Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

  “Living together has to be worked at,” I say wisely. “You have to be flexible. You have to give as well as take.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. Luke and I share our finances, we share the chores . . . it’s all a matter of teamwork. The point is, you can’t expect everything to stay as it was before. You have to accommodate.”

  “Really?” Danny looks interested. “So who do you think accommodates more? You or Luke?”

  I’m thoughtful for a moment.

  “It’s difficult to say, really,” I say at last. “I expect it’s about equal on both sides.”

  “So, like . . . all this stuff.” Danny gestures around the cluttered apartment. “Is it mostly yours or mostly his?”

  “Erm . . .” I look around, taking in all my aromatherapy candles, vintage lace cushions, and stacks of magazines. For an instant, my mind flicks back to the immaculate, minimalist apartment Luke had in London.

  “You know . . .” I say at last. “A bit of both . . .”

  Which is kind of true. I mean, Luke’s got his laptop in the bedroom.

  “The point is, there’s no friction between us,” I continue. “We think as one. We’re like one unit.”

  “That’s great,” says Danny, reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl. “You’re lucky.”

  “I know we are.” I look at him confidingly. “You know, Luke and I are so in tune, sometimes there’s almost a . . . sixth sense between us.”

  “Really?” Danny stares at me. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh yes. I’ll know what he’s about to say, or I’ll kind of feel when he’s around . . .”

  “Like The Force?”

  “I suppose.” I give a nonchalant shrug. “It’s like a gift. I don’t question it too closely—”

  “Greetings, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” says a deep voice behind us, and Danny and I both jump out of our skins. I swivel round—and there’s Luke, standing at the door with an amused grin. His face is flushed from the cold and there are snowflakes in his dark hair, and he’s so tall, the room suddenly seems a little smaller.

  “Luke!” I exclaim. “You scared us!”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I assumed you would feel my presence.”

  “Yes. Well, I did kind of feel something . . .” I say, a little defiantly.

  “Of course you did.” He gives me a kiss. “Hi, Danny.”

  “Hi,” says Danny, watching as Luke takes off his navy cashmere coat, then loosens his cuffs while simultaneously unknotting his tie, with the same assured, deft movements he always makes.

  Once, after a few too many cocktails, Danny asked me, “Does Luke make love the same way he opens a champagne bottle?” And although I shrieked and hit him, and said it was none of his business, I could kind of see what he meant. Luke never fumbles or hesitates or looks confused. He always seems to know exactly what he wants, and he pretty much gets it, whether it’s a champagne bottle opening smoothly or a new client for his company, or, in bed, for us to . . .

  Well. Anyway. Let’s just say, since we’ve been living together, my horizons have been broadened.

  Now he picks up the post and starts to leaf briskly through it. “So how are you, Danny?”

  “Good, thanks,” says Danny, taking a bite of apple. “How’s the world of high finance? Did you see my brother today?” Danny’s brother Randall works in a financing company, and Luke’s had lunch with him a couple of times.

  “Not today, no,” says Luke.

  “OK, well, when you do,” says Danny, “ask him if he’s put on weight. Really casually. Just say, ‘Why, Randall, you’re looking well-covered.’ And then maybe comment on his choice of entree. He is so paranoid that he’s getting fat. It’s hilarious.”

  “Brotherly love,” says Luke. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He comes to the end of the post and looks at me with a slight frown.

  “Becky, has our joint account statement come yet?”

  “Er . . . no. Not yet.” I give him a reassuring smile. “I expect it’ll come tomorrow!”

  Our bank statement actually came yesterday, but I put it straight in my underwear drawer. I’m slightly concerned about some of the entries, so I’m just going to see if there’s anything I can do to rectify the situation. The truth is, despite what I said to Danny, I’ve been finding this whole joint account thing a bit tricky.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for sharing money. In fact, hand on heart, I love sharing Luke’s money. It gives me a real buzz! I just don’t love it when he suddenly asks, “What was this seventy dollars in Bloomingdale’s for?” and I can’t remember. So I’ve worked out a whole new tactical response—which is so simple, it’s brilliant.

  It’s to spill something on the statement, so he can’t read it.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” says Luke, gathering up the post. And he’s almost out of the room—when he stops. Very slowly he turns back and looks at the cocktail cabinet as though seeing it for the first time.

  “What is that?” he says slowly.

  “It’s a cocktail cabinet!” I say brightly.

  “Where has it come from?”

  “It . . . umm . . . actually, I bought it today.”

  “Becky . . .” Luke closes his eyes. “I thought we said no more crap.”

  “It’s not crap! It’s genuine 1930s! We can make amazing cocktails every night!” I’m feeling a bit nervous at his expression, so I start to gabble. “Look, I know we said no more furniture. But this is different. I mean, when you see a one-off like this, you have to grab it!”

  I trail away and bite my lip. Luke silently walks toward the cabinet. He runs a hand along the top, then picks up a cocktail shaker, his mouth tight.

  “Luke, I just thought it would be fun! I thought you’d like it. The guy in the shop said I’ve got a really good eye . . .”

  “A really good eye,” echoes Luke as though in disbelief.

  I gasp and scream as he throws the cocktail shaker in the air, and I’m wincing, waiting for it to land with a crash on the wooden floor—when Luke neatly catches it. Danny and I gape as he throws it again, twirls round, and rolls it down his arm.

  I don’t believe it. I’m living with Tom Cruise.

  “I worked as a barman for a summer,” says Luke, his face breaking into a smile.

  I never knew that! Luke is so driven and businesslike and you think he doesn’t care about anything except work . . . and then all of a sudden, he surprises you.

  “Teach me how to do it!” I cry excitedly. “I want to be able to do that!”

  “And me!” says Danny. He picks up the other cocktail shaker, gives it an inexpert twirl, then tosses it at me. I make a grab, but it lands on the sofa.

  “Butterfingers!” mocks Danny. “Come on, Becky. You need to get in practice for catching the bouquet at this wedding.”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Sure you do. You wanna be next, don’t you?”

  “Danny . . .” I try to give a lighthearted laugh.

  “You two should definitely get married,” Danny continues, ignoring me. He picks up the cocktail shaker and begins tossing it from hand to hand. “It’s perfect. Look at you. You live together, you don’t want to kill each other, you’re not already related . . . I could make you a fabulous dress . . .” He puts down the shaker with a suddenly intent expression. “Hey, listen, Becky. Promise me, if you get married, I can make your dress.”

  This is appalling. If he carries on like this, Luke will think I’m trying to pressure him. He might even think I told Danny to bring up the subject deliberately.

  I’ve got to redress the balance somehow. Quickly.

  “Actually, I don’t want to get married,” I hear myself saying. “Not for at least ten years.”

  “Really?” Danny looks taken aback. “You don’t?”

  “Is that so?” Luke looks up with an unreadable expression. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Weren’t you?” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. “Well . . .
now you know!”

  “Why don’t you want to get married for ten years?” says Danny.

  “I . . . erm . . .” I clear my throat. “As it happens, I have a lot of things I want to do first. I want to concentrate on my career, and I want to . . . explore my full potential . . . and . . . get to know the real me first . . . and . . . be a whole . . . umm . . . rounded person.”

  I tail off and meet Luke’s quizzical gaze slightly defiantly.

  “I see,” he says, nodding. “Well, that sounds very sensible.” He looks at the cocktail shaker in his hand, then puts it down. “I’d better go and pack.”

  He wasn’t supposed to agree with me.

  Two

  WE ARRIVE AT Heathrow at seven the next morning and pick up our rental car. As we drive along to Suze’s parents’ house in Hampshire, I peer blearily out of the window at the snowy countryside, the hedgerows and fields and little villages, as though I’ve never seen them before. After Manhattan, everything looks so tiny and pretty. For the first time I realize why Americans go around calling everything in England “quaint.”

  “Which way now?” says Luke, as we arrive at yet another little crossroads.

  “Erm, you definitely turn left here. I mean . . . right. No, I mean left.”

  As the car swings round, I fish in my bag for the invitation, just to check the exact address.

  Sir Gilbert and Lady Cleath-Stuart

  request the pleasure of your company . . .

  I stare, slightly mesmerized, at the grand swirly writing. God, I still can’t quite believe Suze and Tarquin are getting married.

  I mean, of course I believe it. After all, they’ve been going out for well over a year now, and Tarquin’s basically moved into the flat I used to share with Suze—although they seem to be spending more and more time in Scotland. They’re both really sweet and laid back, and everyone’s agreed that they make a brilliant couple.

  But just occasionally, when I’m not concentrating, my mind will suddenly yell, “Whaat? Suze and Tarquin?”

  I mean, Tarquin used to be Suze’s weird geeky cousin. For years he was just that awkward guy in the corner with the ancient jacket and a tendency to hum Wagner in public places. He was the guy who rarely ventured beyond the safe haven of his Scottish castle—and when he did, it was to take me on the worst date of my life (although we don’t talk about that anymore).

  But now he’s . . . well, he’s Suze’s boyfriend. Still slightly awkward, and still prone to wearing woolly jumpers knitted by his old nanny. Still a bit tatty round the edges. But Suze loves him, and that’s what counts.

  Oh God, I can’t start crying yet. I have to pace myself.

  “Harborough Hall,” reads Luke, pausing at a pair of crumbling stone pillars. “Is this it?”

  “Erm . . .” I sniff, and try to look businesslike. “Yes, this is it. Just drive in.”

  I’ve been to Suze’s house plenty of times before, but I always forget quite how impressive it is. We sweep down a great big long avenue lined with trees and into a circular gravel drive. The house is large and gray and ancient-looking, with pillars at the front and ivy growing over it.

  “Nice house,” says Luke as we head toward the huge front door. “How old is it?”

  “Dunno,” I say vaguely. “It’s been in their family for years.” I tug at the bell pull to see if by any remote chance it’s been mended—but it obviously hadn’t. I knock a couple of times with the heavy door knocker—and when there’s no answer to that either, I push my way into the huge flagstoned hall, where an old Labrador is asleep by a crackling fire.

  “Hello?” I call. “Suze?”

  Suddenly I notice that Suze’s father is also asleep by the fireplace, in a large winged armchair. I’m a bit scared of Suze’s father, actually. I certainly don’t want to wake him up.

  “Suze?” I say, more quietly.

  “Bex! I thought I heard something!”

  I look up—and there’s Suze standing on the staircase, in a tartan dressing gown with her blond hair streaming down her back and a huge excited smile.

  “Suze!”

  I bound up the stairs and give her a huge hug. As I pull away we’re both a bit pink about the eyes, and I give a shaky laugh. God, I’ve missed Suze, even more than I’d realized.

  “Come up to my room!” says Suze, tugging my hand. “Come and see my dress!”

  “Is it really lovely?” I say excitedly. “In the picture it looked amazing.”

  “It’s just perfect! Plus you have to see, I’ve got the coolest corsety thing from Rigby and Peller . . . and these really gorgeous knickers . . .”

  Luke clears his throat and we both look round.

  “Oh!” says Suze. “Sorry, Luke. There’s coffee and newspapers and stuff in the kitchen, through there.” She points down a corridor. “You can have bacon and eggs if you like! Mrs. Gearing will make them for you.”

  “Mrs. Gearing sounds like my kind of woman,” says Luke with a smile. “I’ll see you later.”

  Suze’s room is light and airy and overlooks the garden. I say garden. It’s about twelve thousand acres, with lawns running down from the back of the house to a clump of cedar trees and a lake, which Suze nearly drowned in once when she was three. There’s also a walled rose garden to the left, all flower beds and gravel paths and hedges, which is where Tarquin proposed to Suze. (Apparently he got down on one knee and when he stood up, gravel was clinging to his trousers. That is so Tarquin.) On the right there’s an old tennis court and then rough grass, extending all the way to a hedge, beyond which is the village church graveyard. As I look out of the window now, I can see a huge marquee billowing to the rear of the house, and a tented walkway being put up, which will snake past the tennis court and over the grass, all the way to the churchyard gate.

  “You’re not going to walk to the church?” I say, suddenly fearful for Suze’s Emma Hope shoes.

  “No, silly! I’m going in the carriage. But all the guests can walk back to the house, and there’ll be people handing out hot whiskeys as they go.”

  “God, it’s going to be spectacular!” I say, watching as a man in jeans begins to hammer a stake into the ground. And in spite of myself, I can’t help feeling a twinge of envy. I’ve always dreamed of having some huge, amazing wedding, with horses and carriages and lots of hoopla, ever since . . .

  Well, since . . .

  To be completely, perfectly honest, ever since Princess Diana’s wedding. I was six years old when we all watched it round at our neighbor Janice’s house, and I can still remember goggling at her as she got out of the carriage in that dress. It was like Cinderella come to life. It was better than Cinderella. I wanted to be her so much, it hurt. Mum had bought me a commemorative book of photographs called Diana’s Big Day—and the next day I spent ages making my own version called Becky’s Big Day, with lots of drawings of me in a big frilly dress, wearing a crown. (And, in some versions, carrying a magic wand.)

  Maybe I’ve moved on a little since then. I don’t dream about wearing a crumpled cream-colored lampshade for a wedding dress. I’ve even given up on marrying a member of the royal family. But still, whenever I see a wedding, part of me turns back into that starry-eyed six-year-old.

  “I know! Isn’t it going to be great?” Suze beams happily. “Now, I must just brush my teeth . . .”

  She disappears into the bathroom and I wander over to her dressing table, where the announcement of the engagement is stuck in the mirror. The Hon. Susan Cleath-Stuart and The Hon. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Blimey. I always forget Suze is so grand.

  “I want a title,” I say, as Suze comes back into the room with a hairbrush in her hair. “I feel all left out. How do I get one?”

  “Ooh, no you don’t,” says Suze, wrinkling her nose. “They’re crap. People send you letters saying Dear Ms. Hon.”

  “Still. It’d be so cool. What could I be?”

  “Erm . . .” Suze tugs at a tangle in her hair. “Dame Becky Bloomwood?”

&nbs
p; “That makes me sound about ninety-three,” I say doubtfully. “What about . . . Becky Bloomwood MBE. Those MBE things are quite easy to get, aren’t they?”

  “Easy-peasy,” says Suze confidently. “You could get one for services to industry or something. I’ll nominate you, if you like. Now come on, I want to see your dress!”

  “OK!” I heave my case onto the bed, click it open, and carefully draw out Danny’s creation. “What do you think?” I proudly hold it up against myself and swoosh the gold silk around. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

  “It’s fantastic!” says Suze, staring at it with wide eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” She fingers the sequins on the shoulder. “Where did you get it? Is this the one from Barneys?”

  “No, this is the one from Danny. Remember, I told you he was making me a dress?”

  “That’s right.” She screws up her face. “Which one’s Danny, again?”

  “My upstairs neighbor,” I remind her. “The designer. The one we bumped into on the stairs that time?”

  “Oh yes,” says Suze, nodding. “I remember.”

  But the way she says it, I can tell she doesn’t really.

  I can’t blame her—she only met Danny for about two minutes. He was on his way to visit his parents in Connecticut and she was pretty jet-lagged at the time and they barely spoke. Still. It’s weird to think that Suze doesn’t really know Danny, and he doesn’t know her, when they’re both so important to me. It’s like I’ve got two completely separate lives, and the longer I’m in New York, the farther they split apart.

  “OK, here’s mine,” says Suze excitedly.

  She opens a wardrobe door and unzips a calico cover—and there’s a simply stunning dress, all drifting white silk and velvet with long sleeves and a traditional long train.

  “Oh God, Suze,” I breathe, my throat tight. “You’re going to be so completely beautiful. I still can’t believe you’re getting married! ‘Mrs. Cleath-Stuart.’ ”

  “Ooh, don’t call me that!” says Suze, wrinkling her nose. “It sounds like my mother. But actually it is quite handy marrying someone in the family,” she adds, closing the wardrobe, “because I can keep my name and take his, all at the same time. So I can keep being S C-S for my frames.” She reaches into a cardboard box and pulls out a beautiful glass frame, all spirals and whorls. “Look, this is the new range—”