Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

  Ginger whinnies as I approach the lamppost where I tied him up, and stamps his foot on the ground.

  “Don’t worry!” I say. “I haven’t left you out.” I bought him a bagful of Chelsea buns and some “extra sheen” shampoo for his mane. I reach in the bag and feed him one of the Chelsea buns, trying not to shudder as he slobbers on my hand.

  The only slight problem now is . . . where am I going to put all my shopping? I can’t very easily hold all these carrier bags and lead Ginger along the road. Should I try to mount him carrying my shopping? What did people do in the olden days?

  Then suddenly I notice a big buckle on one of Ginger’s saddle straps. I could easily hang a bag off that. I pick up one of the paper carriers and loop it over the buckle—and it hangs there perfectly! And now that I look properly, there are handy buckles all over Ginger’s tack. Genius!

  Happily I start hanging bags from every available hook, strap, and buckle on Ginger’s tack. This is great. I never realized a horse could hold so much shopping. Last of all I tie my two hatboxes onto the side. They are so gorgeous, all pink-and-white candy stripes.

  I untie Ginger and start leading him out of the village, trying to stop the hatboxes bobbing up and down too much. A couple of people gawp as we go by, but that’s OK. They’re probably just not used to strangers in these parts.

  We’re just approaching the first bend when I hear a clattering sound ahead. The next moment, Suze and Lulu appear on their horses.

  “There she is!” says Lulu, shading her eyes against the sun.

  “Bex!” cries Suze. “We were worried! Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine!” I call back. “We’ve been having a lovely time!”

  As they come nearer I can see Suze and Lulu exchanging stunned glances.

  “Bex . . . what have you done to Ginger?” says Suze, her eyes running over all the bags and boxes in disbelief.

  “Nothing,” I say. “He’s fine. I just took him shopping. I got these two great hats!”

  I wait for Suze to say “Let’s see them!” but she looks totally gobsmacked.

  “She took a horse . . . shopping,” Lulu says slowly. She glances at me, then leans over and whispers something in Suze’s ear.

  Suddenly Suze gives a helpless snort and claps her hand to her mouth.

  I feel my face flame.

  She’s laughing at me.

  Somehow I never thought Suze would laugh at me.

  As soon as we’re back at the house, Lulu heads off home, and Suze has to rush in and feed the twins. I’m left in the stable yard with Albert, who is a total sweetie and helps me untie all my bags and packages from Ginger’s tack.

  I’m walking out when Luke approaches, in his Barbour and Wellingtons.

  “So how was it?” he says cheerfully.

  “It was . . . all right,” I say, staring at the ground. I’m waiting for Luke to ask what’s wrong, but he seems distracted.

  “Becky, I’ve just had a call from Gary at the office,” he says. “We need to get going on the Arcodas Group pitch. I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to head back to town. But listen. Why don’t you stay on here for a few days?” He smiles. “I know how desperate you were to see Suze.”

  And suddenly I feel a swell of emotion. He’s right. I was desperate to see Suze and I’m bloody well going to. Who cares about stupid Lulu? I’m going to have a proper chat with my best friend, right now.

  I hurry into the house to find her in the kitchen, feeding both the twins at once while Ernie fights for a place on her lap.

  “Suze, listen,” I say eagerly. “It’s your birthday coming up. I want to treat you to something really special. Let’s go to Milan! Just the two of us!”

  “Milan?” She looks up, her face strained. “Ernie, stop it, sweetheart. Bex, I can’t go to Milan! What about the babies?”

  “They could come with us!”

  “No, they couldn’t,” says Suze, sounding almost sharp. “Bex, you just don’t understand!”

  I smart at her words. Why does everyone keep telling me I don’t understand? How do they know?

  “OK, then,” I say, trying to stay cheerful. “Let’s have a fab birthday lunch right here! I’ll bring all the food, you won’t have to do a thing. . . .”

  “I can’t,” Suze says, without looking at me. “Actually I’ve . . . I’ve already made plans for my birthday. Lulu and I are going to a spa for the day. A special mother and baby day. She’s treating me.”

  I can’t hide my shock. Suze and I always spend our birthdays together.

  “Right.” I focus on the back of the door, where an ancient tweed jacket, about six dog leads, and what seems to be a dead pheasant are hanging. “Well . . . have fun. Enjoy it!”

  There’s silence in the kitchen. I don’t know what to say.

  I’ve never not known what to say to Suze.

  “Bex . . . you weren’t here,” Suze says suddenly, and I can hear the distress in her voice. “You weren’t here. What was I supposed to do? Have no friends?”

  “Of course not!” I say brightly. “Don’t be silly!”

  “I couldn’t have survived without Lulu. She’s been a real support to me out here.”

  “Of course she has.” Tears are suddenly pricking at my eyes and I turn away, fiercely blinking them back. “Well . . . you have fun together. I’m sure you will.”

  “Bex, don’t be like that. Look . . . I’ll speak to Lulu about the spa. I’m sure we could find a third place.”

  She’s taking pity on me. I can’t bear it.

  “No!” With an almighty effort I manage a laugh. “Really, it’s no big deal. I probably wouldn’t have time anyway. In fact . . . I came in to tell you we have to go back to London. Luke’s got work engagements.”

  “Now?” Suze looks taken aback. “But I thought you were going to stay for a few days.”

  “We’ve got loads to do!” I lift my chin. “Everything’s different for me, too, you know. I’m a married woman now! I’ve got to set up the flat . . . look after Luke . . . throw some dinner parties. . . .”

  “Right.” Suze hesitates. “Well, it’s been lovely to see you, anyway.”

  “You too! It’s been fun! We must . . . do it again.”

  We sound totally false. Both of us.

  There’s silence. My throat is tight. I’m going to cry.

  No, I’m not.

  “So . . . I’ll just go and pack,” I say at last. “Thanks for a lovely time.”

  I leave the room, pick up my shopping, and walk away. And my bright smile lasts all the way to the stairs.

  Mrs Rebecca Brandon

  37 Maida Vale Mansions

  Maida Vale

  London NW6 0YF

  30 April 2003

  Dear Mrs Brandon:

  Thank you for your letter concerning the Nether Pleaton Gymkhana next month. I confirm that I have withdrawn your name from the following classes:

  General Horsemanship

  Open Jumping

  Senior Dressage

  Perhaps you could let me know if you still wish to enter for “Best Kept Pony.”

  With kind regards,

  Marjorie Davies

  Organiser

  Seven

  Anyway. It doesn’t matter. People get married and they move on and their friends change. That’s all. It’s perfectly normal. Suze has her life . . . and I have my life. It’s fine. A week has gone by since the christening—and she’s barely crossed my mind.

  I take a sip of orange juice, pick up the Financial Times, which Luke left on the breakfast counter, and begin flicking briskly through the pages.

  Now that I’m married, I expect I’ll make loads of new friends, too. It’s not like I’m dependent on Suze or anything. I’ll start an evening class or a book group or something. And my new friends will be really nice ones who don’t ride horses and have children with stupid names like Cosmo. . . .

  I take a sip of coffee and plaster some more chocolate spread on my toast. I?
??m sitting in the kitchen of Luke’s flat in Maida Vale, having a late breakfast.

  I mean . . . our flat in Maida Vale. I keep forgetting, it’s half mine now! Luke lived here for ages before we were married, but when we went to live in New York he had it all done up and rented it out. And it is the trendiest place in the world. All minimalist, with this amazing stainless-steel kitchen, pale beige carpets, and just the odd piece of modern art here and there.

  I do like it. Of course I do.

  Although, I suppose if I’m totally honest, it’s a tad bare for my taste. Luke has quite a different style from mine when it comes to decorating. His approach is basically “no things anywhere,” whereas mine is more “lots of things everywhere.”

  But it doesn’t matter, because I read this article about couples in an interiors magazine, and it said fusing two different styles need not be a problem. Apparently, all we have to do is meld our individual ideas and do some mood boards together and create a signature look.

  And today is the perfect day to start. Because any minute now, all our honeymoon purchases are going to be delivered from the storage company! Luke’s stayed behind from work especially to help. It’ll be quite a project, I expect. Which just shows: I’m so busy, I don’t even have time for friends.

  I’m feeling really excited about seeing all our souvenirs again! Arranging the little mementos of our honeymoon around the apartment. It’ll really make a difference to this place, having a few personal objets here and there.

  “The post’s here,” Luke says, coming into the kitchen. He’s in his suit, since he’ll be going into the office later, and his hair is trimmed all short and businesslike again. He had it cut almost as soon as we got back to London—because, as he said, Italy is one thing, but Britain is another.

  I suppose he has a point. But I can’t help feeling a bit wistful every time I see his bare neck. That little untanned patch of skin below his hairline is the only reminder of the way he was on our honeymoon.

  “There’s a letter for you,” he adds, handing me an envelope.

  “Oh, right!” I take it from him, feeling nervous.

  Ever since we got back to London, I’ve been approaching all the big department stores for a job as a personal shopper. I’ve got a great reference from Barneys and everyone’s been really nice to me—but so far all I’m getting told is that there are no openings right now.

  Which, to be honest, has been a bit of a blow. I thought I’d be fighting off offers. I even had this little fantasy where all the head personal shoppers at Harrods and Harvey Nichols and Selfridges took me out to lunch and gave me free clothes to persuade me to join them.

  As calmly as I can, I pull the letter out of the envelope. This one is from a new shop called The Look, which hasn’t even opened yet. It’s going to be a huge new store just up from Oxford Street, full of great clothes and accessories, and the gimmick is that there will be loads of personal shoppers available to help you pull your look together. They want someone to run and train the team, and had already heard about me from their contact in New York. I went to see them a couple of days ago and I thought I did OK, but . . .

  “Oh my God!” I look up in disbelief. “I got it! They want me!”

  “Fantastic!” Luke’s face creases in a smile. “Congratulations!” He puts an arm round me and gives me a kiss.

  “Except . . . I won’t be needed for three months,” I say, reading farther down. “That’s when the store opens.” I put the letter down and look at him. “Three whole months. That’s quite a long time not to have a job.”

  Or any money, I’m thinking.

  “I’m sure you’ll find something to do,” says Luke cheerfully. “Some project or other. You’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”

  The buzzer suddenly goes in the hall and we look at each other.

  “That must be the delivery people!” I say, feeling my spirits rise. “Let’s go down!”

  Luke’s penthouse has its own lift right to the front door, which is just so cool!

  “So, where shall we tell them to put everything?” he says as he presses the ground-floor button.

  “I thought we could pile it all up in the corner of the sitting room,” I suggest. “Behind the door. Then I can sort it out while you’re at work.”

  Luke nods. “Good idea.”

  I suddenly remember the twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns. Maybe I’ll be able to smuggle them in without Luke’s seeing.

  “And if there was any overspill,” I add casually, “we could always put it in the second bedroom.”

  “Overspill?” Luke frowns. “Becky, how much stuff are you expecting?”

  “Not that much!” I say quickly. “Hardly anything! I just meant if they’ve packed things in really huge boxes or something. That’s all.”

  Luke looks a bit suspicious, and I turn away, pretending to be adjusting my watch strap. Now the moment’s nearly here, I’m feeling just the odd tiny qualm.

  I kind of wish I’d told him about the wooden giraffes. Should I quickly confess?

  No. It doesn’t matter. It’ll be fine. Luke’s flat is huge. I mean, it’s vast! He’ll never notice a few extra things.

  We push open the double doors of Luke’s building and walk out, to see a man in jeans, waiting on the side of the road by a small van.

  “Mr. Brandon?” he says, looking up.

  I feel a small whoosh of relief. I knew we hadn’t bought that much stuff. I mean, just look at that van. It’s tiny!

  “Yes. That’s me.” Luke holds out his hand, with a pleasant smile.

  “Any idea where we can park the lorries?” The man scratches his head. “Only we’re in a no-parking zone round the corner.”

  “Lorries?” echoes Luke. “What do you mean, ‘lorries’?”

  His smile has kind of frozen on his face.

  “We’ve got two lorries to unload. Can we take them into the parking bay there?” The man gestures at the forecourt of the building.

  “Of course!” I say quickly, as Luke doesn’t seem able to speak. “Go ahead!”

  The man disappears. “So!” I say brightly. “This is fun!”

  “Two . . . lorries?” says Luke.

  “It must be a shared load!” I say quickly. “With someone else. I mean, obviously we haven’t bought two lorry-loads of stuff.”

  Which is true.

  I mean, it’s ridiculous! In ten months, we couldn’t possibly have—

  I’m sure we couldn’t have—

  Oh God.

  There’s a rumbling from round the corner, and a big white lorry appears, closely followed by another. They back into the forecourt of Luke’s building, and there are huge grinding noises as the backs are lowered. Luke and I hurry round and peer into the crowded depths.

  What an amazing sight. Each whole lorry is crammed with objects and furniture. Some wrapped in plastic, some in paper, and some barely wrapped at all. As I feast my eyes on all the stuff, I start to feel quite emotional. It’s like seeing a home video of our entire honeymoon. The kilims from Istanbul. The gourds from Peru. And I’d totally forgotten about buying that papoose carrier!

  Some men in overalls start lifting things up and carrying them out. We stand aside to let them pass, but I’m still gazing around the inside of one of the lorries, lost in memories. I suddenly glimpse a bronze statue and turn round with a smile.

  “The Buddha! Do you remember when we got that? Luke?”

  Luke isn’t listening to a word. I follow his gaze, and feel a slight flip of apprehension. He’s staring in disbelief at a man carrying a huge paper-wrapped package out of the other lorry. A wooden giraffe’s leg is poking out of it.

  Shit.

  And now here comes another man in overalls with the matching one.

  “Becky . . . what are these giraffes doing here?” Luke says evenly. “I thought we agreed not to buy them.”

  “I know,” I say hurriedly. “I know we did. But we would have regretted it. So I made an executive decision.
Honestly, Luke, they’ll look great! They’ll be a focal point of the whole apartment!”

  “And where did those come from?” Now Luke’s looking at a pair of huge porcelain urns, which I got in Hong Kong.

  “Oh, yes,” I say quickly. “I was going to tell you about those. Guess what? They’re copies of real Ming! The man said—”

  “But what the fuck are they doing here?”

  “I . . . bought them. They’ll be perfect in the hall. They’ll be a focal point! Everyone will admire them!”

  “And that rug?” He points to a huge multicolored rolled-up sausage.

  “It’s called a ‘dhurrie,’ actually. . . .” My voice trails away at his expression. “I got it in India,” I add feebly.

  “Without consulting me.”

  “Er . . .”

  I’m not sure I like Luke’s expression.

  “Ooh, look!” I exclaim, trying to distract him. “It’s the spice rack you bought at that Kenyan market.”

  Luke totally ignores me. He’s goggling at a huge, unwieldy contraption being unloaded from the first lorry. It looks like a combination of a xylophone and a set of hanging copper saucepans all in one.

  “What the hell is that? Is that some kind of musical instrument?”

  The gongs all start clanging loudly as the men unload it, and a couple of passersby nudge each other and giggle.

  Even I’m having second thoughts about this one.

  “Er . . . yes.” I clear my throat. “Actually, that’s an Indonesian gamelan.”

  There’s a short silence.

  “An Indonesian gamelan?” echoes Luke, his voice caught a bit in his throat.

  “It’s cultural!” I say defensively. “I thought we could learn to play it! And it’ll be a great focal point—”

  “Exactly how many focal points are we planning to have?” Luke looks beside himself. “Becky, is all this stuff ours?”