Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Dining table coming out!” calls a guy in overalls. “Mind yourselves.”

  Thank goodness. OK, quick. Let’s redeem the situation.

  “Look, darling,” I say hurriedly. “It’s our dining table from Sri Lanka. Remember? Our personalized table! Our symbol of married love.” I give him an affectionate smile, but he’s shaking his head.

  “Becky—”

  “Don’t spoil the moment!” I put an arm round him. “It’s our special honeymoon table! It’s our heirloom of the future! We have to watch it being delivered!”

  “OK,” Luke says at last. “Whatever.”

  The men are carefully carrying the table down the ramp, and I have to say, I’m impressed. Bearing in mind how heavy it is, they seem to be managing it quite easily.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” I clutch Luke’s arm as it comes into sight. “Just think! There we were in Sri Lanka—”

  I break off, a little confused.

  This isn’t the wooden table after all. It’s a transparent glass table, with curved steel legs. And another guy behind is carrying a pair of trendy red felt-covered chairs.

  I stare at it in horror. A cold feeling is creeping over me.

  Shit. Shit.

  The table I bought at the Copenhagen Design Fair. I had totally forgotten about that.

  How could I forget I bought a whole dining table? How?

  “Hold on,” Luke’s calling, his hand raised. “Guys, that’s the wrong table. Ours is wooden. A big carved-wood table from Sri Lanka.”

  “There’s one of them an’ all,” says the delivery guy. “In the other lorry.”

  “But we didn’t buy this!” says Luke.

  He gives me a questioning look and I quickly rearrange my features as though to say “I’m as baffled as you are!”

  Inside, my mind is working frantically: I’ll deny I’ve ever seen it; we’ll send it back; it’ll all be fine—

  “ ‘Shipped by Mrs. Rebecca Brandon,’ ” the guy reads aloud from the label. “Table and ten chairs. From Denmark. Here’s the signature.”

  Fuck.

  Very slowly, Luke turns toward me.

  “Becky, did you buy a table and ten chairs in Denmark?” he says almost pleasantly.

  “Er . . .” I lick my lips nervously. “Er . . . I—I might have.”

  “I see.” Luke closes his eyes for a moment as though weighing up a math problem. “And then you bought another table—and ten more chairs—in Sri Lanka?”

  “I forgot about the first one!” I say desperately. “I totally forgot! Look, it was a very long honeymoon. . . . I lost track of a few things. . . .”

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see a guy picking up the bundle of twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns. Shit.

  I think I have to get Luke away from these lorries as soon as possible.

  “We’ll sort it all out,” I say quickly. “I promise. But now, why don’t you go upstairs and have a nice drink? You just relax! And I’ll stay down here and do the supervising.”

  An hour later it’s all finished. The men close up the lorries and I hand them a hefty tip. As they roar away I look over to see Luke coming out the front door of the building.

  “Hi!” I say. “Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “Do you want to come upstairs a minute?” Luke says in a strange voice.

  As we travel up in the lift I smile at Luke a couple of times, but he doesn’t smile back.

  “So . . . did you put all the stuff in the sitting room?” I say as we approach the front door. “Or in the—”

  My voice dies away as the door swings open.

  Oh my God.

  Luke’s flat is totally unrecognizable.

  The beige carpet has disappeared under a sea of parcels, trunks, and pieces of furniture. The hall is crammed with boxes which I recognize from the outlet in Utah, plus the batik paintings from Bali and the two Chinese urns. I edge past them into the sitting room, and gulp as I look around. There are packages everywhere. Rolled-up kilims and dhurries are propped up in one corner. In another, the Indonesian gamelan is jostling for space with a slate coffee table turned on its side and a Native American totem pole.

  I’m sensing it’s my turn to speak.

  “Gosh!” I give a little laugh. “There are quite a lot of . . . rugs, aren’t there?”

  “Seventeen,” says Luke, still in the same strange voice. “I’ve counted.” He steps over a bamboo coffee table which I got in Thailand and looks at the label of a large wooden chest. “This box apparently contains forty mugs.” He looks up. “Forty mugs?”

  “I know it sounds like a lot,” I say quickly. “But they were only about 50p each! It was a bargain! We’ll never need to buy mugs ever again!”

  Luke regards me for a moment.

  “Becky, I never want to buy anything ever again.”

  “Look . . .” I try to step toward him but bump my knee on a painted wooden statue of Ganesh, the god of wisdom and success. “It’s . . . it’s not that bad! I know it seems like a lot. But it’s like . . . an optical illusion. Once it’s all unpacked, and we put it all away . . . it’ll look great!”

  “We have five coffee tables,” says Luke, ignoring me. “Were you aware of that?”

  “Er . . . well.” I clear my throat. “Not exactly. So we might have to . . . rationalize a bit.”

  “Rationalize?” Luke looks around the room incredulously. “Rationalize this lot? It’s a mess!”

  “Maybe it looks a bit of a mishmash at the moment,” I say hurriedly. “But I can pull it all together! I can make it work! It’ll be our signature look. If we just do some mood boards—”

  “Becky,” Luke interrupts. “Would you like to know what mood I’m in right now?”

  “Er . . .”

  I watch nervously as Luke shifts two packages from Guatemala aside and sinks down on the sofa.

  “What I want to know is . . . how did you pay for all this?” he asks, wrinkling his brow. “I had a quick check through our bills, and there’s no record of any Chinese urns. Or giraffes. Or tables from Copenhagen . . .” He gives me a hard look. “What’s been going on, Becky?”

  I’m totally pinned. Even if I did want to run, I’d probably skewer myself on Ganesh’s pointy fingers.

  “Well.” I can’t quite meet his eye. “I do have this . . . this credit card.”

  “The one you keep hidden in your bag?” says Luke without missing a beat. “I checked that too.”

  Oh God.

  There’s no way out of this.

  “Actually . . . not that one.” I swallow hard. “Another one.”

  “Another one?” Luke is staring at me. “You have a second secret credit card?”

  “It’s just for emergencies! Everyone has the odd emergency—”

  “What, emergency silk dressing gowns? Emergency Indonesian gamelans?”

  There’s silence. I can’t quite reply. My fingers are all twisted in knots behind my back.

  “So . . . you’ve been paying it off secretly, is that it?” He looks at my agonized face and his expression changes. “You haven’t been paying it off?”

  “The thing is . . .” My fingers twist even tighter. “They gave me quite a big limit.”

  “For God’s sake, Becky—”

  “It’s OK! I’ll pay it off! You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of it—”

  “With what?” retorts Luke.

  My face flames with humiliation. I know I’m not earning right now. But he doesn’t have to rub it in.

  “When I start my job,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I am going to have an income, you know, Luke. I’m not some kind of freeloader.”

  Luke looks at me for a few moments, then sighs.

  “I know,” he says gently. He holds out his hand. “Come here.”

  After a moment I pick my way across the crowded floor to the sofa. I find a tiny space to sit down and he puts his arm round me. For a while we both look silently at the ocean of cl
utter. It’s like we’re two survivors on a desert island.

  “Becky, we can’t carry on like this,” Luke says at last. “Do you know how much our honeymoon cost us?”

  “Er . . . no.”

  Suddenly it strikes me that I have absolutely no idea what anything has cost. It was me who bought the round-the-world airline tickets, but apart from that, Luke’s been doing all the paying, all the way along.

  Has our honeymoon ruined us?

  I glance sideways at Luke—and for the first time see how stressed he looks.

  Oh God. We’ve lost all our money and Luke’s been trying to hide it from me.

  I suddenly feel like the wife in It’s a Wonderful Life when James Stewart comes home and snaps at the children. Even though we’re on the brink of financial disgrace, it’s my role to be brave and serene.

  “Luke . . . are we very poor?” I ask, as calmly as I can.

  Luke turns his head and looks at me.

  “No, Becky,” he says patiently. “We’re not very poor. But we will be if you keep buying mountains of crap.”

  Mountains of crap? I’m about to make an indignant retort when I see his expression. Instead, I close my mouth and nod humbly.

  “So I think . . .” Luke pauses. “I think we need to institute a budget.”

  Eight

  A budget.

  This is OK. I can handle a budget. Easily. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be quite liberating, knowing exactly how much I can spend.

  Plus everyone knows, the point about budgets is that you make them work for you. Exactly.

  “So . . . how much is my budget for today?” I say, hovering by the study door. It’s about an hour later and Luke is searching for something in his desk. He looks a bit stressed.

  “I’m sorry?” he says without looking up.

  “I was just wondering what my budget is for today. About twenty pounds?”

  “I guess so,” Luke says distractedly.

  “So . . . can I have it?”

  “What?”

  “Can I have my twenty pounds?”

  Luke stares at me for a moment as though I’m completely mad, then takes his wallet out of his pocket, gets out a twenty-pound note, and hands it to me. “OK?”

  “Fine. Thanks.”

  I look at the note. Twenty pounds. That’s my challenge. I feel like some wartime housewife being given her ration book.

  It’s a very weird feeling, not having my own income. Or a job. For three months. How am I going to survive three whole months? Should I get some other job to fill the space? Maybe this is a great opportunity, it occurs to me. I could try something completely new!

  I have a sudden image of myself as a landscape gardener. I could buy some really cool Wellingtons and specialize in shrubs.

  Or . . . yes! I could start up some company offering a unique service that no one has ever provided, and make millions! Everyone would say “Becky’s a genius! Why didn’t we think of that?” And the unique service would be—

  It would consist of—

  OK, I’ll come back to that one.

  Then, as I watch Luke putting some papers in a Brandon Communications folder, I’m seized by a brilliant idea. Of course. I can help him in his work!

  I mean, that’s the whole point of marriage! It should be a partnership. I can get totally involved in the running of his company, like Hillary Clinton, and everyone will know it’s really me who has all the good ideas. I have a vision of myself standing by Luke’s side in a pastel suit, beaming radiantly while ticker tape rains down on us.

  “Luke, listen,” I say. “I want to help.”

  “Help?” He looks up with an absent frown.

  “I want to help you out with the business.”

  “Becky, I’m not sure—”

  “I really want to support you, and I’m free for three months! It’s perfect! You wouldn’t even have to pay me very much.”

  Luke looks slightly gobsmacked.

  “What exactly would you do?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I could inject some new thoughts. Maybe on marketing. Like the time I came up with that slogan for Foreland Investments. You said I was really useful then. And when I came on that press tour to France, and I rewrote that media release for you? Remember that?”

  Luke’s barely listening.

  “Sweetheart, we’re really busy with this Arcodas pitch. I haven’t got time to take you in. Maybe after the pitch is over—”

  “It wouldn’t take time!” I say in astonishment. “I’d save you time! I’d be a help! You once offered me a job, remember?”

  “I know I did. But taking on a real, full-time job is a bit different from filling in for three months. If you want to change careers, that’s different.” He goes back to sorting through his papers.

  He is making a big mistake. Everyone knows companies have to cross-pollinate with other industries. My personal shopping experience would probably be invaluable to him. Not to mention my background as a financial journalist.

  As I’m watching, Luke tries to put a file away and bumps his shin on a wooden carton full of saris.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says irritably. “Becky, if you really want to help me . . .”

  “Yes?” I say eagerly.

  “You can tidy up this apartment.”

  Here I am, prepared to devote myself to Luke’s company, and he thinks I should tidy up.

  I heft a wooden carton onto the slate coffee table and prize the lid off with a knife, and white foam peanuts cascade out everywhere like snowflakes. I dig in through the foam and pull out a bubble-wrapped parcel. For a few seconds I peer at it blankly—then suddenly I remember. These are the hand-painted eggs from Japan. Each one depicts a scene from the legend of the Dragon King. I think I bought five.

  I wipe my brow and glance at my watch. I’ve been at it now for a whole hour, and to be honest, the room doesn’t look any better than before. In fact . . . it looks worse. As I survey the clutter, I’m suddenly full of gloom.

  What I need is a cup of coffee. Yes.

  I head out to the kitchen, already feeling lighter, and turn the kettle on. And maybe I’ll have a biscuit, too. I open one of the stainless-steel cupboards, find the tin, select a biscuit, and put the tin away again. Every single movement makes a little clanging sound that echoes through the silence.

  God, it’s quiet in here, isn’t it? We need to get a radio.

  I trail my fingers over the granite work-top with a gusty sigh. Maybe I’ll give Mum a ring and have a nice chat. Except she’s still being all weird. I tried phoning home the other day and she sounded all shifty, and said she had to go because the chimney sweep was there. Like we’ve ever had a chimney sweep in all my life. She probably had people viewing the house or something.

  I could phone Suze. . . .

  No. Not Suze.

  Or Danny! Danny was my best friend when we lived in New York. He was a struggling fashion designer then, but all of a sudden he’s doing really well. I’ve even seen his name in Vogue! But I haven’t spoken to him since we got back.

  It’s not a great time to be calling New York—but that’s OK. Danny never keeps regular hours. I dial his number and wait impatiently as it rings.

  “Greetings!”

  “Hi!” I say. “Danny, it’s—”

  “Welcome to the ever-expanding Danny Kovitz empire!”

  Oh, right. It’s a machine.

  “For Danny’s fashion tips . . . press one. To receive a catalog . . . press two. If you wish to send Danny a gift or invite him to a party, press three. . . .”

  I wait till the list comes to an end and a beep sounds.

  “Hi!” I say. “Danny, it’s Becky! I’m back! So . . . give me a ring sometime!” I give him my number, then put down the receiver.

  The kettle comes to a noisy boil and I briskly start spooning grounds into the coffee pot, thinking of who else to call. But . . . there’s no one. The truth is, I haven’t lived in Lo
ndon for two years. And I’ve kind of lost touch with most of my old friends.

  I’m lonely pops into my head with no warning.

  No I’m not. I’m fine.

  I wish we’d never come home.

  Don’t be silly. It’s all great. I’m a married woman with my own home and . . . and plenty to be getting on with.

  Suddenly the buzzer rings and I look up in surprise. I’m not expecting anyone.

  It’s probably a package. Or maybe Luke decided to come home early! I walk out into the hall and pick up the entry phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Becky, love?” crackles a familiar voice. “It’s Mum.”

  I gape at the receiver. Mum? Downstairs?

  “Dad and I have come to see you,” she continues. “Is it all right if we pop up?”

  “Of course!” I exclaim in bemusement, and hit the buzzer. What on earth are Mum and Dad doing here?

  I quickly go into the kitchen, pour out the coffee, and arrange some biscuits on a plate, then hurry back out to the lift.

  “Hi!” I say as the doors open. “Come on in! I’ve made you some coffee!”

  As I hug Mum and Dad I can see them glancing at each other apprehensively. They’re both dressed quite smartly and Mum has even got on the pearl brooch she normally wears to weddings.

  What is going on? What?

  “I hope we’re not disturbing you, love,” Mum says as she follows me into the flat.

  “No! Of course not!” I say. “I mean, obviously I have my chores . . . things to be getting on with . . .”

  “Oh yes.” Mum nods. “Well, we don’t want to take up your time. It’s just . . .” She breaks off. “Shall we go and sit down?”

  “Oh. Er . . .” I glance through the door of the sitting room. The sofa is surrounded by boxes spilling their contents, and covered in rugs and foam peanuts. “We haven’t quite got the sitting room straight yet. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

  Whoever designed our trendy kitchen bar stools obviously never had their parents come over for a cup of coffee. It takes Mum and Dad about five minutes to climb up onto them, while I watch, completely petrified they’re going to topple over.

  “Spindly legs, aren’t they?” puffs Dad as he tries for the fifth time. Meanwhile Mum’s inching slowly onto the seat, gripping the granite breakfast bar for dear life.