Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

by Sophie Kinsella

  “You're not!” says Suze in horror. “You're not worthless!”

  “I am!” Miserably, I sink to the carpet of clothes on the floor. “Suze, just look at me. I'm unemployed, I haven't got any prospects, I'm being taken to court, I owe thousands and thousands of pounds, and I don't know how I'm even going to start paying it all off . . .”

  There's an awkward cough at the door. I look up, and Tarquin is standing at the door, holding three mugs of coffee.

  “Refreshments?” he says, picking his way across the floor.

  “Thanks, Tarquin,” I say, sniffing, and take a mug from him. “Sorry about all this. It's just . . . not a great time.”

  He sits down on the bed and exchanges looks with Suze.

  “Bit short of cash?” he says.

  “Yes,” I gulp, and wipe my eyes. “Yes, I am.” Tarquin gives Suze another glance.

  “Becky, I'd be only too happy to—”

  “No. No, thanks.” I smile at him. “Really.”

  There's silence as we all sip our coffee. A shaft of winter sunlight is coming through the window, and I close my eyes, feeling the soothing warmth on my face.

  “Happens to the best of us,” says Tarquin sympathetically. “Mad Uncle Monty was always going bust, wasn't he, Suze?”

  “God, that's right! All the time!” says Suze. “But he always bounced back, didn't he?”

  “Absolutely!” says Tarquin. “Over and over again.”

  “What did he do?” I say, looking up with a spark of interest.

  “Usually sold off a Rembrandt,” says Tarquin. “Or a Stubbs. Something like that.”

  Great. What is it about these millionaires? I mean, even Suze, who I love. They just don't get it. They don't know what it's like to have no money.

  “Right,” I say, trying to smile. “Well . . . unfortunately, I don't have any spare Rembrandts lying around. All I've got is . . . a zillion pairs of black trousers. And some T-shirts.”

  “And a fencing outfit,” puts in Suze.

  Next door, the phone starts ringing, but none of us move.

  “And a wooden bowl which I hate.” I give a half-giggle, half-sob. “And forty photograph frames.”

  “And fifty million pots of lavender honey.”

  “And a Vera Wang cocktail dress.” I look around my room, suddenly alert. “And a brand-new Kate Spade bag . . . and . . . and a whole wardrobe full of stuff which I've never even worn . . . Suze . . .” I'm almost too agitated to speak. “Suze . . .”

  “What?”

  “Just . . . just think about it. I haven't got nothing. I have got assets! I mean, they might have depreciated a little bit . . .”

  “What do you mean?” says Suze puzzledly—then her face lights up. “Ooh, have you got an ISA that you forgot about?”

  “No! Not an ISA!”

  “I don't understand!” wails Suze. “Bex, what are you talking about?”

  And I'm just opening my mouth to answer, when the answer machine clicks on next door, and a gravelly American voice starts speaking, which makes me stiffen and turn my head.

  “Hello, Becky? It's Michael Ellis here. I've just arrived in London for a conference, and I was wondering—could we perhaps meet up for a chat?”

  It's so weird to see Michael here in London. In my mind he belongs firmly in New York, in the Four Seasons. Back in that other world. But here he is, large as life, in the River Room at the Savoy, his face creased in a beam. As I sit down at the table he lifts a hand to a waiter.

  “A gin and tonic for the lady, please.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, please.” I smile at him gratefully, and shake out my napkin to cover my awkwardness. Even though we talked so much in New York, I'm feeling a bit shy at seeing him again.

  “So,” he says, as the waiter brings me my drink. “Quite a lot has been going on since we last spoke.” He lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” I take a sip. “Like what?”

  “Like Alicia Billington and four others have been fired from Brandon Communications.”

  “Four others?” I gape at him. “Were they all planning together?”

  “Apparently so. It turns out Alicia has been working on this little project for some time. This wasn't just some tiny little pie-in-the-sky scheme. This was well organized and thought out. Well backed, too. You know Alicia's future husband is very wealthy?”

  “I didn't,” I say, and remember her Chanel shoes. “But it makes sense.”

  “He put together the finance. As you suspected, they were planning to poach Bank of London.”

  I take a sip of gin and tonic, relishing the sharp flavor.

  “So what happened?”

  “Luke swooped in, took them all by surprise, herded them into a meeting room, and searched their desks. And he found plenty.”

  “Luke did?” I feel a deep thud in my stomach. “You mean—Luke's in London?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long has he been back?”

  “Three days now.” Michael gives me a quick glance. “I guess he hasn't called you, then.”

  “No,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “No, he hasn't.” I reach for my glass and take a deep swig. Somehow while he was still in New York, I could tell myself that Luke and I weren't speaking because of geography as much as anything else. But now he's in London—and he hasn't even called—it feels different. It feels kind of . . . final.

  “So . . . what's he doing now?”

  “Damage limitation,” says Michael wryly. “Upping morale. It turns out as soon as he left for New York, Alicia got busy spreading rumors he was going to close the U.K. branch down completely. That's why the atmosphere plummeted. Clients have been neglected, the staff has all been on the phone to headhunters . . . Meanwhile Alicia was spinning a completely different story to Luke.” He shakes his head. “That girl is trouble.”

  “I know.”

  “Now, that's something I've been wondering. How do you know?” He leans forward interestedly. “You picked up on Alicia in a way neither Luke nor I did. Was that based on anything?”

  “Not really,” I say honestly. “Just the fact that she's a complete cow.”

  Michael throws his head back and roars with laughter.

  “Feminine intuition. Why should there be any other reason?”

  He chuckles for a few moments more—then puts his glass down and gives me a twinkling smile. “Speaking of which—I heard the gist of what you said to Luke about his mom.”

  “Really?” I look at him in horror. “He told you?”

  “He spoke to me about it, asked if you'd said anything to me.”

  “Oh!” I feel a flush creeping across my face. “Well, I was . . . angry. I didn't mean to say she was a . . .” I clear my throat. “I just spoke without thinking.”

  “He took it to heart, though.” Michael raises his eyebrows. “He called his mom up, said he was damned if he was going to go home without seeing her, and arranged a meeting.”

  “Really?” I stare at him, feeling prickles of intrigue. “And what happened?”

  “She never showed up. Sent some message about having to go out of town. Luke was pretty disappointed.” Michael shakes his head. “Between you and me—I think you were right about her.”

  “Oh. Well.”

  I give an awkward shrug and reach for the menu to hide my embarrassment. I can't believe Luke told Michael what I said about his mother. What else did he tell him? My bra size?

  For a while I stare at the list of dishes without taking any of them in—then look up, to see Michael gazing seriously at me.

  “Becky, I haven't told Luke it was you who tipped me off. The story I've given him is I got an anonymous message and decided to look into it.”

  “That sounds fair enough,” I say, gazing at the tablecloth.

  “You're basically responsible for saving his company,” says Michael gently. “He should be very grateful to you. Don't you think he should know?”


  “No.” I hunch my shoulders. “He'd just think . . . he'd think I was . . .” I break off, feeling my eyes grow hot.

  I can't believe Luke's been back for three days and hasn't called. I mean—I knew it was over. Of course I did. But secretly, a tiny part of me thought . . .

  Anyway. Obviously not.

  “What would he think?” probes Michael.

  “I dunno,” I mutter gruffly. “The point is, it's all over between us. So I'd rather just . . . not be involved.”

  “Well, I guess I can understand that.” Michael gives me a kind look. “Shall we order?”

  While we eat, we talk about other things. Michael tells me about his advertising agency in Washington, and makes me laugh with stories of all the politicians he knows and all the trouble they get themselves into. I tell him in turn about my family, and Suze, and the way I got my job on Morning Coffee.

  “It's all going really well, actually,” I say boldly as I dig into a chocolate mousse. “I've got great prospects, and the producers really like me . . . they're thinking of expanding my slot . . .”

  “Becky,” interrupts Michael gently. “I heard. I know about your job.”

  I stare at him dumbly, feeling my whole face prickle in shame.

  “I felt really bad for you,” continues Michael. “That shouldn't have happened.”

  “Does . . . does Luke know?” I say huskily.

  “Yes. I believe he does.”

  I take a deep swig of my drink. I can't bear the idea of Luke pitying me.

  “Well, I've got lots of options open,” I say desperately. “I mean, maybe not on television . . . but I'm applying for a number of financial journalism posts . . .”

  “On the FT?”

  “On . . . well . . . on Personal Investment Periodical . . . and Annuities Today . . .”

  “Annuities Today,” echoes Michael disbelievingly. At his expression I can't help giving a snort of shaky laughter. “Becky, do any of these jobs really excite you?”

  I'm about to trot out my stock answer—“Personal finance is more interesting than you'd think, actually!” But suddenly I realize I can't be bothered to pretend anymore. Personal finance isn't more interesting than you'd think. It's just as boring as you'd think. Even on Morning Coffee, it was only really when callers started talking about their relationships and family lives that I used to enjoy it.

  “What do you think?” I say instead, and take another swig of gin and tonic.

  Michael sits back in his chair and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “So why are you going for them?”

  “I don't know what else to do.” I give a hopeless shrug. “Personal finance is the only thing I've ever done. I'm kind of . . . pigeonholed.”

  “How old are you, Becky? If you don't mind my asking?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Pigeonholed at twenty-six.” Michael shakes his head. “I don't think so.” He takes a sip of coffee and gives me an appraising look.

  “If some opportunity came up for you in America,” he says, “would you take it?”

  “I'd take anything,” I say frankly. “But what's going to come up for me in America now?”

  There's silence. Thoughtfully, Michael reaches for a chocolate mint, unwraps it, and puts it in his mouth.

  “Becky, I have a proposition for you,” he says, looking up. “We have an opening at the advertising agency for a head of corporate communications.”

  I stare at him, glass halfway to my lips. Not daring to hope he's saying what I think he is.

  “We want someone with editorial skills, who can coordinate a monthly newsletter. You'd be ideal on those counts. But we also want someone who's good with people. Someone who can pick up on the buzz, make sure people are happy, report to the board on any problems . . .” He shrugs. “Frankly, I can't think of anyone better suited to it.”

  “You're . . . you're offering me a job,” I say disbelievingly, trying to ignore the little leaps of hope inside my chest, the little stabs of excitement. “But . . . but what about The Daily World? The . . . shopping?”

  “So what?” Michael shrugs. “So you like to shop. I like to eat. Nobody's perfect. As long as you're not on some international ‘most wanted' blacklist . . .”

  “No. No,” I say hurriedly. “In fact, I'm about to sort all that out.”

  “And immigration?”

  “I've got a lawyer.” I bite my lip. “I'm not sure he exactly likes me very much . . .”

  “I have contacts in immigration,” says Michael reassuringly. “I'm sure we can sort something out.” He leans back and takes a sip of coffee. “Washington isn't New York. But it's a fun place to be, too. Politics is a fascinating arena. I have a feeling you'd take to it. And the salary . . . Well. It won't be what CNN might have offered you. But as a ballpark . . .” He scribbles a figure on a piece of paper and pushes it across the table.

  And I don't believe it. It's about twice what I'd get for any of those crappy journalism jobs.

  Washington. An advertising agency. A whole new career.

  America. Without Luke. On my own terms.

  I can't quite get my head round all of this.

  “Why are you offering this to me?” I manage at last.

  “I've been very impressed by you, Becky,” says Michael seriously. “You're smart. You're intuitive. I took your advice about my friend, by the way,” he adds with a twinkle. “He paid up the next day.”

  “Really?” I say in delight.

  “You have a good head on your shoulders—and you're someone who gets things done.” I stare at him, feeling an embarrassed color come to my cheeks. “And maybe I figured you deserve a break,” he adds kindly. “Now, you don't have to decide at once. I'm over here for a few more days, so if you want to, we can talk again about it. But, Becky—”

  “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?”