Shopaholic and Baby s-5

by Sophie Kinsella

I break off from writing to wipe my eyes. I need to finish this now. I need some way for him to show me…to answer…to let me know…

  Suddenly it comes to me. We need a great big tall tower, just like in romantic movies. And we’ll meet at the top at midnight….

  No. I get too tired by midnight. We’ll meet at the top at…six o’clock. The wind will be blowing and Gershwin will be playing and I’ll see from his eyes that he’s put Venetia behind him forever. And I’ll say simply, “Are you coming home?” And he’ll say—

  “Are you OK, Becky?” The nurse pops her head round the door. “How’s it going?”

  “Nearly finished.” I blow my nose. “Where’s a tall tower in London? If I wanted to meet someone.”

  “Dunno.” The nurse wrinkles her nose. “The Oxo Tower’s pretty tall. I went there the other day. They’ve got a viewing platform and a restaurant….”

  “Thanks!”

  Luke, if you love me and want to save our marriage, meet me at the top of the Oxo Tower at six o’clock on Friday. I will be waiting at the viewing platform.

  Your loving wife,

  Becky.

  I put my pen down, feeling totally drained, as though I’ve just composed a Beethoven symphony. All I have to do now is FedEx the letter to his Geneva office…and then just wait till Friday night.

  I fold the seventeen pages in half, and am trying unsuccessfully to cram them into the matching Basildon Bond envelope, when my mobile rings on the cabinet.

  Luke! Oh my God. But he hasn’t read the letter yet!

  With trembling hands I grab the phone, but it’s not Luke after all. It’s a number I don’t recognize. It isn’t Elinor calling to lecture me, is it?

  “Hello?” I say cautiously.

  “Hello, Becky? It’s Martha here.”

  “Oh.” I push my hair back off my face, trying to place the name. “Er…hi.”

  “Just checking you’re still all set for the shoot on Friday?” she says chattily. “I can’t wait to see your house!”

  Vogue. Shit. I’d totally forgotten about it.

  How could I forget about a Vogue photo shoot? God, my life must really be in pieces.

  “So, is everything OK?” Martha’s voice is trilling gaily down the phone. “You haven’t had the baby yet, or anything?”

  “Well, no…” I hesitate. “But I am in hospital.” As I say the words I realize I shouldn’t really have my mobile on in a hospital. But this is Vogue on the phone. There must be an exemption for Vogue, surely.

  “Oh no!” Her voice falls in dismay. “You know, we’re having such bad luck with this piece! One of the yummy mummies had her twins early, which was really annoying, and the other has had pre-eclampy-something and is on bed rest! We can’t do the interview or anything! Are you on bed rest?”

  “I…hang on a minute….”

  I put the phone down on the bed, trying to galvanize my spirits. I have never felt less like having my picture taken in my life. I’m fat, I’m tear-stained, my hair is terrible, my marriage is crumbling away…. I give a deep, shuddery sigh, and then catch sight of my blurry reflection in a nearby glass-fronted cupboard. Hunched over, head drooping. I look defeated. I look awful.

  In an immediate reflex action I sit up straighter. What am I saying? Is my life over too? Just because my husband had an affair?

  No way. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I’m not going to give up. Maybe my life is in pieces. But I can still be yummy. I’ll be the yummiest bloody mummy-to-be they’ve ever seen.

  I lift the phone to my ear again. “Hi, Martha?” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Sorry about that. It’s all fine for the shoot on Friday. I’m coming out of hospital today, so I’ll be there!”

  “Great!” I can hear the relief in Martha’s voice. “Can’t wait! It’ll only take two or three hours, and I promise we won’t exhaust you! I’m sure you have lots of lovely clothes, but our stylist will bring along some pieces too…. Now let me just check your address. You live at thirty-three Delamain Road?”

  I never got that stuff for Fabia, it suddenly occurs to me. But I’ve still got time. It’ll be fine.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Lucky thing, those houses are amazing! We’ll see you there then, eleven o’clock.”

  “See you then!”

  I switch off the phone and breathe out hard. I’m going to be in Vogue. I’m going to be yummy. And I’m going to save my marriage.

  FROM: Becky Brandon

  TO: Fabia Paschali

  SUBJECT: Tomorrow

  Hello, Fabia!

  Just to confirm, I will be coming tomorrow with a Vogue crew and the shoot will last from around 11am till 3pm.

  I have got the purple top and the Chloe bag, but unfortunately, although I’ve tried everywhere, I can’t locate the Olly Bricknell shoes you want. Is there anything else that you’d like?

  Again, thanks so much and look forward to seeing you tomorrow!

  Becky

  FROM: Fabia Paschali

  TO: Becky Brandon

  SUBJECT: Re: Tomorrow

  Becky,

  No shoes, no house.

  Fabia

  KENNETH PRENDERGAST

  Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers

  Forward House 394 High Holborn

  London WC1V 7EX

  Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

  London NW6 0YF

  26 November 2003

  Dear Mrs. Brandon,

  Thank you for your letter.

  I have noted your new shareholdings in Sweet Confectionary, Inc., Estelle Rodin Cosmetics, and The Urban Spa plc. I cannot, however, agree that these are the “best investments in the world.”

  Please let me reiterate. Free chocolates, samples of perfume, and discount spa treatments — while pleasant — are no sound basis for investment. I urge you to reconsider your current investment strategy and would be pleased to advise you further.

  Yours sincerely,

  Kenneth Prendergast

  Family Investment Specialist

  SEVENTEEN

  THESE BLOODY, BLOODY SHOES. There is not a single pair of them left in London. Especially not in green. No wonder Fabia wants them, they’re like the Holy Grail or something, except there aren’t even any clues in paintings. I spent yesterday trying all my contacts, every supplier I know, every shop, everywhere. I even called my old colleague Erin at Barneys in New York and she just laughed pityingly.

  In the end, Danny stepped in to help. He made some calls around and finally tracked down a pair to a model he knows who is on a shoot in Paris. In return for a sample jacket, she gave them to a friend who was coming over to London last night. He met up with Danny and now he’s going to deliver them to me.

  That’s the plan. But he isn’t here yet. And it’s already five past ten and I’m starting to panic. I’m standing on the corner of Delamain Road, dressed in my yummiest outfit of red print wrap dress, Prada heels, and a vintage-style fake fur stole, and all the cars keep slowing down to look. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best place to meet. I must look like some eight months’ pregnant hooker for pervy people.

  I take out my phone and, yet again, redial Danny’s number. “Danny?”

  “We’re here! We’re coming. We’re just driving over a bridge…whoa!”

  Danny was supposed to be dropping the shoes round last night — only he went off clubbing instead, with some photographer he met on holiday. (Don’t ask. He started to tell me about the night they spent together in Marrakech, and honestly, I had to put my hands over the baby’s ears.) He’s shrieking with laughter, and I can hear the roar of his friend’s Harley-Davidson. How can he be having fun? Doesn’t he know how stressed out I am?

  I’ve barely slept since Luke has been gone. And when I did get to sleep last night, I had the most awful dream. I dreamed I went to the top of the Oxo Tower, but Luke didn’t show up. I stood for hours in the wind and gale and rain pouring down on me and then at last Luke ap
peared, but he’d somehow turned into Elinor and she started yelling at me. And then all my hair fell off….

  “Excuse me!”

  A woman holding two small children by the hand is approaching, and giving me an odd look.

  “Oh. Sorry.” I come to, and move out of the way.

  In real life, I haven’t spoken to Luke since he left. He’s tried to call several times, but I just sent short texts back saying sorry I missed him and everything’s OK. I didn’t want to talk to him until he’d read my letter — which only happened last night, according to the tracking system. Somebody at the Geneva office signed for it at 6:11 p.m., so he must have read it by now.

  The die is cast. By six o’clock tonight I’ll know, one way or another. Either he’ll be there, waiting for me, or…

  Nausea rises through me and I shake my head briskly. I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to get through this shoot first. I take a bite of a Kit Kat for energy, and glance down again at the printed page that Martha e-mailed me. It’s an interview with one of the other yummy mummies-to-be from the article, which Martha said would “give me an idea.” The other yummy is called Amelia Gordon-Barraclough. She’s posing in a vast Kensington nursery wearing a beaded kaftan and about fifty-nine bracelets, and all her quotes sound totally smug.

  “We commissioned all our nursery furniture from artisans in Provence.”

  Well. Huh. I’ll say we got all ours from artisans in…outer Mongolia. No, we sourced it. People in glossy magazines never just buy something from a shop, they source it, or discover it in a junkyard, or get left it by their famous designer godmother.

  “My husband and I do couples’ yoga together twice a day in our ‘retreat room.’ We feel it creates harmony in our relationship.”

  With a pang, I have a sudden memory of Luke and me doing couples’ yoga on our honeymoon.

  At least, we were doing yoga, and we were a couple.

  A lump is rising in my throat. No. Stop it. Think confident. Think yummy. I’ll say that Luke and I do something much cooler than yoga. Like that thing I read about the other day. Qi-something.

  My thoughts are broken by the roar of a motorbike, and I look up to see a Harley speeding along the quiet residential street.

  “Hi!” I wave my arms. “Here!”

  “Hey, Becky!” The motorbike comes to a throbbing halt beside me. Danny pulls off a motorbike helmet and leaps off the back, a shoe box in his hand. “There you go!”

  “Oh, Danny, thanks.” I give him an enormous hug. “You saved my life.”

  “No problem!” Danny says, getting back on the bike. “Let me know how it goes! This is Zane, by the way.”

  “Hi!” I wave at Zane, who is in leathers from head to foot and raises a hand in greeting. “Thanks for the delivery!”

  The motorbike zooms off again. I take hold of the handle of my suitcase, which is filled with spare outfits and props, and pick up the armful of flowers I bought this morning to make the house look nice. I head toward number thirty-three, somehow manhandle the case up the steps, and ring the doorbell. There’s no answer.

  After a pause I ring again and call “Fabia!” But there’s still no reply.

  She can’t have forgotten it’s this morning.

  “Fabia! Can you hear me?” I beat on the door. “Fa-bi-a!”

  There’s dead silence. No one’s there. I feel a beat of panic. What am I going to do? Vogue will be here any—

  “Cooee! Hello there!” A voice from the street heralds me and I turn to see a girl leaning out of the window of a Mini Cooper. She’s skinny, has glossy hair, a Kabbala bracelet, and a huge engagement rock. She has to be from Vogue.

  “Are you Becky?” she calls.

  “Yes!” I force a bright smile. “Hi! Are you Martha?”

  “That’s right!” Her eyes are running up and down the storys. “You’ve got a gorgeous house! I can’t wait to see inside!”

  “Oh. Er…thanks!”

  There’s an expectant pause and I lean casually against one of the pillars. Like I’m just hanging out on my front steps. Like people do.

  “Everything all right?” asks Martha, looking puzzled.

  “Fine!” I attempt an easy gesture. “Just you know…enjoying the air…”

  I’m thinking frantically. Maybe we could do the whole shoot out here on the steps. Yes. I could say the front door is the best feature of the house and the rest of it isn’t worth bothering with….

  “Becky, have you lost your key?” says Martha, still looking puzzled.

  Genius. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

  “Yes! Silly me!” I hit myself on the head. “And none of the neighbors have got one, and there’s no one in….”

  “Oh no!” Martha’s face falls.

  “I know.” I give a regretful shrug. “I’m really sorry. But if we can’t get in…”

  As I say the words, the front door opens and I nearly fall into the house. Fabia has appeared, rubbing her eyes and wearing an orange Marni dress.

  “Hi, Becky.” She sounds so drifty. Like she’s on tranquilizers or something.

  “Wow!” Martha’s face lights up. “Someone was in! How lucky! Who’s this?”

  “This is Fabia. Our…lodger.”

  “Lodger?” Fabia wrinkles her nose.

  “Lodger and good friend,” I amend hastily, putting an arm round her. “We’re very close….”

  Thank God, down on the street a car has pulled up behind the Mini and is starting to hoot.

  “Oh, shut up!” says Martha. “Becky, we’re just going to get some coffees. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks! I’ll just wait here at home. At my home.” I put a proprietorial hand on the doorknob. “See you soon!”

  I watch the car disappear, then wheel round to Fabia. “I thought you weren’t in! OK, we need to get going. I’ve got the stuff for you. Here’s the bag, and the top….” I hand her the carriers.

  “Great.” Her eyes focus on them greedily. “Did you get the shoes?”

  “Of course!” I say. “My friend Danny got a model to bring them over from Paris. Danny Kovitz, the designer?”

  As I produce the box, I feel a dart of triumph. No one else in the world can get hold of these. I am so connected. I wait for Fabia to gasp or say, “You’re incredible!” Instead she opens the shoe box, peers at them for a few moments, then wrinkles her brow.

  “These are the wrong color.” She puts the lid back on and pushes them toward me. “I wanted green.”

  Is she color-blind? They’re the most gorgeous shade of pale sage green, plus they have Green printed in big letters on the box.

  “Fabia, these are green.”

  “I wanted more of a…” She waves an arm. “Bluey-green.”

  I’m trying really hard to keep my patience. “Do you mean…turquoise?”

  “Yeah!” Her face brightens. “Turquoise. That’s what I meant. These ones are too pale.”

  I do not believe it. These shoes have traveled all the way from Paris via a fashion model and a world-famous designer and she doesn’t want them?

  Well, I’ll have them.

  “Fine,” I say, and take the box back. “I’ll get you the turquoise pair. But I really need to get into the house….”

  “I don’t know.” Fabia leans against the door frame and examines a drawn thread on her sleeve. “It’s not that convenient, to be honest.”

  Not convenient? It has to be convenient!

  “But we agreed on today, remember? The people from Vogue are already here!”

  “Couldn’t you put them off?”

  “You don’t put Vogue off!” My voice rises in agitation. “They’re Vogue!”

  She gives one of her careless shrugs, and all of a sudden I’m livid. She knew I was coming. It was all planned. She can’t do this to me!

  “Fabia.” I lean close, breathing hard. “You are not wrecking my only chance to be in Vogue. I got you the top. I got you the bag. I got you the sh
oes! You have to let me into this house, or…or…”

  “Or what?” says Fabia.

  “Or…I’ll phone up Barneys and get you blacklisted!” I hiss in sudden inspiration. “That won’t be much fun if you’re living in New York, will it?”

  Fabia turns pale. Ha. Gotcha.

  “Well, where am I supposed to go?” she says sulkily, taking her arm off the door frame.

  “I don’t know! Go and have a hot-stone massage or something! Just get out!” I shove my suitcase into the house and push past her into the hall.

  Right. I have to be quick. I snap open my case, take out a silver-framed picture of me and Luke at our wedding and put it prominently on the hall table. There. It looks like my house already!

  “Where is your husband, anyway?” says Fabia, watching me with folded arms. “Shouldn’t he be doing this too? You look like some kind of single mother.”

  Her words hit me unawares. For a few seconds I don’t trust myself to answer.

  “Luke’s…abroad,” I say at last. “But I’m meeting him later on. At six o’clock. At the viewing platform at the Oxo Tower. He’ll be there.” I take a deep breath. “I know he will.”

  There’s a hotness in my eyes and I blink fiercely. I’m not going to disintegrate.

  “Are you all right?” Fabia stares at me.

  “It’s just…quite an important day for me.” I get out a tissue and dab my eyes. “Could I have a glass of water?”

  “Jesus.” I can hear Fabia muttering as she heads toward the kitchen. “It’s only bloody Vogue.”

  OK. I’m getting there. Twenty minutes have passed, Fabia has finally gone, and the house is really feeling as though it’s mine. I’ve taken down all Fabia’s photographs and replaced them with ones of me and my family. I’ve put B and L initial cushions on the sofa in the living room. I’ve arranged flowers in vases everywhere. I’ve memorized the contents of the kitchen cupboards and even planted some Post-it notes on the fridge, saying things like “We need more organic quinoa, darling” and “Luke — remember Couples’ Qi-gong on Saturday!”