Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

by Sophie Kinsella

  By the end of the evening, I think Luke is a lot better. We walk home and fall into bed and both go straight to sleep. During the night I half wake, and I think I see Luke standing by the window, staring out into the night. But I’m asleep again before I’m sure.

  I wake up the next morning with a dry mouth and an aching head. Luke’s already got up and I can hear clattering from the kitchen, so maybe he’s making me a nice breakfast. I could do with some coffee, and maybe some toast. And then . . .

  My stomach gives a nervous flip. I’ve got to bite the bullet. I’ve got to tell him about the weddings.

  Last night was last night. Of course I couldn’t do anything about it then. But now it’s the morning and I can’t wait any longer. I know it’s terrible timing, I know it’s the last thing he’ll want to hear right now. But I just have to tell him.

  I can hear him coming along the corridor, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.

  “Luke, listen,” I say as the door swings open. “I know this is a bad time. But I really need to talk to you. We’ve got a problem.”

  “What’s that?” says Robyn, coming into the room. “Nothing to do with the wedding, I hope!” She’s wearing a powder-blue suit and patent leather pumps and carrying a tray of breakfast things. “Here you go, sweetheart. Some coffee to wake you up!”

  Am I dreaming? What’s Robyn doing in my bedroom?

  “I’ll just get the muffins,” she says brightly, and disappears out of the room. I subside weakly onto my pillow, my head pounding, trying to work out what she might be doing here.

  Suddenly last night’s Mafia film jumps into my mind and I’m struck with terror. Oh my God. It’s obvious.

  She’s found out about the other wedding—and she’s come to murder me.

  Robyn appears through the door again, with a basket of muffins, and smiles as she puts it down. I stare back, transfixed with fear.

  “Robyn!” I say huskily. “I . . . didn’t expect to see you. Isn’t it a bit . . . early?”

  “When it comes to my clients, there is no such thing as too early,” says Robyn, with a twinkle. “I am at your service, day and night.” She sits down on the armchair next to the bed and pours me out a cup of coffee.

  “But how did you get in?”

  “I picked the lock. Only kidding! Luke let me in on his way out!”

  I’m alone in the apartment with her. She’s got me trapped.

  “Luke’s gone to work already?”

  “I’m not sure he was going to work.” Robyn pauses thoughtfully. “It looked more like he was going jogging.”

  “Jogging?”

  Luke doesn’t jog.

  “Now, drink up your coffee—and then I’ll show you what you’ve been waiting for. What we’ve all been waiting for.” She looks at her watch. “I have to be gone in twenty minutes, remember!”

  I stare at her dumbly.

  “Becky, are you all right? You do remember we have an appointment?”

  Dimly a memory starts filtering back into my mind, like a shadow through gauze. Robyn. Breakfast meeting. Oh yes.

  Why did I agree to a breakfast meeting?

  “Of course I remember!” I say at last. “I’m just a bit . . . you know, hung over.”

  “You don’t have to explain!” says Robyn cheerily. “Fresh orange juice is what you need. And a good breakfast. I say the same thing to all my brides: you must take care of yourself! There’s no point starving yourself and then fainting at the altar. Have a muffin.” She rummages in her bag. “And look! At last we have it!”

  I look blankly at the scrap of shimmering silver material she’s holding up.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the fabric for the cushion pads!” says Robyn. “Flown in especially from China. The one we had all the problems with over customs! You can’t have forgotten, surely?”

  “Oh! No, of course not,” I say hastily. “Yes, it looks . . . lovely. Really beautiful.”

  “Now, Becky, there was something else,” says Robyn. She puts the fabric away and looks up with a serious expression. “The truth is . . . I’m getting a little concerned.”

  I feel a fresh spasm of nerves and take a sip of coffee to hide it. “Really? What . . . what are you concerned about?”

  “We haven’t had a single reply from your British guests. Isn’t that strange?”

  For a moment I’m unable to speak.

  “Er . . . yes,” I manage at last. “Very.”

  “Except Luke’s parents, who accepted a while ago. Of course they were on Elinor’s guest list, so they got their invitation a little earlier, but even so . . .” She reaches for my coffee cup and takes a sip. “Mmm. This is good, if I do say so myself! Now, I don’t want to accuse anyone of lacking manners. But we need to start getting some numbers in. So is it OK if I make a few tactful calls to England? I have all the phone numbers in my database . . .”

  “No!” I say, suddenly waking up. “Don’t call anybody! I mean . . . you’ll get the replies, I promise.”

  “It’s just so odd!” Robyn muses. “To have heard nothing . . . They did all receive their invitations, didn’t they?”

  “Of course they did! I’m sure it’s just an oversight.” I start pleating the sheet between finger and thumb. “You’ll have some replies within a week. I can . . . guarantee it.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so! Because time is ticking on! We’ve only got four weeks to go!”

  “I know!” I say shrilly, and take another gulp of coffee, wishing desperately it were vodka.

  Four weeks.

  Oh God.

  “Shall I refresh your cup, sweetheart?” Robyn stands up—then bends down again. “What’s this?” she says with interest, and picks up a piece of paper lying on the floor. “Is this a menu?”

  I look up—and my heart stops. She’s got one of Mum’s faxes.

  The menu for the other wedding.

  Everything’s right there, under the bed. If she starts looking . . .

  “It’s nothing!” I say, grabbing it from her. “Just a . . . um . . . a menu for a . . . a party . . .”

  “You’re holding a party?”

  “We’re . . . thinking about it.”

  “Well, if you want any help planning it, just say the word!” Robyn lowers her voice confidentially. “And a tiny tip?” She gestures to Mum’s menu. “I think you’ll find filo parcels are a little passé.”

  “Right. Er . . . thanks.”

  I have to get this woman out of here. At once. Before she finds anything else.

  Abruptly I throw back the sheets and leap out of bed.

  “Actually, Robyn, I’m still not feeling quite right. Maybe we could . . . could reschedule the rest of this meeting?”

  “I understand.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

  “By the way,” I say casually as we reach the front door. “I was just wondering . . . You know that financial penalty clause in your contract?”

  “Yes!” Robyn beams at me.

  “Out of interest.” I give a little laugh. “Have you ever actually collected it?”

  “Oh, only a few times!” says Robyn. She pauses reminiscently. “One silly girl tried to run off to Poland . . . but we found her in the end . . . See you, Becky!”

  “See you!” I say, matching her bright tone, and close the door, my heart thumping hard.

  She’ll get me. It’s only a matter of time.

  As soon as I get to work, I call Luke at work and get his assistant, Julia.

  “Hi,” I say, “can I speak to Luke?”

  “Luke called in sick,” says Julia, sounding surprised. “Didn’t you know?”

  I stare at the phone, taken aback. Luke’s taken a sickie? Blimey. Maybe his hangover was even worse than mine.

  Shit, and I’ve nearly given the game away.

  “Oh, right!” I say quickly. “Yes! Now you mention it . . . of course I knew! He’s dreadfully sick, actually. He’s got a terrible fever.
And his . . . er . . . stomach. I just forgot for a moment, that’s all.”

  “Well, give him all the best from us.”

  “I will!”

  As I put the phone down, I realize I might have overreacted a teeny bit. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to give Luke the sack, is it? After all, it’s his company.

  In fact, I’m pleased he’s having a day off.

  But still. Luke getting sick. He never gets sick.

  And he never jogs. What’s going on?

  I’m supposed to be going out for a drink after work with Erin, but I make an excuse and hurry home instead. When I let myself in, the apartment’s dim, and for a moment I think Luke isn’t back. But then I see him, sitting at the table in the gloom, wearing track pants and an old sweatshirt.

  At last. We’ve got the evening to ourselves. OK, this is it. I’m finally going to tell him everything.

  “Hi,” I say, sliding into a chair next to him. “Are you feeling better? I called your work and they said you were ill.”

  There’s silence.

  “I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to go to work,” says Luke at last.

  “What did you do all day? Did you really go jogging?”

  “I went for a long walk,” says Luke. “And I thought a great deal.”

  “About . . . your mother?” I say tentatively.

  “Yes. About my mother. About a lot of other things too.” He turns for the first time and to my surprise I see he hasn’t shaved. Mmm. I quite like him unshaven, actually.

  “But you’re OK?”

  “That’s the question,” he says after a pause. “Am I?”

  “You probably just drank a bit too much last night.” I take off my coat, marshaling my words. “Luke, listen. There’s something really important I need to tell you. I’ve been putting it off for weeks now—”

  “Becky, have you ever thought about the grid of Manhattan?” says Luke, interrupting me. “Really thought about it?”

  “Er . . . no,” I say, momentarily halted. “I can’t say I have.”

  “It’s like . . . a metaphor for life. You think you have the freedom to walk anywhere. But in fact . . .” He draws a line with his finger on the table. “You’re strictly controlled. Up or down. Left or right. No other options.”

  “Right,” I say after a pause. “Absolutely. The thing is, Luke—”

  “Life should be an open space, Becky. You should be able to walk in whichever direction you choose.”

  “I suppose—”

  “I walked from one end of the island to the other today.”

  “Really?” I stare at him. “Er . . . why?”

  “I looked up at one point, and I was surrounded by office blocks. Sunlight was bouncing off the plate-glass windows. Reflected backward and forward.”

  “That sounds nice,” I say inadequately.

  “Do you see what I’m saying?” He fixes me with an intense stare, and I suddenly notice the purple shadows beneath his eyes. God, he looks exhausted. “The light enters Manhattan . . . and becomes trapped. Trapped in its own world, bouncing backward and forward with no escape.”

  “Well . . . yes, I suppose. Except . . . sometimes it rains, doesn’t it?”

  “And people are the same.”

  “Are they?”

  “This is the world we’re living in now. Self-reflecting. Self-obsessed. Ultimately pointless. Look at that guy in the hospital. Thirty-three years old—and he has a heart attack. What if he’d died? Would he have had a fulfilled life?”

  “Er—”

  “Have I had a fulfilled life? Be honest, Becky. Look at me, and tell me.”

  “Well . . . um . . . of course you have!”

  “Bullshit.” He picks up a nearby Brandon Communications press release and gazes at it. “This is what my life has been about. Meaningless pieces of information.” To my shock, he starts to rip it up. “Meaningless fucking bits of paper.”

  Suddenly I notice he’s tearing up our joint bank statement too.

  “Luke! That’s our bank statement!”

  “So what? What does it matter? It’s only a few pointless numbers. Who cares?”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  Something is wrong here.

  “What does any of it matter?” He scatters the shreds of paper on the floor, and I force myself not to bend down and pick any of them up. “Becky, you’re so right.”

  “I’m right?” I say in alarm.

  Something is very wrong here.

  “We’re all too driven by materialism. With success. With money. With trying to impress people who’ll never be impressed, whatever you . . .” He breaks off, breathing hard. “It’s humanity that matters. We should know homeless people. We should know Bolivian peasants.”

  “Well . . . yes,” I say after a pause. “But still—”

  “Something you said a while back has been going round and round in my head all day. And now I can’t forget it.”

  “What was that?” I say nervously.

  “You said . . .” He pauses, as though trying to get the words just right. “You said that we’re on this planet for too short a time. And at the end of the day, what’s more important? Knowing that a few meaningless figures balanced—or knowing that you were the person you wanted to be?”

  I gape at him.“But . . . but that was just stuff I made up! I wasn’t being serious—”

  “I’m not the person I want to be, Becky. I don’t think I’ve ever been the person I wanted to be. I’ve been blinkered. I’ve been obsessed by all the wrong things—”

  “Come on!” I say, squeezing his hand encouragingly. “You’re Luke Brandon! You’re successful and handsome and rich . . .”

  “I’m not the person I should have become. The trouble is, now I don’t know who that person is. I don’t know who I want to be . . . what I want to do with my life . . . which path I want to take . . .” He slumps forward and buries his head in his hands. “Becky, I need some answers.”

  I don’t believe it. At age thirty-four Luke is having a midlife crisis.

  May 23, 2002

  Miss Rebecca Bloomwood

  Apt. B

  251 W. 11th Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Dear Miss Bloomwood:

  Thank you for your letter of May 21. I am glad you are starting to think of me as a good friend, and in answer to your question, my birthday is October 31.

  I also appreciate that weddings are expensive affairs. Unfortunately, however, I am unable to extend your credit limit from $5,000 to $105,000 at the current time.

  I can instead offer you an increased limit of $6,000, and hope this goes some way to help.

  Yours sincerely,

  Walt Pitman

  Director of Customer Relations

  49 Drakeford Road

  Potters Bar

  Hertfordshire

  27 May 2002

  Mr. Malcolm Bloomwood thanks Mrs. Elinor Sherman very much for her kind invitation to Becky and Luke’s wedding at the Plaza on 22nd June. Unfortunately he must decline, as he has broken his leg.

  The Oaks

  43 Elton Road

  Oxshott, Surrey

  27 May 2002

  Mr. and Mrs. Martin Webster thank Mrs. Elinor Sherman very much for her kind invitation to Becky and Luke’s wedding at the Plaza on 22nd June. Unfortunately they must decline, as they have both contracted glandular fever.

  9 Foxtrot Way

  Reigate

  Surrey

  27 May 2002

  Mr. and Mrs. Tom Webster thank Mrs. Elinor Sherman very much for her kind invitation to Becky and Luke’s wedding at the Plaza on 22nd June. Unfortunately they must decline, as their dog has just died.

  Seventeen

  THIS IS GETTING beyond a joke. Luke hasn’t been to work for over a week. Nor has he shaved. He keeps going out and wandering around God knows where and not coming home until the early hours of the morning. And yesterday I arrived back from work to find he’d given aw
ay half his shoes to people on the street.

  I feel so helpless. Nothing I do seems to work. I’ve tried making him bowls of nourishing, homemade soup. (At least, it says they’re nourishing and homemade on the can.) I’ve tried making warm, tender love to him. Which was great as far as it went. (And that was pretty far, as it happens.) He seemed better for a little while—but in the end it didn’t change anything. Afterward, he was just the same, all moody and staring into space.

  The thing I’ve tried the most is just sitting down and talking to him. Sometimes I really think I’m getting somewhere. But then he either just reverts back into depression, or says, “What’s the use?” and goes out again. The real trouble is, nothing he says seems to be making any sense. One minute he says he wants to quit his company and go into politics, that’s where his heart lies and he should never have sold out. (Politics? He’s never mentioned politics before.) The next moment he’s saying fatherhood is all he’s ever wanted, let’s have six children and he’ll stay at home and be a house-husband.

  Meanwhile his assistant keeps phoning every day to see if Luke’s better, and I’m having to invent more and more lurid details. He’s practically got the plague by now.

  I’m so desperate, I phoned Michael this morning and he’s promised to come over and see if he can do anything. If anyone can help, Michael can.

  And as for the wedding . . .

  I feel ill every time I think about it. It’s three weeks away. I still haven’t come up with a solution.

  Mum calls me every morning and somehow I speak perfectly normally to her. Robyn calls me every afternoon and somehow I also speak perfectly normally to her. I even made a joke recently about not turning up on the day. We laughed, and Robyn quipped, “I’ll sue you!” and I managed not to sob hysterically.

  I feel like I’m in free fall. Plummeting toward the ground without a parachute.

  I don’t know how I’m doing it. I’ve slipped into a whole new zone, beyond normal panic, beyond normal solutions. It’s going to take a miracle to save me.

  Which is basically what I’m pinning my hopes on now. I’ve lit fifty candles at St. Thomas’s, and fifty more at St. Patrick’s, and I’ve put up a petition on the prayer board at the synagogue on Sixty-fifth, and given flowers to the Hindu god Ganesh. Plus a group of people in Ohio who I found on the Internet are all praying hard for me.