Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

by Sophie Kinsella

  Jess sighs impatiently.

  “Look, Becky. I wanted to be polite, so I came along today. But the truth is, I really can’t stand shopping.”

  My heart sinks. I knew she wasn’t having a good time. I knew she hated my taste. I have to salvage this.

  “I know we haven’t found the right shops yet.” I lean forward eagerly. “But there are more. We can go into different ones—”

  “No,” Jess interrupts. “You don’t get it. I don’t like shopping. Full stop.”

  “Catalogs!” I say, suddenly inspired. “We could go home, get a load of catalogs . . . it’d be fun!”

  “Can’t you get this through your head?” Jess exclaims in exasperation. “Read my lips very carefully. I. Hate. Shopping.”

  When we arrive home, Luke is in the front garden, talking to Dad. As he sees us pulling into the drive he looks stunned.

  “What are you doing back so soon?” he says, hurrying over to the car. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Everything’s fine!” I say. My brain still feels like it’s short-circuited. “We were just . . . quicker than I thought we’d be.”

  “Thanks,” says Jess, getting out.

  “It was a pleasure.”

  As Jess heads toward Dad, Luke gets into the car beside me and closes the door.

  “Becky, are you OK?”

  “I’m . . . fine. I think.”

  I can’t quite get my head round the day. My mind keeps replaying the way I fantasized it would be. The two of us sauntering along, swinging our bags, laughing happily . . . trying on each other’s things . . . buying each other friendship bracelets . . . calling each other by little nicknames. . . .

  “So? How was it?”

  “It was . . .” I force a bright smile. “It was really good fun. We both had a great time.”

  “What did you buy?”

  “A couple of tops . . . a really nice skirt . . . some shoes . . .”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Luke nods. “And what did Jess buy?”

  For a moment I can’t speak.

  “Nothing,” I whisper at last.

  “Oh, Becky.” Luke sighs and puts his arm round me. “I know you wanted to find a soul mate. I know you wanted Jess to be your new best friend. But maybe you’ll have to accept that you’re just . . . too different.”

  “We’re not too different,” I say stubbornly. “We’re sisters.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s OK,” says Luke. “You can admit it if you don’t get along. No one will think you’ve failed.”

  Failed?

  “We do get along!” I say, stung. “We do! We just need to find a bit more . . . common ground. So she doesn’t like shopping. But that doesn’t matter! I like things other than shopping!”

  Luke is shaking his head.

  “Accept it. You’re different people and there’s no reason why you should get on.”

  “But we’ve got the same blood! We can’t be that different! We can’t be!”

  “Becky—”

  “I’m not going to give up, just like that! This is my long-lost sister we’re talking about!”

  “Sweetheart—”

  I cut him off. “I know we can be friends. I know we can.”

  With sudden determination I wrench open the car door and get out.

  “Hey, Jess!” I call, hurrying across the lawn. “After your conference, do you want to come and stay for the weekend? I promise we’ll have a good time.”

  “That’s a nice idea, love!” says Dad, his face lighting up.

  “I’m not sure,” says Jess. “I really have to get back home. . . .”

  “Please. Just one weekend. We don’t need to go shopping!” The words come tumbling out of me. “It won’t be like today. We can do whatever you like. Just have a really low-key, easy time. What do you think?”

  My fingers are twisting into knots. Jess glances at Dad’s hopeful face.

  “OK,” she says at last. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

  PGNI FIRST BANK VISA

  7 CAMEL SQUARE

  LIVERPOOL L1 5NP

  Mrs Rebecca Brandon

  37 Maida Vale Mansions

  Maida Vale

  London NW6 0YF

  12 May 2003

  Dear Mrs Brandon:

  Thank you for your prompt response to my letter of

  20 April.

  We are glad to inform you that you have been successful in your application for the High Status Golden Credit Card.

  In answer to your questions, the card will be delivered to your home address and will resemble a credit card. It cannot be “disguised as a cake” as you suggest. Nor can we provide a distraction outside as it arrives.

  If you have any further questions please do not hesitate to contact me, and we hope you enjoy the benefits of your new card.

  Yours sincerely,

  Peter Johnson

  Customer Accounts Executive

  PGNI FIRST BANK VISA

  7 CAMEL SQUARE

  LIVERPOOL L1 5NP

  Ms Jessica Bertram

  12 Hill Rise

  Scully

  Cumbria CA19 1BD

  12 May 2003

  Dear Ms Bertram:

  Thank you for your prompt response to my letter of

  20 April.

  I apologize for approaching you with the offer of a High Status Golden Credit Card. I did not mean to cause any offence.

  By saying you had been personally handpicked for a £20,000 credit limit, I was not intending to imply that you are “debt-ridden and irresponsible” nor to defame your character.

  As a gesture of goodwill I enclose a gift voucher of £25, and look forward to being of service should you change your mind on the issue of credit cards.

  Yours sincerely,

  Peter Johnson

  Customer Accounts Executive

  Twelve

  I’m not giving up.

  So maybe my first meeting with Jess didn’t go quite as I planned. But this weekend will be better, I just know it will. I mean, in hindsight, the first meeting was bound to be a bit awkward. But this time we’ll have gotten through that first hurdle and will be far more relaxed and easy with each other. Plus, I’m far more prepared than I was last time. After Jess left on Saturday, Mum and Dad could see I was a bit down, so they made a pot of tea and we had a good old chat. And we all agreed it’s impossible to get on with someone straightaway if you don’t know anything about her. So Mum and Dad racked their brains for all the details they knew about Jess and wrote them all down. And I’ve been learning them all week.

  Like, for instance: she did nine GCSE exams and got As in all of them. She never eats avocados. As well as caving and walking, she does something called potholing. She likes poetry. And her favorite dog is a . . .

  Fuck.

  I grab the crib sheet and scan down.

  Oh yes. A border collie.

  It’s Saturday morning, and I’m in our spare room, making my final preparations for Jess’s arrival. I bought a book this week called The Gracious Hostess, and it said the guest room should be “well thought-out, with little individual touches to make your guest feel welcome.”

  So on the dressing table are flowers and a book of poetry, and by the bed I’ve put a careful selection of magazines: Rambling News, Caving Enthusiast, and Potholing Monthly, which is a magazine you can order only on the Internet. (I had to take out a two-year subscription, actually, just to get a copy. But that’s all right. I can just forward the other twenty-three copies to Jess.)

  And on the wall is my pièce de résistance, which I am so proud of. It’s an enormous poster of a cave! With stalag . . . things.

  I fluff up the pillows, anticipating the weekend. Tonight will be totally different from last time. For a start, we won’t go near any shops. I’ve just planned a nice, simple, relaxed evening in. We can watch a movie and eat popcorn, and do each other’s nails, and really chill. And then later on I’ll come and sit on her bed and we can wear matching pajamas and eat pepp
ermint creams, and talk long into the night.

  “This all looks very nice,” says Luke, coming in behind me. “You’ve done a great job. In fact, the whole apartment looks amazing!” He wanders out, and I follow him into the hall. Although there are still a few boxes here and there, the whole place looks so much clearer!

  We walk into the sitting room, now utterly transformed. All the piles of rugs and boxes and crates have disappeared. There are just two sofas, two coffee tables, and the Indonesian gamelan.

  “Hats off to you, Becky,” says Luke, looking around. “In fact, I owe you an apology. You told me you could make it all work—and I doubted you. But I would never have guessed so much clutter could be so well organized.” He looks around the room incredulously. “There were so many things in here! Where have they all gone?”

  “I’ve just . . . found homes for them!” I say brightly.

  “Well, I’m really impressed,” he says, running his hand over the mantelpiece, which is bare except for the five hand-painted eggs. “You should become a storage consultant.”

  “Maybe I will!”

  OK, I think I want to get off this subject now. Any minute Luke’s going to start looking a bit more closely and say something like “Where are the Chinese urns?” or “Where are the wooden giraffes?”

  “I’ll just check my e-mails,” I say casually. “Why don’t you make us some nice coffee?”

  I wait until Luke’s safely in the kitchen, then hurry to my computer and type in www.eBay.co.uk.

  eBay has totally saved my life. Totally.

  In fact, what did I ever do before eBay? It is the most brilliant, genius invention since . . . well, since whoever invented shops.

  The minute I got back from Mum’s last Saturday I joined, and put up for sale the Chinese urns, the wooden giraffes, and three of the rugs. And in three days they’d all been sold! Just like that! So the next day I put up five more rugs and two coffee tables. And since then, I haven’t stopped.

  I quickly click on “Items I’m Selling,” glancing at the door every so often. I mustn’t be long or Luke’ll come in and see me, but I’m desperate to find out if anyone has bid on the totem pole.

  A moment later the page appears . . . and yes! Result! Someone’s bid fifty pounds! I feel a hit of adrenaline and punch the air with a whoop (a quiet one, so Luke won’t hear). It’s such a power kick, selling stuff! I’m totally addicted!

  And the best thing of all is, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m solving our clutter problems—and I’m making money. Quite a lot of money, actually! I don’t want to boast—but every single day this week I’ve made a profit. I’m just like a City bond trader!

  For example, I got £200 for the slate coffee table—and we certainly didn’t pay more than a hundred for it. I got £100 for the Chinese urns, and £150 each for the five kilims, which only cost about £40 each in Turkey, if that. And best of all, I made a cool £2,000 on ten Tiffany clocks I don’t even remember buying! The guy even paid in cash and came to pick them up! Honestly, I’m doing so well, I could make eBay trading my career! I can hear Luke getting mugs out in the kitchen, and I click off “Items I’m Selling.”

  Then, very quickly, I click on “Items I’m Bidding On.”

  Obviously I joined eBay very much as a seller rather than a bidder. But I just happened to be browsing the other day when I came across this amazing orange vintage coat from the fifties with big black buttons. It’s a total one-off, and no one had made a single bid on it. So I made a tiny exception, just for that.

  And also for a pair of Prada shoes, which only had one bid on them, for fifty quid. I mean, Prada shoes for fifty quid!

  And that fantastic Yves Saint Laurent evening dress, which some other bidder got in the end. God, that was annoying. I won’t make that mistake again.

  I click on the vintage coat—and I don’t believe it. I bid £80 yesterday, which is the reserve price, and I’ve been trumped with £100. Well, I’m not losing this one. No way. I quickly type in “£120” and close down, just as Luke comes in with a tray.

  “Any e-mails?” he says.

  “Er . . . some!” I say brightly, and take a cup of coffee. “Thanks!”

  I haven’t told Luke about the whole eBay thing because there’s no need for him to get involved in every mundane detail of the household finances.

  “I found these in the kitchen.” Luke nods toward a tin of luxury Fortnum and Mason chocolate biscuits on the tray. “Very nice.”

  “Just a little treat.” I smile at him. “And don’t worry. It’s all within the budget.”

  Which is true! My budget is so much bigger now, I can afford a few luxuries!

  Luke takes a sip of coffee. Then his eyes fall on a pink folder lying on his desk.

  “What’s this?”

  I wondered when he was going to notice that.

  “That’s for you,” I say casually. “Just a little thing I’ve put together to help you. My ideas for the future of the company.”

  It hit me in the bath the other day. If Luke wins this great big pitch, he’s going to have to expand the company. And I know all about expansion.

  The reason is, when I was a personal shopper at Barneys, I had this client named Sheri, who owned her own business. I heard the whole saga of how she expanded too fast and all the mistakes she made, like renting six thousand square feet of office space in TriBeCa which she never used. I mean, at the time I thought it was really boring. I actually dreaded her appointments. But now I realize it’s all totally relevant to Luke!

  So I decided to write down everything she used to say, like consolidating your key markets and acquiring competitors. And that’s when an even better idea came to me: Luke should buy up another PR firm.

  I even know which one he should buy! David Neville, who used to work for Farnham PR, set up his own firm three years ago, when I was still a financial journalist. He’s really talented and everyone keeps saying how well he’s doing. But I know he’s secretly been struggling, because I saw his wife, Judy, at the hairdresser’s last week and she told me.

  “Becky . . .” Luke’s frowning. “I haven’t got time for this.”

  “But it’ll be useful to you!” I say quickly. “When I was at Barneys I learned all about—”

  “Barneys? Becky, I run a PR company. Not a fashion store.”

  “But I’ve had these ideas—”

  “Becky,” Luke interrupts impatiently. “Right now my priority is bringing in new business. Nothing else. I don’t have time for your ideas, OK?” He stuffs the folder into his briefcase without opening it. “I’ll look at it sometime.”

  I sit down, feeling a bit crestfallen. The doorbell rings and I look up in surprise.

  “Oh! Maybe that’s Jess, early!”

  “No, it’ll be Gary,” says Luke. “I’ll let him in.”

  Gary is Luke’s second in command. He ran the London office while we were living in New York and on our honeymoon, and he and Luke get on really well. He even ended up being Luke’s best man at our wedding. Kind of.

  The wedding’s a bit of a long story, actually.

  “What’s Gary doing here?” I ask in surprise.

  “I told him to meet me here,” replies Luke, heading out to the entry phone and buzzing it. “We have some work to do on the pitch. Then we’re planning to go to lunch.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

  I was really looking forward to spending a bit of time with Luke today, before Jess arrives. He’s so busy these days. He hasn’t been home once before eight all week, and last night he didn’t arrive back until eleven. I know they’re working hard at the moment. And I know the Arcodas pitch is important. But still. For months and months, Luke and I were together twenty-four hours a day . . . and now I hardly ever see him.

  “Maybe I could help with the pitch,” I suggest. “I could join the team!”

  “I don’t think so,” Luke says without even looking up.

  “Ther
e must be something I could do,” I say, leaning forward eagerly. “Luke, I really want to help the company. I’ll do anything—”

  “It’s all pretty much under control,” says Luke. “But thanks. Do you want to come out to lunch with us?” he adds kindly. “You’re welcome if you don’t mind a bit of shop talk.”

  “No. It’s fine.” I give a little shrug. “Have fun. Hi, Gary,” I add, as he appears at the front door.

  “Hi, Becky!” Gary says cheerfully. He’s tall and well-built with a broad, amiable face. He’s worked for Luke for three years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look angry, or even rattled.

  “Come in,” Luke says, and ushers him into the study. The door closes—then almost immediately it opens again and Luke looks out. “Becky, if the phone rings, could you answer it? I don’t want to be disturbed for a few minutes.”

  “No problem!” I say brightly.

  Answering the phone is not what I meant by helping the company.

  I wander down the corridor toward the sitting room, feeling deflated. I’m an intelligent, creative person. I could be a help, I know I could. I mean, Luke and I are supposed to be a partnership. We’re supposed to do things together.

  The phone rings and I jump. Maybe it’s Jess. Maybe she’s here! I hurry to the receiver and pick it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Brandon?” comes a man’s raspy voice.

  “Yes!”

  “It’s Nathan Temple here.”

  My mind is totally blank. Nathan? I don’t know any Nathans. . . .

  “You may recall, we met in Milan a few weeks ago.”

  Oh my God. It’s the man from the shop! I should have recognized his voice straightaway.

  “Hello! Of course I remember! How are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you,” he says. “And you? Enjoying your new bag?”

  “I absolutely love it!” I can’t hide my enthusiasm. “It’s changed my whole life! Thank you so much again for what you did.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Down the line I hear the click of his lighter. I’m not entirely sure what to say next.