Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

by Sophie Kinsella

  And I’m wearing my new pink dress with the handkerchief hem, and dancing (as best I can, given the bump) with Luke. Mum and Dad dance by and wave at us, and I smile back, trying not to cringe in horror. I know this is their party and everything. But my parents really don’t know how to dance. Mum’s wiggling her hips, completely out of time, and Dad’s kind of punching the air like he’s fighting three invisible men at once.

  Why can’t parents dance? Is it some universal law of physics or something?

  Suddenly a terrifying thought hits me. We’re going to be parents! In twenty years’ time, our child will be cringing at us.

  No. I can’t let it happen.

  “Luke!” I say urgently over the music. “We have to be able to do cool dancing so we don’t embarrass our child!”

  “I’m a very cool dancer,” replies Luke. “Very cool indeed.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “I had dance lessons in my teens, you know,” he retorts. “I can waltz like Fred Astaire.”

  “Waltz?” I echo derisively. “That’s not cool! We need to know all the street moves. Watch me.”

  I do a couple of funky head-wriggle body-pop maneuvers, like they do on rap videos. When I look up, Luke is gaping at me.

  “Sweetheart,” he says. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s hip-hop!” I say. “It’s street!”

  “Becky! Love!” Mum has pushed her way through her dancing guests to reach me. “What’s wrong? Has labor started?”

  Honestly. My family has no idea about contemporary urban street dance trends.

  “I’m fine!” I say. “Just dancing.”

  Ow. Actually, I may have pulled a muscle or three.

  “Come here, J-Lo.” Luke puts his arms round me. Mum dances off to talk to Janice and I look up at Luke’s glowing face. He’s been in a good mood ever since that business call he took during coffee.

  “What was your call about?” I ask. “Good news?”

  “We’ve just had the go-ahead in Barcelona.” His nose twitches, like it always does when he’s delighted with life but wants to look deadpan. “That takes us up to eight offices, Europe-wide. All down to the Arcodas contract.”

  He never told me Barcelona was on the cards! That’s so Luke, keeping it quiet until the deal’s done. If it hadn’t come off, he probably never would have said a word about it.

  Eight offices. And London and New York. That’s pretty stupendous.

  The music changes to a slow track and Luke pulls me closer. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Jess and Tom have sidled farther onto the dance floor together. Go on, I will Tom silently. Kiss her.

  “So, things are going pretty well?” I say.

  “Things, my darling, could not be going more fantastically.” Luke meets my eyes, the teasing gone. “Seriously. We’re going to treble our size.”

  “Wow.” I digest this for a few moments. “Are we going to be squillionaires?

  “Could be.” He nods.

  This is so cool. I have always wanted to be a squillionaire. We can have a building called Brandon Tower! And Luke can have his own Apprentice-type reality show!

  “Can we buy an island?” Suze has got her own Scottish island and I’ve always felt a bit left out.

  “Maybe.” Luke laughs.

  I’m about to say we need a private jet too, when the baby starts squirming around inside me. I take hold of Luke’s hands and put them on my abdomen.

  “It’s saying hello.”

  “Hello, baby,” he murmurs back in his deep voice. He pulls me even tighter and I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of his aftershave, feeling the music thud through me like a heartbeat.

  I can’t remember ever being so happy. We’re dancing cheek-to-cheek, our baby is kicking between us, we’ve got a fabulous new house, and we’re going to be squillionaires! Everything’s just perfect.

  BECKY BRANDON

  NURSERY RHYMES SELF-TEST

  MARY, MARY QUITE CONTRARY…

  Had a little lamb.

  And

  TOM, TOM, THE PIPER’S SON…

  Went to London to look at the

  Fell off the wall.

  And he called for his pipe.

  And all the king’s horses and his fiddlers three.

  Couldn’t put

  And the dish ran away with the spoon.

  LITTLE JACK HORNER…

  He had ten thousand men

  Met a pieman

  LITTLE BOY BLUE…

  Lost his sheep

  Oh, fuck knows.

  FIVE

  OK. THIS IS MY OUTFIT for my first-ever appointment with a celebrity must-have obstetrician:

  Embroidered kaftan top like Jemima Khan

  Maternity jeans (with the elastic hidden in the pockets, not with a great revolting panel of stretchy fabric)

  My new Elle Macpherson maternity underwear (lilac)

  Prada sandals

  I look pretty good, I think. I hope. I tweak my kaftan and toss my hair back at my reflection.

  “Hi,” I murmur. “Hi, Kate. Hi, Elle. God, fancy bumping into you. I’m wearing your underpants!”

  No. Don’t mention the underpants.

  I scrutinize myself one final time, add a dusting of powder, then pick up my bag.

  “Luke, are you ready?” I call.

  “Uh-huh.” Luke puts his head round the study door, his phone wedged under his chin. “Uh-huh. Hold on, Iain.” He puts his hand over the receiver. “Becky, do I really need to come?”

  “What?” I stare at him in horror. “Of course you need to come!”

  Luke runs his eyes over my face, as though assessing the full extent of my mood. “Iain,” he says at last, turning back to the phone. “This is complicated.” He disappears back into the office and his voice descends to a murmur.

  Complicated? What does he mean, complicated? We’re going to the obstetrician, end of story. I start pacing furiously around the hall, rehearsing retorts in my mind. Can’t Iain wait for once? Does our whole life have to revolve around Arcodas? Isn’t our baby’s birth important to you? Have you ever cared about me at all?

  Well, OK. Maybe not that last one.

  At last Luke reappears at the study door. The phone’s gone and he’s putting on his suit jacket.

  “Listen, Becky…” he begins.

  I knew it. He’s not coming.

  “You’ve never wanted to see Venetia Carter, have you?” My words tumble out. “ You’re prejudiced against her! Well, fine! You go and do your business things and I’ll go on my own!”

  “Becky…” He lifts a hand. “I’m coming to the appointment.”

  “Oh,” I say, mollified. “Well, we’d better go. It’s twenty minutes’ walk.”

  “We’re going by car.” He heads back into the office and I follow him in. “Iain’s on his way down from the hotel group meeting. He can pick us up, we’ll have a very quick meeting in the car, then I’ll join you.”

  “Right,” I say after a pause. “That sounds OK.”

  Actually, it sounds awful. I can’t stand Iain Wheeler; the last thing I want to do is sit in a car with him. But I can’t say that to Luke. There’s already a slight situation over me and Arcodas.

  Which was not my fault. It was Jess’s. A few months ago, she got me into leading this big environmental protest against them, when I had no idea they were Luke’s new, important client. Luke turned the whole thing round into a positive PR exercise and the Arcodas people pretended they had a sense of humor about it—but I’m not sure I’ve ever really been forgiven.

  “And I’m not prejudiced,” Luke adds, straightening his tie. “But I’ll just tell you now, Becky. This obstetrician woman will have to be pretty damn good for us to cancel Dr. Braine.”

  “Luke, you’re going to love her,” I say patiently. “I know you are.”

  I reach into my bag to check that my phone’s charged, then halt as I spot something on Luke’s desk. It’s a clipping from the financial pages abou
t some new unit trust, with “Baby fund?” scribbled in the margin.

  Ooh!

  “So, you’re thinking of putting the baby’s money in a tracker fund, are you, Luke?” I say carelessly. “Interesting decision.”

  Luke looks taken aback for a moment, then follows my gaze.

  “Maybe I am,” he says in equally nonchalant tones. “Or maybe it’s a double-bluff to fool the spying opposition.”

  “The opposition doesn’t need to spy.” I give him a kind smile. “She has her own brilliant ideas. In fact, if you need any tips, I’d be happy to help. For a small fee.”

  “That’s quite all right,” he says politely. “Going well, is it, then? Your own investment.”

  “Brilliantly, thanks. Couldn’t be better.”

  “Excellent. Glad to hear it.”

  “Yes…that recent Japanese farming investment I made was fantastic….” I clap a hand over my mouth. “Oops! Said too much!”

  “Yup, Becky. You really fool me.” Luke grins. “Shall we go?”

  We emerge from the building and Luke ushers me into Iain’s black Mercedes limo.

  “Luke.” Iain nods from his seat by the window. “Rebecca.”

  Iain is a thickset guy in his early forties, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He’s quite good-looking, actually, but has terrible skin which he covers up by having a Permatan. And he wears too much aftershave. Why do men do that?

  “Thanks for the lift, Iain,” I say in my best charming-corporate-wife manner.

  “No problem.” Iain’s gaze drops to my swelling stomach. “Been eating too many pies, Rebecca?”

  Ha-ha.

  “Something like that,” I say, as pleasantly as I can.

  As the car pulls away, Iain takes a slurp of his take-out coffee. “How long to go before the big day?”

  “Seventeen weeks.”

  “So, how do you fill the time until then? Don’t tell me—yoga classes. My girlfriend’s become a yoga nut,” he adds to Luke, without giving me a chance to answer. “Load of bollocks if you ask me.”

  Honestly. Number one, yoga is not bollocks, it’s a way to channel your spirit through the chakras of life, or whatever it is.

  And number two, I don’t need ways to fill my time, thank you.

  “Actually, Iain, I’m head personal shopper at a top London department store,” I inform him. “So I don’t have too much time for yoga.”

  “A department store?” He swivels in his seat to regard me. “I didn’t know that. Which one?”

  I really fell into this one.

  “It’s…new,” I say, examining my nails.

  “Called?”

  “It’s called…The Look.”

  “The Look?” Iain guffaws in disbelief and nearly drops his coffee. “Luke, you didn’t tell me your wife worked for The Look! Business slow enough for you, is it, Rebecca?”

  “It’s not that bad,” I say politely.

  “Not that bad? There’s never been a bigger retail flop in history! I hope you’ve got rid of your stock options!” He guffaws again. “Not counting on a Christmas bonus, are you?”

  This guy is really starting to annoy me. It’s one thing for me to be rude about The Look; they’re my employer. But it’s quite another matter for other people to be rude.

  “Actually, I think The Look is poised for a turnaround,” I say coolly. “We’ve had a shaky start, I’ll grant you, but all the basics are there.”

  “Well, good luck.” Iain’s face is creased with amusement. “Word of advice? I’d be looking for another job.”

  I force a smile, then turn to look out the window, seething. God, he’s patronizing. I’ll show him. The Look could be a success. It just needs…well. It needs customers, for a start.

  The car draws up to the sidewalk and the uniformed driver gets out to open the door.

  “Thanks again for the lift, Iain,” I say politely. “Luke, I’ll see you in there.”

  “Uh-huh.” Luke nods, frowning as he clicks open his briefcase. “I shouldn’t be too long. So, Iain, what exactly was the problem with this outline?”

  As the driver hands me out to the sidewalk, both men are already engrossed in paperwork.

  “Will you be all right from here?” The driver gestures at the corner. “Fencastle Street’s just round there, only I can’t get right to it because of the bollards.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine walking from here. Oh, except I’ve forgotten my bag….” I reach back into the car, where Iain is talking.

  “When I want that kind of decision taken, Luke, I’ll fucking take it.” His harsh tone takes me by surprise and I see Luke flinch.

  It’s just unbelievable. Just who does this guy think he is ? Just because he’s some business bigwig he thinks he can be rude to anyone he likes? I want to get straight back into the car and tell him exactly what I think of him.

  But I’m not sure Luke would appreciate it.

  “See you soon, darling.” I squeeze his hand and pick up my bag. “Don’t be long.”

  I’m a bit early for the appointment, so I take the opportunity to reapply my lipstick and give my hair a quick comb. Then I head to the corner and turn into Fencastle Street. There’s a big impressive stucco building about twenty yards ahead, with Holistic Birth Center, Venetia Carter engraved on the glass. And on the opposite side of the street is a cluster of photographers, their lenses trained on the door.

  I stop dead, my heart beating faster. It’s paparazzi. They’re all clicking away! Who are they—What are they—

  Oh my God. It’s the new Bond girl! She’s walking toward the building in a pink Juicy strapless top over jeans, with a definite bump showing. I can hear the cries from the photographers: “This way, love!” and “When’s the baby due?”

  This is so cool!

  Trying to look nonchalant, I hurry along the pavement and arrive at the door at the same time as her. The cameras are all still clicking away behind us. I’ll be in all the gossip magazines with a Bond girl!

  “Hi,” I murmur casually as she presses the buzzer. “Hi, I’m Becky. I’m pregnant, too. I like your top!”

  She looks at me as if I’m a moron, then without replying pushes the door open.

  Well. She wasn’t very friendly. But never mind, I’m sure the others will be. I follow her through an elegant tiled hallway and then into a large room with lilac velvet seats and a reception desk, and a huge Jo Malone candle burning on the central table.

  As I head to the desk behind the Bond girl, I do a quick sweep of the room. Two girls in jeans who might easily be supermodels are reading OK! and pointing out pictures to each other. There’s a heavily pregnant girl in Missoni sitting opposite in floods of tears, with a husband who’s holding her hand and saying anxiously, “Sweetheart, we can call the baby Aspen if you like, I just didn’t realize you were serious!”

  Aspen.

  Aspen Brandon.

  Lord Aspen Brandon, Earl of London.

  Hmm. Not sure.

  The Bond girl finishes talking to the receptionist, then moves away and sits down in a corner.

  “Can I help?” The receptionist is looking at me.

  “Yes, please.” I beam. “I’m here to see Venetia Carter. Mrs. Rebecca Brandon.”

  “Take a seat, Mrs. Brandon. Dr. Carter will see you presently.” The receptionist smiles and hands me a brochure. “Some introductory literature. Help yourself to herbal tea.”

  “Thanks!” I take the brochure and sit down opposite the supermodels. Gentle panpipe music is playing over the speakers, and there are photographs of mothers and new babies pinned up on the satin-covered pinboards. The whole atmosphere is serene and beautiful. It’s a million miles away from Dr. Braine’s boring old waiting room, with its plastic chairs and horrible carpet and posters about folic acid.

  Luke will be so impressed when he arrives. I knew this was the right decision! Happily I start flicking through the brochure, taking in headings here and there. Water Birth…Reflexology Birth�
��Hypno Birth…

  Maybe I’ll have a hypno birth. Whatever that is.

  I’m just lingering over a picture of a girl holding a baby in what looks like a giant Jacuzzi when the receptionist summons me.

  “Mrs. Brandon? Dr. Carter will see you now.”

  “Oh!” I put down the brochure and glance at my watch anxiously. “I’m afraid my husband isn’t here yet. He should only be a few minutes….”

  “Don’t worry.” She smiles. “I’ll send him in when he arrives. Please, come this way.”

  I follow the receptionist down the carpeted passage. The walls are covered with signed pictures of glamorous celebrity mothers sitting up in bed with newborn babies, and my head swivels as I walk. I really need to think about what I’m going to wear for the birth. Maybe I’ll ask Venetia Carter for some tips.

  We reach a cream-painted door and the receptionist knocks twice before opening it and ushering me in. “Venetia, this is Mrs. Brandon.”

  “Mrs. Brandon!” A stunningly beautiful woman with long, vivid red hair comes forward, her hand outstretched. “Welcome to the Holistic Birth Center.”

  “Hi!” I beam at her. “Call me Becky.”

  Wow. Venetia Carter looks like a movie star! She’s far younger than I expected, and slighter. She’s wearing a fitted Armani trouser suit and a crisp white shirt and her hair is drawn off her face with a chic tortoiseshell band.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Becky.” Her voice is all silvery and melodious, like the Good Witch of the North. “Sit down, and we can have a nice talk.”

  She’s wearing vintage Chanel pumps, I notice as I sit down. And look at that gorgeous yellow topaz strung round her neck on a silver wire.