Mini Shopaholic

by Sophie Kinsella

‘No! You’re not going in!’ I grab his shoulders, but he’s too strong. ‘Jasmine!’ I yell as I grapple with him. ‘Lead all the customers to safety!’

  ‘You bloody well let me in!’

  ‘This is a private shopping area.’ I’m panting with the effort of restraining him.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’

  A deep voice booms right behind me, and I relinquish my grasp. I swivel around, already knowing it’s Trevor. Gavin is lurking behind him, face gleaming as though he’s watching some kind of floor show. Trevor meets my eyes with a grim ‘There’d better be a very good reason for this’ look, and I shrug defensively back, trying to convey ‘Yes, there is.’

  As Trevor turns to Mr Raynor, his expression suddenly changes to one of awe. ‘My goodness! Is it … Doug Raynor?’

  Trust him to know some ancient old rocker that no one else has even heard of.

  ‘Yeah.’ Doug Raynor preens himself. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Mr Raynor, we’re extremely honoured to see you here at The Look.’ Trevor launches into full obsequious-manager mode. ‘We’re all huge fans. If there’s anything I can do to help you …’

  ‘There is, as it happens.’ Doug Raynor cuts him off. ‘You can tell me what this is all about. You might call it discreet shopping; I call it downright lying.’ He slaps the leaflet down on the reception counter. ‘And I’m calling the Daily World tomorrow. Exposing the bloody lot of you.’

  ‘What’s this?’ says Trevor, looking puzzled. ‘ “Shop in Private”? Do I know about this?’

  ‘It’s … um …’ My mouth suddenly feels like cotton wool. ‘I was going to mention it …’

  I can feel blood filling my face as Trevor reads the leaflet in silence. When at last he looks up, his eyes are like two black holes of disapproval.

  No. Worse than disapproval. He looks like he wants to murder me. Gavin is reading it over his shoulder now.

  ‘You pretend to be cleaning ladies?’ He gives a sudden snort of laughter. ‘Jesus Christ, Becky!’

  ‘You think this is a responsible way to carry on?’ Doug Raynor chimes in furiously. ‘You think this is the way a top department store should be acting? It’s criminal deception, that’s what it is!’

  ‘Gavin.’ Trevor snaps into full damage-limitation action. ‘Be so kind as to take Mr Raynor to menswear and offer him a new suit, with our compliments. Mr Raynor, perhaps I can offer you a glass of champagne at the oyster bar when you’ve finished shopping, and you can express any concerns you have directly to me?’

  ‘Yeah. And you’ll be getting an earful from me, I can tell you.’ Doug Raynor is obviously torn between staying and shouting some more and getting a free suit – but at last allows himself to be led away by Gavin. Jasmine has vanished back into the dressing rooms, too.

  It’s just me and Trevor and an ominous hush.

  ‘You … you said you wanted to know the secret of our success …’ I falter. ‘Well, this is it.’

  Trevor says nothing, but reads the leaflet through again, his fingers gripping the paper hard. The longer he’s silent, the less certain I feel. Obviously he’s angry … but might he not be a bit impressed too? Might he say this is the kind of risk-taking chutzpah we need in retail? Might he say that this reminds him of the kind of crazy stunt he pulled when he was just starting out and how would I like to be his special protégée?

  ‘Becky.’ He finally raises his head and my heart lifts with hope. His eyes aren’t black holes any more. He looks quite calm. I think it’ll all be OK! ‘Were you planning to see me about this today? Is that why you made the eleven o’clock appointment?’

  He sounds so reasonable, I relax. ‘Actually, no. There was something else I wanted to discuss.’

  There’s another silence between us. Would this be a good time to bring up the raise, I suddenly wonder? I mean yes, he’s cross about the leaflet, but that won’t affect my long-term prospects, surely? Especially not if I’m going to be his special protégée.

  Right. I’ll do it.

  Except I won’t ask for fifteen. I’ll ask for ten.

  No, twelve.

  I take a deep breath and clench my fists by my sides.

  ‘Trevor, I’ve assessed the market rate, and I calculate that a personal shopper of my calibre—’

  ‘Becky.’ He cuts across as though he didn’t even hear me. ‘This so-called initiative of yours was unapproved, inappropriate and dishonest.’

  He sounds so cold and distant I feel a jolt of alarm. OK, forget the raise for now. I’ll just go for the Employee of the Year money instead. I mean, he can’t take that away from me, however cross he is, surely?

  ‘Um, Trevor, you know how you said I was going to be Employee of the Year?’ I try again hurriedly. ‘Well, I was just wondering …’

  ‘Employee of the Year? Are you joking?’ His voice has such a steely edge I step back nervously.

  I suddenly notice how tight his lips have gone. Oh God, I was wrong. He is angry. In that horrible, quiet, scary way. My hands suddenly feel a bit clammy.

  ‘You’ve behaved in a way that is to the detriment of The Look.’ His voice is inexorable. ‘You’ve deceived myself and the other managers. You’ve contravened every good practice and protocol of this organization and caused a fracas in front of customers. This is a serious breach of professional conduct. Not to mention embarrassing the entire store in front of Doug Raynor, a major celebrity. Do you think he’ll ever come and shop here again?’

  ‘I know I should have got permission first,’ I say hastily. ‘And I’m very sorry. But that’s why my sales are up! Because of Shop in Private! All my customers love it. I mean, they even wrote you letters saying how much they love it. The whole place is buzzy, everyone’s happy, everyone’s buying stuff …’

  Trevor’s not listening to a word.

  ‘Becky, I’m afraid that as from this moment, you’re suspended until further notice.’ He looks at me as though I’m some lowly worm. ‘Take your things, please, and go.’

  SEVENTEEN

  As I sit on the Tube, I’m numb with shock. Two weeks ago I was the star. I was going to be invited on to the board. I was being presented with flowers.

  And now I’m suspended in disgrace.

  They’re going to do an internal investigation. They’re going to treat the matter ‘very seriously’. Jasmine looked absolutely stunned as I gathered my stuff together, but Trevor was standing right there, so she couldn’t say anything other than ‘Call me!’ which she muttered just as I was going.

  And then Trevor escorted me right to the staff door, as though I might try to nick stuff or something. I’ve never felt so humiliated in my whole, entire life.

  Actually, on second thoughts, maybe I have. But this is definitely equal with all those other times.

  No Employee of the Year money. No raise. Maybe no job at all. What am I going to do? How am I going to pay for the party? I’m trying to think it through calmly but my chest keeps going into spasms of fear.

  Could we do without loos, maybe, and tell everyone to go before they come? Could I get Dad and Martin to be the bouncers? I don’t mind doing a bit of valet-parking myself, if it comes to it. Oh God …

  When I catch sight of my own reflection in the Tube window, my eyes are all wide and stary. I look like a demented, crazy person. Maybe this is what happens. People decide to hold surprise parties and they end up cracking up under the strain and their whole life falls apart. Maybe surprise parties are a major cause of mental illness. I wouldn’t be surprised.

  I’ve agreed to meet Janice and Minnie at Waterloo, and as I approach them I wince. They look so happy and carefree.

  ‘We’ve had a lovely morning!’ Janice enthuses as soon as I reach her. ‘Haven’t we, Minnie? We did all my Easter cakes and popped them in the freezer.’

  ‘Thanks so much, Janice.’ I manage a weak smile. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  Janice has been such a star – as soon as she heard about Mum and Dad going to The West Place,
she volunteered to look after Minnie while I was working. She’s bought a whole cupboardful of toys, even though I begged her not to, and taught Minnie loads of new nursery rhymes. The only downside is, apparently she keeps making even more pointed remarks to Jess about grandchildren and sighing loudly as she puts Minnie’s finger paintings up on the wall.

  ‘It was my pleasure! Any time. So … have you heard from your mum?’ she adds hesitantly.

  ‘No. Have you?’

  Janice nods. ‘They’re having a super time! The apartment’s lovely, apparently. They’ve been to the theatre twice and had a mud wrap. Both of them, at once!’

  ‘Great.’ I look down. ‘Well … I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Are you two still not speaking, love?’ Janice looks anxious.

  ‘S’pose not.’

  Mum and I have never been not-speaking before. I don’t know what the rules are, but if she didn’t tell me about the mud wrap I guess the not-speaking must still be on.

  ‘Well, I’d better let you go …’ Janice hands me Minnie’s mittens. ‘I’m off to a craft fair now, to start my Christmas shopping. Where are you and Minnie going?’

  ‘Green Park,’ I say after a pause. Which is kind of true. The Ritz is right by Green Park.

  As we come out of the Tube at Piccadilly, grey clouds rush into the sky as though they’ve just been waiting for their chance, and there’s a sudden smattering of rain. I put up Minnie’s hood and trudge on miserably. Of all the things to raise my spirits, the prospect of tea with Elinor is really not one.

  She’s waiting for us in the same grand suite as before, wearing an ice-blue day dress, and on the table are three new jigsaw puzzles.

  ‘Ladeeee!’ Minnie’s face instantly lights up and she rushes forward to give Elinor a hug. A flash of utter shock and discomposure passes across Elinor’s face, and despite my mood I almost want to giggle.

  ‘Well, Minnie,’ she says awkwardly, almost curtly. ‘You’d better sit down.’

  Minnie is still clinging to her and, very stiffly, Elinor pats her shoulder. I wonder if any small child has ever hugged her before.

  Well, Luke, I suppose. Before she left him. Just the thought of it makes my stomach ache.

  The table is laid with a sumptuous tea, like last time, but I’m too churned up to feel like eating. I just want to get through this ordeal and go.

  ‘Wait there, Minnie,’ says Elinor, as Minnie scrambles up beside me on the sofa. ‘I’ve bought you a special cake.’

  She heads to a nearby bureau against the wall. As she turns, holding a silver tray with a dome on it, her cheeks have turned just the faintest tinge of pink, and … is that half a minuscule smile? Is Elinor excited?

  She places the dish on the table and lifts the silver dome.

  Oh my sweet Lord. How much did that cost?

  It’s a heart-shaped cake, covered in perfect pink fondant icing, with pink truffles and glacé cherries arranged symmetrically around the edge, and a name piped in immaculate icing in the centre: Minnie.

  ‘Do you see?’ Elinor is gazing at Minnie for a reaction. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Cake!’ says Minnie, her eyes lighting up greedily. ‘Miiiine cake!’

  ‘It’s not just a cake,’ says Elinor a little sharply. ‘It’s a cake with your name on it. Don’t you see that?’

  ‘Elinor, she can’t read,’ I explain gently. ‘She’s not old enough.’

  ‘Oh.’ Elinor looks put out. ‘I see.’ She’s just standing there, still holding the silver dome, and I can tell she’s disappointed.

  ‘But it’s lovely,’ I say quickly. ‘Really thoughtful.’

  I’m genuinely touched by the trouble she’s gone to, in fact I wish I could take a picture of it with my phone. But then how would I explain it to Luke?

  Elinor cuts a slice and hands it to Minnie, who stuffs it into her mouth, smearing cream and crumbs everywhere. I hastily grab a couple of napkins and try to contain the mess – but to my surprise Elinor doesn’t seem as uptight about it as I expected. She doesn’t even flinch when a glacé cherry rolls on to the immaculate Ritz carpet.

  ‘Now, I’ve bought some new jigsaw puzzles,’ she says, sipping her tea. ‘This particular one of Notre Dame is an interesting one.’

  Notre Dame? For a two-year-old? Is she crazy? What’s wrong with Maisy Mouse?

  But amazingly, Minnie is listening, entranced, as Elinor informs her about the different shades of grey and the need to start at the edges. When Elinor tips the puzzle out, she watches with huge eyes, and only timidly reaches for pieces when Elinor tells her to. She keeps looking up at me as though inviting me to join in, but I can’t bring myself to do some stupid puzzle. There’s a line of tension running through me like a steel thread, getting tighter and tighter. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

  My mobile suddenly rings and I practically leap off the sofa, I’m so nervy. What if it’s The Look telling me they’ve done their investigation and I’m fired? What if it’s Luke and he hears Elinor’s voice?

  But as I pull out my phone I see Bonnie’s ID.

  ‘Elinor, excuse me a moment,’ I say quickly, and head over to the other side of the massive sitting room. ‘Hi Bonnie, what’s up?’

  ‘Dear, I can’t speak for long.’ Bonnie sounds really flustered. ‘But we’ve had rather a set-back.’

  ‘Set-back?’ I feel a jolt. ‘What do you mean?’

  Please let it be something small. Please let it be that we’ve got another nut-allergy person. I can’t cope with anything else big …

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware that Luke’s been trying to set up a meeting with Christian Scott-Hughes? He’s Sir Bernard Cross’s—’

  ‘… right-hand man,’ I join in. ‘Yes, he won’t stop talking about it.’

  ‘Well, they’ve set a date. The only date Christian can do. And it’s 7 April.’

  I feel a nasty little twinge. ‘What time?’

  ‘Lunchtime.’

  I breathe out. ‘Well, that should still be all right—’

  ‘In Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’ I stare at the phone in horror.

  ‘They’re planning to stay overnight. Luke’s asked me to book flights and a hotel.’

  No. No. I can’t be hearing this.

  ‘He can’t go to Paris! Tell him his diary’s booked! Or phone Christian Scott-Hughes’s office and tell them—’

  ‘Becky, you don’t understand.’ Bonnie sounds as hassled as I feel. ‘Christian Scott-Hughes is a very busy man. Just to get this slot has been quite a coup. If we rearrange, it will be for several months’ time. I simply can’t do it.’

  ‘But what about that whole fake conference you set up?’

  ‘Luke’s missing it. He says it’s not important enough.’

  I stare blindly at a gilt-framed painting of a girl in a red hat. My mind is whirling. Luke can’t go to Paris on the day of his party. It just can’t happen.

  ‘You’ll just have to get him to reschedule,’ I say desperately. ‘Make up some reason. Anything!’

  ‘I’ve tried!’ Bonnie sounds at the end of her tether. ‘Believe me, I’ve tried! I’ve suggested that he really should be at the conference, I’ve invented a lunch with his financial backers … I’ve even reminded him it’s his birthday. He just laughed. He won’t listen to anything I say. Becky …’ She exhales. ‘I know you wanted to surprise him. But I think you’re going to have to tell him the truth.’

  ‘No!’ I stare at the phone, aghast.

  ‘But it’s the only way …’

  ‘It’s not!’

  ‘Dear, is the surprise really that important?’

  ‘Yes!’ I cry out, suddenly near tears. ‘It is!’ I know she thinks I’m crazy and irrational. And maybe I am. But I’m not giving up now.

  As I put down the phone I’m trembling. It’s as if the line of tension has been drawn up another 50 per cent, till I can hardly breathe. Barely knowing what I’m doing I head back to the sofa,
reach for a tiny sugared bun and stuff it into my mouth. Then another one. Maybe sugar will help me think.

  How do I stop Luke going to Paris? Pinch his passport? Kidnap him? Find some brilliant, watertight excuse which will stop him going?

  Suddenly I become aware that Elinor has stopped reaching for pieces of puzzle and her chilly eye is resting on me. If she tells me my shoe is scuffed I will honestly throw this bun at her.

  ‘Rebecca, are you quite well? Have you had a shock?’

  I automatically open my mouth to say, ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine.’ But suddenly … I just can’t. I’m not strong enough to keep up the happy façade. Not to someone who doesn’t even count.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve been better.’ With a shaky hand I pour myself a cup of tea and stir three sugars into it, slopping some over the edge.

  ‘Would you like a brandy? Or a stiff cocktail?’

  I eye her a bit suspiciously. Elinor’s offering me a cocktail? Is she making a dig?

  No. Her face is humourless. I think she means it. And you know what? It’s the most welcome suggestion anyone has made to me for a long time.

  ‘Yes please,’ I say after a pause. ‘I’d love a stiff cocktail.’

  Elinor passes me the room-service list and I order an apple martini, and after about a nano-second it appears. I sip it gratefully and the alcohol hits my bloodstream and at once I feel a bit better. Once I’m halfway down I stop trembling. God, I could do with about three of these.

  Elinor is still calmly putting jigsaw pieces together as though nothing’s wrong, but after a while she looks up dispassionately and says, ‘Have you heard some bad news?’

  ‘Kind of.’ I take another sip of apple martini. There’s something about sitting in this room which is mesmerizing. It feels totally detached from the real world, as if we’re in a bubble. No one even knows I’m here. It’s like none of it really exists.

  And suddenly I have an overwhelming urge to spill. I mean, if I tell Elinor, who can she blab to? No one.

  ‘I’ve been organizing this party for Luke for his birthday.’ I stir my apple martini. ‘A big surprise party. It’s in two weeks.’

  Elinor doesn’t flicker, even though it can’t be easy to hear that your only son is having a surprise party and you don’t even know about it, let alone have an invitation.