamil and Zoë Rice for all their guidance, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Also to Kim Wither-spoon and David Forrer, Celia Hayley, Mark Lucas and all at LAW, all at Transworld, Valerie Hoskins and Rebecca Watson and Brian Siberell at CAA.
Special thanks to Samantha Wickham, Sarah Manser, Paul Watts, Chantal Rutherford-Brown, my wonderful family, and especially Gemma, who taught me how to shop.
This book is dedicated to my friend and agent, Araminta Whitley.
Enjoy this excerpt from the latest book in
Sophie Kinsella’s SHOPAHOLIC series:
MINI SHOPAHOLIC
CHAPTER ONE
OK. Don’t panic. I’m in charge. I, Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood), am the adult. Not my two-year-old daughter. Only I’m not sure she realizes this.
“Minnie, darling, give me the pony.” I try to sound calm and assured, like Nanny Sue off the telly.
“Poneeee.” Minnie grips the toy pony more tightly. “No pony.”
“Mine!” she cries hysterically. “Miiiine poneee!”
Argh. I’m holding about a million shopping bags, my face is sweating, and I could really do without this.
It was all going so well. I’d been round the whole shopping mall and bought all the last little things on my Christmas list. Minnie and I were heading toward Santa’s Grotto, and I only stopped for a moment to look at a dollhouse. Whereupon Minnie grabbed a toy pony off the display and refused to put it back. And now I’m in the middle of Ponygate.
A mother in J Brand skinny jeans with an impeccably dressed daughter walks past, giving me the Mummy Once-Over, and I flinch. Since I had Minnie, I’ve learned that the Mummy Once-Over is even more savage than the Manhattan Once-Over. In the Mummy Once-Over, they don’t jus
t assess and price your clothes to the nearest penny in one sweeping glance. Oh no. They also take in your child’s clothes, pram brand, nappy bag, snack choice, and whether your child is smiling, snotty, or screaming.
Which I know is a lot to take in, in a one-second glance, but believe me, mothers are multitaskers.
Minnie definitely scores top marks for her outfit. (Dress: one-off Danny Kovitz; coat: Rachel Riley; shoes: Baby Dior.) And I’ve got her safely strapped into her toddler reins (Bill Amberg leather, really cool; they were in Vogue). But instead of smiling angelically like the little girl in the photo shoot, she’s straining against them like a bull waiting to dash into the ring. Her eyebrows are knitted with fury, her cheeks are bright pink, and she’s drawing breath to shriek again.
“Minnie.” I let go of the reins and put my arms round her so that she feels safe and secure, just like it recommends in Nanny Sue’s book, Taming Your Tricky Toddler. I bought it the other day, to have a flick through. Just out of idle interest. I mean, it’s not that I’m having problems with Minnie or anything. It’s not that she’s difficult. Or “out of control and willful,” like that stupid teacher at the toddler music group said. (What does she know? She can’t even play the triangle properly.)
The thing about Minnie is, she’s . . . spirited. She has firm opinions about things. Like jeans (she won’t wear them) or carrots (she won’t eat them). And right now her firm opinion is that she should have a toy pony.
“Minnie, darling, I love you very much,” I say in a gentle, crooning voice, “and it would make me very happy if you gave me the pony. That’s right, give it to Mummy.” I’ve nearly done it. My fingers are closing around the pony’s head . . .
Ha. Skills. I’ve got it. I can’t help looking round to see if anyone’s observed my expert parenting.
“Miiiine!” Minnie wrenches the pony out of my hand and makes a run for it across the shop floor. Shit. “Minnie! Minnie!” I yell.
I grab my carrier bags and leg it furiously after Minnie, who has already disappeared into the Action Man section. God, I don’t know why we bother training all these athletes for the Olympics. We should just field a team of toddlers.
As I catch up with her, I’m panting. I really have to start my postnatal exercises sometime.
“Give me the pony!” I try to take it, but she’s gripping it like a limpet.
“Mine poneee!” Her dark eyes flash at me with a resolute glint. Sometimes I look at Minnie and she’s so like her father it gives me a jolt.
Speaking of which, where is Luke? We were supposed to be doing Christmas shopping together. As a family. But he disappeared an hour ago, muttering something about a call he had to make, and I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably sitting somewhere having a civilized cappuccino over the newspaper. Typical.
“Minnie, we’re not buying it,” I say in my best firm manner. “You’ve got lots of toys already and you don’t need a pony.”
A woman with straggly dark hair, gray eyes, and toddlers in a twin buggy shoots me an approving nod. I can’t help giving her the Mummy Once-Over myself, and she’s one of those mothers who wears Crocs over nubbly homemade socks. (Why would you do that? Why?)
“It’s monstrous, isn’t it?” she says. “Those ponies are forty pounds! My kids know better than to even ask,” she adds, shooting a glance at her two boys, who are slumped silently, thumbs in mouths. “Once you give in to them, that’s the beginning of the end. I’ve got mine well trained.”
Show-off.
“Absolutely,” I say in dignified tones. “I couldn’t agree more.” “Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.”
“Terrible,” I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.
“The biggest mistake is giving in to them.” The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebblelike gaze. “That’s what starts the rot.”
“Well, I never give in to my daughter,” I say briskly. “You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.”
“Poneeee!” Minnie’s wails turn to heartrending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
“Good luck, then.” The woman moves off. “Happy Christmas.”
“Minnie, stop!” I hiss furiously as soon as she’s disappeared. “You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for, anyway?”
“Poneeee!” She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.
“It’s only a silly toy,” I say impatiently. “What’s so special about it, anyway?” And for the first time I look properly at the pony.
Wow. Actually . . . it is pretty fab. It’s made of painted white wood with glittery stars all over and the sweetest hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.
“You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,” I say—but with slightly less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with buckles and the mane is made of real horsehair. And it comes with a grooming set!
For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. Now that I think about it, Minnie doesn’t have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap in her toy cupboard.
I mean, not that I’m going to give in.
“It winds up too,” comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an elderly sales assistant approaching us. “There’s a key in the base. Look!”
She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion while tinkly music plays.
Oh my God, I love this pony.
“It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,” the assistant adds. “Normally this would retail for seventy. They’re handmade in Sweden.”
Nearly fifty percent off. I knew it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?
“You like it, don’t you, dear?” The assistant smiles at Minnie, who beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast, but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and dimpled cheeks. “So, would you like to buy one?”
“I . . . um . . .” I clear my throat.
Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away. My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.
But it’s so gorgeous. Look at its dear little face. And a pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.
And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And, who knows, Minnie might turn out to have a gift for riding, it suddenly occurs to me. A toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of her at age twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, “It all began one Christmas, when I received the gift that changed my life. . . .”
My mind is going round and round like a computer processing DNA results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can simultaneously: 1) Not give in to Minnie’s tan?trum; 2) be a good parent; and 3) buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky solution like Luke is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with . . .
And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t believe I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:
Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.
Immediately a reply pings back:
Wtf? Why?
So she can buy things, of course! I start to type. Then I think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:
Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.
A moment later Luke texts: Can’t we just buy her the FT?
Shut up.
I type: We’ll say two pounds a week shall we?
R u mad? Comes zipping back: 10p a week is plenty.
I stare at the phone indignantly. 10p? He’s such an old skinflint. What’s she supposed to buy with that?
And we’ll never afford the pony on 10p a week.
50p a week. I type firmly. Is national average. (He’ll never check.) Where r u anyway? Nearly time for Father Christmas!! OK whatever. I’ll be there comes the reply.
Result! As I put away my phone, I’m doing a quick mental calculation: Fifty pence a week for two years makes £52. Easy enough. God, why on earth have I never thought of pocket money before? It’s perfect! It’s going to add a whole new dimension to our shopping trips.
I turn to Minnie, feeling rather proud of myself.
“Now, listen, darling,” I announce. “I’m not going to buy this pony for you, because I’ve already said no. But as a special treat, you can buy it for yourself out of your own pocket money. Isn’t that exciting?”
Minnie eyes me uncertainly. I’ll take that as a yes.
“As you’ve never spent any of your pocket money, you’ve got two years’ worth, which is plenty. You see how great saving is?” I add brightly. “You see how fun it is?”
As we walk to the checkout, I feel totally smug. Talk about responsible parenting. I’m introducing my child to the principles of financial planning at an early age. I could be a guru on TV myself! Super Becky’s Guide to Fiscally Responsible Parenting. I could wear different boots in each episode—
“Wagon.”
I’m jolted out of my daydream to see that Minnie has dropped the pony and is now clutching a pink plastic monstrosity. Where did she get that? It’s Winnie’s Wagon, from that cartoon show.
“Wagon?” She raises her eyes hopefully.
What?
“We’re not getting the wagon, darling,” I say patiently. “You wanted the pony. The lovely pony, remember?”
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle Page 30