The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

by Sophie Kinsella

  'Have you lost everything?' I say quietly, and Luke laughs.

  'I wouldn't go that far. But we've had to do an awful lot of explaining to our other clients this afternoon.' He grimaces. 'It has to be said, insulting one of your major clients on live television isn't exactly normal PR practice.'

  'Well, I think they should respect you!' I retort. 'For actually saying what you think! I mean, so few people do that these days. It could be like . . . your company motto. "We tell the truth".'

  I take a gulp of champagne and look up into silence. Luke's gazing at me, an odd expression on his face.

  'Rebecca, you have the uncanniest knack of hitting the nail right on the head,' he says at last. 'That's exactly what some of our clients have said. It's as though we've given ourselves a seal of integrity.'

  'Oh,' I say, feeling rather pleased with myself. 'Well, that's good. So you're not ruined.'

  'I'm not ruined,' agrees Luke, and gives a little smile. 'Just slightly dented.'

  A waiter appears from nowhere and replenishes my glass, and I take a sip. When I look up, Luke's staring at me again.

  'You know, Rebecca, you're an extremely perceptive person,' he says. 'You see what other people don't.'

  'Oh well.' I wave my champagne glass airily. 'Didn't you hear Zelda? I'm finance guru meets girl-next-door.' I meet his eye and we both start to laugh.

  'You're informative meets approachable.'

  'Knowledgeable meets down-to-earth.'

  'You're intelligent, meets charming, meets bright, meets . . .' Luke tails off, staring down into his drink, then looks up.

  'Rebecca, I want to apologize,' he says. 'I've been wanting to apologize for a while. That lunch in Harvey Nichols . . . you were right. I didn't treat you with the respect you deserved. The respect you deserve.'

  He breaks off into silence and I stare down at the tablecloth, feeling my cheeks flaming. It's all very well for him to say this now, I'm thinking furiously. It's all very well for him to book a table at the Ritz and order champagne and expect me to smile and say, 'Oh, that's OK.' But underneath all the bright banter, I still feel wounded by that whole episode. And after my success this morning, I'm in fighting mood.

  'My piece in the Daily World had nothing to do with that lunch,' I say without looking up. 'Nothing. And for you to insinuate that it did

  'I know,' says Luke, and sighs. 'I should never have said that. It was a . . . a defensive, angry remark on a day when, frankly, you had us all on the hop.'

  'Really?' I can't help a pleased little smile coming to my lips. 'I had you all on the hop?'

  'Are you joking?' says Luke. 'A whole page in the Daily World on one of our clients, completely out of the blue?'

  Ha. I quite like that idea, actually. The whole of Brandon C thrown into disarray by Janice and Martin Webster.

  'Was Alicia on the hop?' I can't resist asking.

  'She was hopping as fast as her Manolos would let her,' says Luke drily. 'Even faster when I discovered she'd actually spoken to you the day before.'

  Ha!

  'Good,' I hear myself saying childishly – then wish I hadn't. Top businesswomen don't gloat over their enemies being told off. I should have simply nodded, or said 'Ah,' meaningfully.

  'So – did I have you on the hop, too?' I say, giving a careless little shrug.

  There's silence, and after a while I look up. Luke's gazing at me with an unsmiling expression which makes my heart start to thud.

  'You've had me on the hop for quite a while, Rebecca,' he says quietly. He holds my eyes for a few seconds while I stare back, unable to breathe – then looks down at his menu. 'Shall we order?'

  The meal seems to go on all night. We talk and talk and eat, and talk, and eat some more. The food is so delicious I can't say no to anything, and the wine is so delicious I abandon my plan of drinking a businesslike single glass and then sticking to water. By the time I'm toying listlessly with chocolate feuillantine with lavender honey ice-cream and caramelized pears, it's about midnight, and my head is starting to droop.

  'How's the chocolate thing?' says Luke, finishing a mouthful of cheesecake.

  'Nice,' I say, and push it towards him. 'Not as good as the lemon mousse, though.'

  That's the other thing – I'm absolutely stuffed to the brim. I couldn't decide between all the scrummy-sounding puddings, so Luke said we should order all the ones we liked the sound of. Which was most of them. So now my stomach feels as though it's the size of a Christmas pudding, and just as heavy.

  I honestly feel as if I'll never ever be able to get out of this chair. It's so comfortable, and I'm so warm and cosy, and it's all so pretty, and my head's spinning just enough to make me not want to stand up. Plus . . . I don't want it all to stop. I don't want the evening to end. I've had such a good time. The amazing thing is how much Luke makes me laugh. You'd think he'd be all serious and boring and intellectual, but really, he's not. In fact, come to think of it, we haven't talked about that unit trust thingy once.

  A waiter comes and clears away all our pudding dishes, and brings us each a cup of coffee. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes and take a few delicious sips. Oh God, I could stay here for ever. I'm actually feeling really sleepy by now – partly because I was so nervous last night about Morning Coffee, I hardly slept at all.

  'I should go,' I say eventually, and force myself to open my eyes. 'I should go back to . . .' Where do I live, again? 'Fulham. To Fulham.'

  'Right,' says Luke, after a pause, and takes a sip of coffee. He puts his cup down and reaches for the milk. And as he does so, his hand brushes against mine – and stops still. At once I feel my whole body stiffen. My cheeks start to burn, and my heart starts to beat in apprehension.

  OK, I'll admit it – I kind of put my hand in his way.

  Just to see what would happen. I mean, he could easily move his hand back if he wanted to, couldn't he? Pour his milk, make a joke, say goodnight.

  But he doesn't. Very slowly, he closes his hand over mine.

  And now I really can't move. His thumb starts to trace patterns on my wrist, and I can feel how warm and dry his skin is. I look up and meet his gaze, and feel a little jolt inside me. I can't tear my eyes away from his. I can't move my hand. I'm completely transfixed.

  'That chap I saw you with in Terrazza,' he says after a while, his thumb still drawing leisurely pictures on my skin. 'Was he anything

  'Just . . . you know.' I try to give a careless laugh, but I'm feeling so nervous it comes out as a squeak. 'Some multimillionaire or other.'

  Luke stares intently at me for a second – then looks away.

  'Right,' he says, as though closing the subject. 'Well. Perhaps we should get you a taxi.' I feel a thud of disappointment, and try not to let it show. 'Or maybe . . .' He stops.

  There's an endless pause. I can't quite breathe. Maybe what? What?

  'I know them pretty well here,' says Luke at last. 'If we wanted to . . .' He meets my eyes. 'I expect we could stay.'

  I feel an electric shock go through my body.

  'Would you like to?'

  Unable to speak, I nod my head. Oh God. Oh God, this is the most exciting thing I've ever done.

  'OK, wait here,' says Luke. 'I'll go and see if I can get rooms.' He gets up and I stare after him in a daze, my hand cold and bereft.

  Rooms. Rooms, plural. So he didn't mean . . .

  He doesn't want to . . .

  Oh God. What's wrong with me?

  We travel up in the lift in silence with a smart porter. I glance a couple of times at Luke's face, but he's staring impassively ahead. In fact, he's barely said a word since he went off to ask about staying. I feel a bit chilly inside – in fact, to be honest, I'm half wishing they hadn't had any spare rooms for us after all. But it turns out there was a big cancellation tonight – and it also turns out that Luke is some big-shot client of the Ritz. When I commented on how nice they were being to us, he shrugged, and said he often puts up business contacts here.

 
; Business contacts. So is that what I am? Oh, it doesn't make any sense. I wish I'd gone home after all.

  We walk along an opulent corridor in complete silence – then the porter swings open a door and ushers us into a spectacularly beautiful room, furnished with a big double bed and plushy chairs. He places my briefcase and AppleMac on the luggage rail, then Luke gives him a note and he disappears.

  There's a pause. I've never felt more awkward in my life.

  'Well,' says Luke. 'Here you are.'

  'Yes,' I say, in a voice which doesn't sound like mine. 'Thanks . . . thank you. And for dinner.' I clear my throat. 'It was delicious.'

  We seem to have turned into complete strangers.

  'Well,' says Luke again, and glances at his watch. 'It's late. You'll probably be wanting to . . .' He stops, and there's a sharp, waiting silence.

  My heart's thudding in my chest; my hands are twisted in a nervous knot. I don't dare look at him.

  'I'll be off, then,' says Luke at last. 'I hope you have a—'

  'Don't go,' I hear myself say, and blush furiously. 'Don't go yet. We could just . . .' I swallow. 'Talk, or something.'

  I look up and meet his eyes, and something fearful starts to pound within me. Slowly he walks towards me, until he's standing just in front of me. I can just smell the scent of his aftershave, and hear the crisp cotton rustle of his shirt as he moves. My whole body's prickling with anticipation. Oh God, I want to touch him. But I daren't. I daren't move anything.

  'We could just talk, or something,' he echoes, and slowly lifts his hands until they cup my face. 'We could just talk. Or something.'

  And then he kisses me.

  His mouth is on mine, gently parting my lips, and I feel a white-hot dart of excitement. His hands are running down my back and cupping my bottom; fingering under the hem of my skirt. Then he pulls me tightly towards him, and suddenly I'm finding it hard to breathe.

  And it's pretty obvious we're not going to do much talking at all.

  Twenty-Four

  Mmmm.

  Bliss.

  Lying in the most comfortable bed in the world, feeling all dreamy and smiley and happy, letting the morning sunlight play on my closed eyelids. Stretching my arms above my head, then collapsing contentedly onto an enormous mound of pillows. Oh, I feel good. I feel . . . sated. Last night was absolutely . . .

  Well, let's just say it was . . .

  Oh, come on. You don't need to know that. Anyway, can't you use your imagination? Of course you can.

  I open my eyes, sit up and reach for my cup of room-service coffee. Luke's in the shower, so it's just me alone with my thoughts. And I don't want to sound all pretentious here – but I do feel this is a pretty significant day in my life.

  It's not just Luke – although the whole thing was . . . well, amazing, actually. God, he really knows how to . . .

  Anyway. Not the point. The point is, it's not just Luke – and it's not just my new job with Morning Coffee (even though every time I remember it, I feel a leap of disbelieving joy).

  No, it's more than that. It's that I feel like a completely new person. I feel as though I've . . . I've grown up. I've matured. I'm moving on to a new stage in life – with a different outlook, and different priorities. When I look back at the frivolous way I used to think – well, it makes me want to laugh, really. The new Rebecca is so much more serious and level-headed. So much more responsible. It's as though the tinted glasses have fallen off and suddenly I can see what's really important in the world and what's not.

  I've even been thinking this morning that I might go into politics or something. Luke and I discussed politics a bit last night, and I have to say, I came up with lots of interesting views. I could be a young, intellectual MP, and be interviewed about lots of important issues on television. I'd probably specialize in health, or education, or something like that. Maybe foreign affairs.

  Casually I reach for the remote control and switch on the television, thinking I might watch the news. I flick a few times, trying to find BBC1, but the TV seems stuck on rubbish cable channels. Eventually I give up, leave it on one called QVT or something, and lean back down on my pillows.

  The truth, I think, taking a sip of coffee, is that I'm quite a serious-minded person. That's probably why Luke and I get on so well.

  Mmmm, Luke. Mmmm, that's a nice thought. I wonder where he is.

  I sit up in bed, and am just considering going into the bathroom to surprise him, when a woman's voice from the television attracts my attention.

  '. . . offering genuine NK Malone sunglasses. In tortoiseshell, black and white, with that distinctive NKM logo in brushed chrome.'

  That's interesting, I think idly. NK Malone sunglasses. I've always quite wanted a pair of those.

  'Buy all three pairs . . .' the woman pauses '. . . and pay, not £400. Not £300. But £200! A saving of at least 40 per cent off the recommended retail price.'

  I stare at the screen, riveted.

  But this is incredible. Incredible. Do you know how much NK Malone sunglasses usually cost? At least a hundred and forty quid. Each! Which means you're saving . . .

  'Send no money now,' the woman is saying. 'Simply call this number . . .'

  My heart beating fast, I scrabble for the notebook on my bedside table and scribble down the number. This is an absolute dream come true. NK Malone sunglasses. I can't quite believe it. And three pairs! I'll never have to buy sunglasses again. People will call me the Girl in the NK Malone shades. (And those Armani ones I bought last year are all wrong now. Completely out of date.) Oh, this is such an investment.

  With shaking hands I dial the number – and get through immediately! I would have thought everyone would be on the line, it's such a good deal. I give my name and address, thank the woman very much indeed, then put down the receiver, a joyful smile plastered across my face. This day is perfect. Absolutely perfect. And it's only nine o'clock!

  Happily I snuggle back down under the covers and close my eyes. Maybe Luke and I will spend all day here, in this lovely room. Maybe we'll have oysters and champagne sent up. (I hope not, actually, because I hate oysters.) Maybe we'll . . .

  Nine o'clock, interrupts a little voice in my mind. I frown for a second, shake my head, then turn over to get rid of it. But it's still there, prodding annoyingly at my thoughts.

  Nine o'clock. Nine . . .

  And I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart thumping in dismay. Oh my God.

  Nine-thirty.

  Derek Smeath.

  I promised to be there. I promised. And here I am, with half an hour to go, all the way over at the Ritz. Oh God. What am I going to do?

  I switch off the TV, bury my head in my hands, and try to think calmly and rationally. OK, if I got going straight away, I might make it. If I got dressed as quickly as possible, and ran downstairs and jumped in a taxi – I might just make it. Fulham's not that far away. And I could be a quarter of an hour late, couldn't I? We could still have the meeting. It could still happen.

  In theory, it could still happen.

  'Hi,' says Luke, putting his head round the bathroom door. He's got a white towel wrapped round his body, and a few drops of water are glistening on his shoulders. I never even noticed his shoulders last night, I think, staring at them. God, they're bloody sexy. In fact, all in all, he's pretty damn . . .

  'Rebecca? Is everything OK?'

  'Oh,' I say, starting slightly. 'Yes, everything's great. Lovely! Oh, and guess what? I just bought the most wonderful

  And then for some reason I stop myself, mid-stream.

  I'm not exactly sure why.

  'Just . . . having breakfast,' I say instead, and gesture to the room-service tray. 'Delicious.'

  A faintly puzzled look passes over Luke's face, and he disappears back into the bathroom. OK, quick, I tell myself. What am I doing to do? Am I going to get dressed and go? Am I going to make the meeting?

  But my hand's already reaching for my bag as though it's got a will of its own; I
'm pulling out a business card and punching a number into the phone.

  Because, I mean, we don't actually need to have a meeting, do we?

  And I'd probably never make it in time, anyway.

  And he probably won't even mind. He's probably got loads of other stuff he'd prefer to be doing instead. In fact, he probably won't even notice.

  'Hello?' I say into the phone, and feel a tingle of pleasure as Luke comes up behind me and begins to nuzzle my ear. 'Hello, yes. I'd . . . I'd like to leave a message for Mr Smeath.'

  BANK OF HELSINKI

  HELSINKI HOUSE

  124 LOMBARD ST

  LONDON EC2D 9YF

  Rebecca Bloomwood

  c/o William Green Recruitment

  39 Farringdon Square

  London EC4 7TD

  5 April 2000

  Hyvä Rebecca Bloomwood

  Saanen jälleen kerran onnitella teitä hienosta suorituksestanne – tällä kertaa «Morning Coffee» – ohjelmassa. Arvostelukykynne ja näkemyksenne tekivät minuun syvän vaikutuksen ja uskon, että teistä olisi suurta hyötyä täällä Helsingin Pankissa.

  Olette todennäköisesti saanut lukemattomia työtar-jouksia – teidän lahjoillanne voisi hyvin saada minkä tahansa toimen «Financial Timesista.» Pyydän teitä kuitenkin vielä kerran harkitsemaan vaatimatonta yhtiötämme.

  Parhaiten teille ehkä sopisi viestintävirkailijan paikka, joka meillä on tällä hetkellä avoinna. Toimen edellinen haltija erotettiin hiljattain hänen luettuaan töissä «Playboyta.»

  Parhain terveisin

  Ystävällisesti

  Jan Virtanen

  Fine Frames Ltd

  The happy homeworking family

  230a Burnside Road

  Leeds L6 4ST

  Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd

  London SW6 8FD

  7 April 2000

  Dear Rebecca

  I write to acknowledge receipt of 136 completed Fine Frames ('Sherborne' style – blue). Thank you very much for your fine work. A cheque for £272 is enclosed, together with an application form for your next frame-making pack.