Shopaholic and Baby s-5

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Becky,” she says at last. “Might we have a little talk?”

  “Talk?” I echo nervously.

  “Yes, talk. The two of us. Speaking to each other alone. If you wouldn’t mind?” She glances at Danny.

  “Sure. I’ll get us some drinks.” He disappears off to the bar and I feel a quailing inside as I turn to face Venetia. There’s a frown line between her eyes and she’s tapping her fingers against the stem of her glass. She looks like a young, glamorous headmistress who’s about to tell me I’ve let down the whole school.

  “So!” I muster a bright tone. “How are you?”

  She can’t read your mind, I’m telling myself feverishly. She doesn’t know you had her trailed. She can’t prove the T-shirt is about her. Just act innocent.

  “Look, Becky.” Venetia drains her glass in one gulp. “Let’s cut the crap.”

  I stare at her in shock. Did she just say “crap”?

  “We were trying to spare you any unpleasantness.” Venetia’s frown deepens. “We wanted to be as…I don’t know…as amicable as possible. But if this is the attitude you’re going to take…” She gestures at the T-shirt.

  I’m missing something here. In fact, I’m missing everything.

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” I say.

  Venetia gazes at me as though suspecting a trick. Then, very slowly, her expression changes. She exhales and rubs her brow. “Oh God,” she says, almost as though to herself.

  I feel a thud of foreboding deep inside. A kind of hot nausea is slowly rising through me. She can’t mean what I—

  She can’t.

  The noise and chatter of the bar has dwindled to a rushing in my ears. I swallow several times, trying to keep a grip on myself. I know I thought something might be going on. I know I talked about it with Suze and Jess and Danny.

  But all of a sudden, standing here now, I realize I didn’t ever really think it was true. Not really. Not really.

  “What are you saying?” I can’t quite control my voice. “Exactly.”

  A waiter is passing with a tray of drinks, and Venetia puts out a hand to stop him.

  “Vodka tonic on the rocks, please,” she says. “Straightaway. Anything for you, Becky?”

  “Just…tell me.” My eyes burn into hers. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  The waiter moves away and Venetia thrusts a hand through her hair. She looks a little ruffled by my reaction. “Becky…this was always going to be difficult. You should know, Luke feels terrible about what’s been going on. He really cares about you. He’ll be livid that I’ve spoken to you, even.”

  For a few moments I can’t reply. I’m just staring at her, my whole body tensed up. I feel like I’ve swung into some parallel universe.

  “What are you saying?” I repeat huskily.

  “He really doesn’t want to hurt you.” Venetia leans closer, and I get a sickening waft of Allure. “As he keeps saying…he made a mistake. Pure and simple. He married the wrong person. But that’s not your fault.”

  Something starts stabbing at my chest. For a moment I’m not sure I can speak, for shock.

  “Luke didn’t marry the wrong person,” I manage at last. “He married the right person. He loves me, OK? He loves me.”

  “You met right after he split up from Sacha, didn’t you?” Venetia nods, even though I haven’t replied. “He told me all about it. You were a refreshing change, Becky. You make him laugh. But you’re hardly on the same level. You don’t really understand what he’s about.”

  “I do.” My throat isn’t working properly. “I totally understand Luke! We went round the world on our honeymoon—”

  “Becky, I’ve known Luke since he was nineteen.” She cuts across me, invincible, inexorable. “I know him. What we had at Cambridge was powerful. It was intoxicating. He was my first real love. I was his. We were like Odysseus and Penelope. When we saw each other again in my consulting room…” She breaks off. “I’m sorry. But we both knew, instantly. It was just a matter of when and where.”

  My legs seem to have turned to dust. My face is numb. I’m clutching my stupid feathers, trying to find a pithy, witty…something. But my head feels like a heavy lump of flannel. I have a horrible feeling there are tears on my cheeks.

  “It’s been appalling timing.” Venetia takes her drink from the waiter. “Luke didn’t want to say anything until after the baby came. But I think you deserve to know the truth.”

  “We went looking at prams together yesterday.” My voice comes out thick and rushed. “How come he went to look at prams, then?”

  “Oh, he’s excited about the baby!” says Venetia in surprise. “He wants to see his child as much as possible after…” She pauses delicately. “He wants the whole thing to be amicable. But obviously that depends on you.”

  I can’t listen to her sweet, poisonous voice anymore. I have to get away.

  “You’re wrong, Venetia,” I say, struggling clumsily into my coat. “You’re deluded. Luke and I have a strong, loving marriage! We laugh, and we talk, and we have sex….”

  Venetia just looks at me with infinite pity. “Becky, Luke’s just playing along to keep you happy. You don’t have a marriage. Not anymore.”

  I don’t wait to say good-bye to Danny. I head straight out of the bar on stumbling legs and hail a taxi. All the way home, Venetia’s words are going round and round in my brain, until I want to throw up.

  It can’t be true, I keep telling myself. It can’t be.

  Of course it can, a small voice replies. It’s what you suspected all along.

  I let myself into the flat and immediately hear Luke moving around in the kitchen.

  “Hi!” he calls out.

  My throat’s too tight to answer. I feel paralyzed. At last Luke pops his head round the door. He’s already in dress trousers and a crisp Armani dress shirt. His bow tie is loose around his neck, ready for me to tie it like I always do.

  I stare at him wordlessly. Are you leaving me for Venetia? Is our whole marriage a sham?

  “Hi, darling.” He takes a sip of wine.

  I feel like I’m standing on a cliff edge. The moment I speak, it will all be over.

  “Becky? Sweetheart?” Luke takes a few steps toward me, looking puzzled. “Are you OK?” He peers curiously at the feathers.

  I can’t do it. I can’t ask him. I’m too frightened of what I’ll hear.

  “I’ll go and get ready,” I whisper, unable to meet his eye. “We need to leave soon.”

  I head to the bedroom and strip off, bundling Danny’s T-shirt into the bottom of the wardrobe where Luke will never look. Then I take a quick shower, hoping it’ll make me feel better. But it doesn’t. As I catch sight of myself in the mirror, wrapped in a towel, I look scared and pale.

  Come on, Becky. Chin up. Think glam. Think Catherine Zeta-Jones. I get out my slinky new midnight-blue dress and slip it on, thinking this at least will cheer me up. But somehow the dress doesn’t look as good as it did before. It’s not clingy, it’s puckering. I haul at the zipper but it won’t go up.

  It’s too small.

  My perfect dress is too small. I must have grown some more. My bump, or my thighs, or somewhere. My whole body’s suddenly got huge.

  I can feel my chin wobbling, but desperately clamp my lips shut. I am not going to cry. I wrench off the dress as best I can and head to the wardrobe to find something else. And then I glimpse myself in the mirror, and freeze. I’m waddling.

  I’m a white, fat, waddling…monstrosity.

  I sit down on the bed, feeling dizzy. My head is pounding and there are spots before my eyes. No wonder he chose Venetia.

  “Becky, are you OK?” Luke is at the door, surveying me in alarm. I hadn’t even noticed him.

  “I…” Tears are blocking my throat. “I’m…”

  “You don’t look well. Why don’t you lie down? I’ll bring you some water.”

  As I watch him go, Venetia’s voice is in my head like a coiled snake. He’s play
ing along to keep you happy.

  “Here we are.” Luke’s voice makes me jump. He hands me a glass of water and two chocolate biscuits. “I think you should rest for a while.”

  I take the glass without drinking. Suddenly everything feels like acting. He’s acting. I’m acting.

  “What about the reunion?” I say at last. “We need to go soon.”

  “We can be late. Or we can miss it. Darling, have some water, lie down….”

  Reluctantly I take a sip of water, then put my head on the pillow. Luke tucks the duvet over me and quietly leaves the room.

  I don’t know how long I lie there for. It feels like about thirty seconds. Or six hours. Afterward I work out it was about twenty minutes.

  And then I hear the voices. His voice. And her voice. Approaching down the corridor.

  “…hope you don’t mind…”

  “No, absolutely. Luke, you did the right thing to call. So, how’s the patient?”

  I open my eyes, and it’s a nightmare come true. There, looming in front of me, is Venetia.

  She’s changed into a full-length strapless black taffeta ball gown with a swirly skirt. Her hair is pinned up in a chignon, and diamonds are flashing at her ears. She looks like a princess.

  “Luke says you’re not feeling well, Becky?” Her smile is syrupy sweet. “Let’s have a look.”

  “What are you doing here?” I spit out.

  “Luke called me. He was worried!” Venetia puts a hand on my head and I flinch. “Let me see if you’ve got a temperature.” She sits on the bed with a rustle of taffeta and opens a little medical case.

  “Luke, I don’t want her here!” With no warning, tears are spilling from my eyes. “I’m not ill!”

  “Open.” Venetia is advancing a thermometer toward my mouth.

  “No!” I turn my head away like a baby refusing its porridge.

  “Come on, Becky,” Venetia says in cajoling tones. “I just want to take your temperature….”

  “Becky.” Luke takes my hand. “Come on. We can’t take any risks.”

  “I’m not ill—” My words are stifled as Venetia jams the thermometer in my mouth and stands up.

  “I really don’t think she should come tonight,” she says in a low voice, drawing Luke aside. “Can you persuade her to stay here and rest?”

  “Of course.” Luke nods. “Please send our apologies.”

  “You’re staying behind too?” Venetia frowns. “Luke, I really think…” She beckons Luke out of the room and I can hear low murmurings coming from the corridor. A few moments later Luke appears around the door again, holding a jug of water.

  Someone’s tied his bow tie up, I suddenly notice. I want to burst into tears.

  “Becky. Sweetheart, Venetia thinks you should take it easy.”

  I stare at him silently, the thermometer still in my mouth.

  “I’ll stay with you, of course. If you want me to.” He hesitates awkwardly. “But…if you didn’t mind me popping out just for half an hour, there are a lot of people coming to this reunion I’d like to see.”

  My throat is thickening. Fresh tears are springing to my eyes. I can see it all plainly now. He wants to go to the party with Venetia. They’ve probably engineered this whole thing.

  What am I going to do, beg him not to? I’ve got more pride than that.

  “Fine,” I mumble, turning my head away so he can’t see my tears. “Go.”

  “What?”

  “Fine.” I take the thermometer out of my mouth. “Go.”

  There’s a rustle as Venetia comes into the room again. “Let’s have a look.” She studies the thermometer with a small frown. “Yes, you’re slightly feverish. Let’s give you some paracetamol….”

  She hands me two tablets and I gulp them down with the water which Luke brought in.

  “You’re sure you’ll be OK?” he says, watching me anxiously.

  “Yes. Enjoy yourself.” I pull the duvet over my head and feel my tears drenching the pillow.

  “Bye, sweetheart.” I can feel Luke patting the duvet. “Get some rest.”

  There’s some muffled talking, and then in the distance I hear the door slam. That’s it. They’ve gone.

  It’s about half an hour before I even move. I push back the duvet and wipe my wet eyes. I get out of bed, stagger into the bathroom, and look at myself. I’m a fright. My eyes are red and puffy. My cheeks are tear-stained. My hair is all over the place.

  I splash my face with water and sit down on the edge of the bathtub. What am I going to do? I can’t just stay here all night, wondering and worrying and imagining the worst. I’d rather just catch them. I’d rather just see it for my own eyes.

  I’ll go there. The thought hits me like a bullet.

  I’ll go to the reunion right now, this minute. What’s to stop me? I’m not ill. I’m fine.

  I head back into the bedroom with a fresh determination. I fling open my wardrobe doors and pull out a black chiffon maternity kaftan that I bought in the summer and never wore because it felt too tentlike. OK. Accessories. A few long, glittery necklaces…a pair of sparkly heels…diamond earrings…I wrench open my makeup case and apply as much as I can, as quickly as I can.

  I take a step back and look at myself head to foot in the mirror. I look…fine. Not exactly my most polished outfit ever, but fine.

  Adrenaline is beating through me as I grab an evening bag and stuff my keys, mobile, and purse into it. I wrap a shawl around myself and head out the front door, my chin jutting with resolve. I’ll show them. Or I’ll catch them. Or…something. I’m not some helpless victim who’s tamely going to lie in bed while her husband’s with another woman.

  I manage to catch a cab straight outside our building, and as it zooms off I sit back and practice my confrontation lines. I need to hold my head high and be sarcastic yet noble. And not burst into tears or hit Venetia.

  Well, maybe I could hit Venetia. A ringing slap on her cheek, after I’ve laid into Luke.

  “You’re still married, by the way,” I rehearse under my breath. “Forget something, Luke? Like your wife?”

  We’re getting near now, and I feel light-headed with nerves…but I don’t care. I’m still going to do it. I’m going to be strong. As the taxi draws up, I hand a wodge of crumpled money to the driver and get out. It’s started to rain, and a cold breeze is cutting right through my chiffon kaftan. I need to get inside.

  I totter over the open square toward the grand stone entrance of the Guildhall and through the heavy oak doors. Inside, the reception area is full of pale blue helium balloons in bunches, and banners reading CAMBRIDGE REUNION, and a huge pin board covered in old photographs of students. In front of me a group of four men are slapping each other on the back and exclaiming things like “I can’t believe you’re still alive, you bastard!” As I hesitate, wondering where to go, a girl in a red ball gown sitting behind a cloth-draped table smiles up at me.

  “Hello! Do you have your invitation?”

  “My husband has it.” I try to sound calm, like any normal guest. “He arrived earlier than me. Luke Brandon?” The girl runs a finger down her list, then stops.

  “Of course!” She smiles at me. “Do go in, Mrs. Brandon.”

  I follow the group of bantering guys into the great hall and accept a glass of champagne on autopilot. I’ve never been here before and I didn’t realize how huge it was. There are massive stained-glass windows and ancient stone statues, and an orchestra is playing in the gallery, amplified over the roar of chatter. People in evening dress are milling and chatting and collecting food from a buffet, and some are even dancing old-fashioned waltzes, like something out of a film. I look around, trying to spot Luke or Venetia, but the room is so busy with women in beautiful dresses, and men in black tie, and even a few particularly dashing men in tails….

  And then I see them. Dancing together.

  Luke was right, he does waltz as well as Fred Astaire. He’s skimming Venetia around the floor like an expert. Her skir
t is twirling, and her head is thrown back as she smiles up at Luke. They’re perfectly in time with each other. The most glamorous couple in the room.

  I’m rooted to the spot as I watch them, my kaftan clinging damply to my shins. All the sarcastic, feisty phrases I prepared have shriveled on my lips. I’m not sure I can breathe, let alone speak.

  “Are you all right?” A waiter is addressing me, but his voice seems to be coming from miles away and his face is out of focus.

  I never once waltzed with Luke. And now it’s too late.

  “She’s falling!” I can feel hands grabbing at me as my legs give way beneath me. My arm bashes against something and there’s a ringing in my ears and the sound of a woman shouting “Get some water! There’s a pregnant woman here!”

  And then everything goes dark.

  SIXTEEN

  I THOUGHT MARRIAGE was forever. I really did. I thought Luke and I would grow old and gray together. Or at least old. (I’m not intending to go gray, ever. Or wear those gross dresses with elastic waistbands.)

  But we’re not going to grow old together. We’re not going to sit on benches together, or watch our grandchildren play. I’m not even going to make it past thirty with him. Our marriage has failed.

  Every time I try to speak I think I’ll cry, so I’m not really speaking. Luckily there’s no one here to speak to. I’m in a private room at the Cavendish Hospital, which is where they brought me last night. If you want attention at a hospital, just arrive with a celebrity doctor in black tie. I’ve never seen so many nurses running around. First they thought I might be in labor, and then they thought I might have preeclampsia, but in the end they decided I was just a bit overtired and dehydrated. So they put me in this bed, with a saline drip. I should be going home today, after I’ve been checked out.

  Luke stayed with me all night too. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him. So I pretended I was asleep, even this morning when he quietly said, “Becky? Are you awake?”

  Now he’s gone off to take a shower and I’ve opened my eyes. It’s a really nice room, with soft green walls and even a little sofa. But who cares, when my life is over? What does anything matter anymore?