“Hi!” I say, taken aback. “It’s Becky here. Is that—”
“It’s Lulu speaking! Hi, Becky! How are you?”
Her abrasive voice is like sandpaper on my nerves.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Is Suze there, by any chance?”
“She’s just putting the twins into their car seats, actually! We’re off for a picnic, to Marsham House. Do you know it?”
“Er…” I rub my face. “No. I don’t.”
“Oh, you should definitely visit it! Cosmo! Sweetie! Not on your Petit Bateau overalls! It’s a super National Trust house. And wonderful for the children, too. There’s a butterfly farm!”
“Right,” I manage. “Great.”
“I’ll get her to call back in two secs, OK?”
“Thanks,” I say in relief. “That would be great. Just tell her… I really need to talk to her.”
I wander over to the window, press my face against the glass, and stare down at the passing traffic below. The traffic light at the corner turns red and all the cars come to a halt. It turns green again and they all zoom off in a tearing hurry. Then they turn red again — and a new set of cars come to a stop.
Suze hasn’t called. It’s been more than two secs.
She isn’t going to call. She lives in a different world now. A world of Petit Bateau overalls and picnics and butterfly farms. There’s no room for me and my stupid problems.
My head feels thick and heavy with disappointment. I know Suze and I haven’t been getting on that well recently. But I thought… I honestly thought…
Maybe I could call Danny. Except… I’ve left about six messages for him and he’s never returned any of them.
Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to pull myself together on my own.
What I will do is… I will make myself a cup of tea. Yes. And take it from there. With as much determination as I can muster I walk to the kitchen. I flick on the kettle, drop a tea bag in a mug, and open the fridge.
No milk.
For an instant I feel like falling to the floor again and crying till nightfall. But instead I take a deep breath and lift my chin. Fine. I’ll go and buy some milk. And stock up generally. It’ll be good to get some fresh air and take my mind off things.
I pick up my Angel bag, slick on some lip gloss, and head out of the apartment. I walk briskly out the gates and down the street, past the weird shop with all the gold furniture, and into the delicatessen on the corner.
The moment I get inside I start to feel a bit more steady. It’s so warm and soothing in here, with the most delicious smell of coffee and cheese and whichever soup they’re cooking that day. All the assistants wear long striped ticking aprons, and look like they’re genuine French cheese-makers.
I pick up a wicker basket, head to the milk counter, and load in a couple of pints of organic semi-skimmed. Then my eye falls on a pot of luxury Greek yogurt. Maybe I’ll buy myself a few little treats to cheer myself up. I put the yogurt into my basket, along with some individual chocolate mousses. Then I reach for a gorgeous handblown glass jar of gourmet brandied cherries.
That’s a waste of money, a voice intones in my head. You don’t even like brandied cherries.
It sounds a bit like Jess’s. Weird. And anyway, I do like brandied cherries. Kind of.
I shake my head irritably and thrust the jar into my basket, then move along to the next display and reach for a mini olive-and-anchovy focaccia pizza.
Overpriced rubbish, comes the voice in my head. You could make it yourself at home for 20p.
Shut up, I retort mentally. No, I couldn’t. Go away.
I dump the pizza in my basket, then move along the displays more swiftly, putting in punnets of white peaches, miniature pears, several cheeses, dark chocolate truffles, a French strawberry gâteau…
But Jess’s voice is constantly in my head.
You’re throwing money away. What happened to the budget? You think indulging yourself like this will bring Luke back?
“Stop it!” I say aloud, feeling rattled. God, I’m going crazy. Defiantly I shove three tins of Russian caviar into my overflowing basket and stagger to the checkout. I drop the basket down on the counter and reach inside my bag for my credit card.
As the girl behind the till starts unloading all my stuff, she smiles at me.
“The gâteau’s delicious,” she says, carefully packing it into a box. “And so are the white peaches. And caviar!” She looks impressed. “Are you having a dinner party?”
“No!” I say, taken aback. “I’m not having a dinner party. I’m just… I’m…”
All of a sudden I feel like a fool. I look at my piles of stupid, overpriced food bleeping through the register and feel my face flame. What am I doing? What am I buying all this stuff for? I don’t need it. Jess is right.
Jess is right.
The very thought makes me wince. I don’t want to think about Jess.
But I can’t help it. I can’t escape the thoughts wheeling round in my head like big black crows. Out of nowhere I hear Luke’s voice. She’s a good person… she’s honest, reliable, and hardworking… you could learn a lot from your sister…
You could learn a lot from your sister.
And suddenly it hits me like a bolt of lightning. Oh my God. This is the answer.
“That’ll be a hundred and thirty pounds, seventy-three pence,” says the girl behind the checkout.
“I–I have to go,” I say. “Now.”
“But your food!” says the girl.
“I don’t need any of it.”
I turn and stumble out of the shop, still clutching my credit card in my hand. It’s all fallen into place. I must go and learn from Jess.
Like Yoda.
I’ll be her apprentice and she’ll teach me all her frugal ways. She’ll show me how to become a good person, the kind of person that Luke wants. And I’ll learn how to save my marriage.
She tried to help me before and I didn’t listen. But this time I’ll be grateful. I’ll pay attention to every word she says.
I start walking along the street more and more quickly, until I’m breaking into a run. I have to go to Cumbria. Right this minute.
I sprint all the way home, and up about three flights of stairs before I realize my lungs are nearly exploding and I’m never going to make it all the way up to the penthouse. Puffing like a steam engine, I sit down for a few minutes, then take the lift up the rest of the way. I burst into the apartment and run to the bedroom, where I pull a bright red leather suitcase out from under the bed and start throwing things randomly into it, like they do on the telly. A T-shirt… some underwear… a pair of turquoise pumps with diamanté buckles… I mean, it doesn’t matter what I take, does it? I just have to get up there and build bridges with Jess.
At last I snap the case shut and haul it off the bed. I grab a jacket, wheel the case down the hall and out onto the landing, then turn and double-lock the front door. I take one last look at it, then step into the lift, feeling strong with a new resolve. Everything’s going to change from this moment on. My new life starts here. Off I go, to learn what’s really important in—
Oh. I forgot my hair straighteners.
Instinctively I jab at the halt button. The lift, which was about to descend, gives a kind of grumpy little bump but stays put.
I can’t possibly go without my hair straighteners. And my Kiehl’s lip balm.
OK, I might have to rethink the whole it-doesn’t-matter-what-you-take strategy.
I hurry back out of the lift, unlock the front door, and head back into the bedroom. I haul another case out from under the bed, this one bright lime green, and start tossing things into that too.
Finally I pick up my Angel bag. And as I glimpse my reflection in the mirror, with no warning, Luke’s voice resounds through my head: I just hope the handbag was worth it, Becky.
I stop still. For a few moments I feel a bit sick.
I almost feel like leaving it behind.
&
nbsp; Which would be just ridiculous. How can I leave behind my most prized possession?
I heft it over my shoulder, trying to recapture the desire and excitement I felt when I first saw it. It’s an Angel bag, I remind myself defiantly. I have the most coveted item in existence. People are fighting over these. There are waiting lists all over the world.
I shift uncomfortably. Somehow it feels heavier on my shoulder than before. Which is very weird. A bag can’t just get heavier, can it?
Oh, right. I put my mobile phone charger in there. That’s why.
OK. Enough of this. I’m going, and I’m taking the bag with me.
I descend to the ground floor and wheel the cases out of the gates. A lit-up taxi comes barreling along, and I stick out my hand. I load in my cases, feeling suddenly rather stirred up by what I’m planning to do.
“Euston Station, please,” I say to the driver, my voice catching in my throat. “I’m going to reconcile with my long-lost-found-then-estranged sister.”
The driver eyes me, unmoved.
“Is that the back entrance you want, love?”
Honestly. You’d think taxi drivers would have some sense of drama. You’d think they’d learn it at taxi school.
The roads are clear, and we arrive at Euston in about ten minutes. As I totter toward the ticket booth, dragging my cases behind me, I feel as though I’m in some old black-and-white movie. There should be clouds of steam everywhere, and the shriek and whistle of trains, and I should be wearing a well-cut tweed suit and fur stole, with marcelled hair.
“A ticket to Cumbria, please,” I say with a throb of emotion, and drop a fifty-pound note on the counter.
This is where a lantern-jawed man should notice me and offer me a cocktail, or get grit out of my eye. Instead, a woman in an orange nylon uniform is regarding me as though I’m a moron.
“Cumbria?” she says. “Where in Cumbria?”
Oh. That’s a point. Does Jess’s village even have a station?
Suddenly I have a blinding flash of memory. When I first met Jess, she talked about coming down from—
“North Coggenthwaite. A return, please. But I don’t know when I’m coming back.” I smile bravely. “I’m going to reconcile with my long-lost-found—”
The woman cuts me off unsympathetically.
“That’ll be a hundred and seventy-seven pounds.”
What? How much? I could fly to Paris for that.
“Er… here you are,” I say, handing over some of my Tiffany clock cash.
“Platform nine. Train leaves in five minutes.”
“Right. Thanks.”
I turn and start walking briskly over the concourse to platform nine. But as the huge intercity train comes into view, my confidence wanes a little. People are streaming round me, hugging friends, hefting luggage, and banging carriage doors.
I’ve come to a standstill. My hands feel sweaty round the suitcase handles. This has all felt like a kind of game up until now. But it’s not a game. It’s real and I can’t quite believe I’m really going to go through with it.
Am I really going to travel hundreds of miles to a strange place — to see a sister who hates me?
Seventeen
OH MY GOD. I’m here.
It’s five hours later and I’m actually here, in Cumbria, in Jess’s village. I’m in the North!
I’m walking along the main road of Scully — and it’s so scenic! It’s just like Gary described, with the drystone walls and everything. On either side of me are old stone houses with slate roofs. Beyond the houses are steep, craggy hills with rocks jutting out and sheep grazing on the grass, and looming high above all the others is one huge hill which is practically a mountain.
As I pass a gorgeous little stone cottage I notice a curtain twitching and someone peering out at me. I suppose I do look a teeny bit conspicuous with my red and lime green suitcases. My wheels are trundling noisily on the road, plus my hatbox is banging up and down with every step I take. As I walk past a bench, two old ladies in print dresses and cardigans eye me suspiciously and I can see one pointing to my pink suede shoes. I give them a friendly smile and am about to say “I got them at Barneys!” when they get up and shuffle off together, still glancing back at me. I take a few more strides along the street, then stop, panting slightly.
It’s quite hilly, isn’t it? Not that there’s anything wrong with hills. This isn’t a problem for me at all. But even so, I might just take a few moments to admire the countryside and get my breath back. The taxi driver offered to take me to the door, but I told him I’d rather walk the last bit, just to steady my nerves. I’m starting to feel a bit jittery about seeing Jess again, which is ridiculous because I had hours on the train to prepare.
I even ended up getting some expert help! I’d popped into the train bar and ordered a Bloody Mary — just for a bit of Dutch courage — and there was a whole group of Shakespearean actors, swigging wine and smoking, on tour with Henry V. We got to chatting and I ended up telling them the whole story and how I was off to try and reconcile with Jess. And they all got quite stirred up. They said it was just like King Lear, and ordered Bloody Marys all round, and insisted on coaching me in my speech.
I’m not sure I’ll do every single thing they suggested. Like calling myself a “wretched wench.” But a lot of their tips were really helpful! For example, never upstage your fellow actor, which means never stand so they have to turn away from the audience. They all agreed this was the worst possible thing I could do to my sister, and if I did, there would be zero chance of a reconciliation and frankly they wouldn’t blame her. I pointed out there wouldn’t be an audience, but they said nonsense, a crowd would gather.
The wind is blowing my hair all over the place, and I can feel my lips getting chapped by the strong northern air, so I get out my lip salve and put some on. Then, with a twinge, I reach for my mobile phone for the millionth time to see if Luke has called and I’ve somehow missed it. But there’s no signal at all. We must be out of the area. I stare for a minute at the blank little display, my heart beating with stupid hope. If there’s no signal, maybe he’s tried to call! Maybe he’s phoning right this minute and he just can’t get through…
But deep down inside I know it’s not true. Six hours have gone by since he left. If he wanted to call, he would have called before now.
Our row has been echoing angrily round my brain all day. Luke’s harsh voice. The way he looked at me just before he left, so disappointed and weary. All the things he said. To my horror, tears suddenly start pricking at my eyes, and I furiously blink them back. I’m not going to cry. It’s all going to be OK. I’m going to make amends and turn into a new person and Luke won’t even recognize me.
Determined, I start wheeling my cases up the hill again, until I reach the corner of Hill Rise. I stop and peer along the gray stone terrace of cottages, stiff with apprehension. This is Jess’s road. She lives in one of these houses!
I’m reaching in my pocket to check the exact number when suddenly I notice a movement in an upstairs window a few houses along. I look up — and it’s Jess! She’s standing at the window, gaping down at me in utter astonishment.
Despite everything that’s happened between us, I feel a swell of emotion at the sight of her familiar face. This is my sister, after all. I start running up the street, my cases trundling behind me, my hatbox bouncing up and down. I reach the door, breathless, and am about to lift the knocker, when the door opens. Jess is standing in front of me in pale brown cords and a sweatshirt, looking aghast.
“Becky… what the hell are you doing here?”
“Jess, I want to learn from you,” I say in a wobbly voice, and lift my hands in supplication like the Shakespearean actors told me. “I’ve come to be your apprentice.”
“What?” She takes a step backwards in horror. “Becky, have you been drinking?”
“No! I mean, yes. A few Bloody Marys, maybe… but I’m not drunk, I promise! Jess, I want to be a good person.” The wor
ds come tumbling out in a rush. “I want to learn from you. And get to know you. I know I’ve made mistakes in life… but I want to learn from them. I’m sorry I didn’t listen before, but now I’m ready. Jess, I want to be like you.”
There’s an ominous silence.
“You want to be like me?” she says at last. “I thought I was a ‘skinflint miserable cow.’ ”
Damn. I was hoping she might have forgotten about that.
“Er… I’m really sorry I said that,” I mutter, abashed. “I didn’t mean it.”
Jess isn’t looking convinced. Quickly I cast my mind back to the coaching session on the train. “Time has healed the wounds between us… ” I begin, reaching out for her hand.
“No, it hasn’t!” says Jess, pulling it away. “And you’ve got a bloody nerve coming here.”
“But I’m asking you to help me, as my sister!” I say desperately. “I want to learn from you! You’re Yoda, and I’m—”
“Yoda?” Jess’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“You don’t look like Yoda,” I add hastily. “Nothing like! I just meant—”
“Yeah, well, I’m not interested,” Jess interrupts. “In you, or your latest stupid idea. Just go away.”
She slams the front door shut, leaving me standing on the street. Jess has shut the door on me? Me, her own sister?
“But I’ve come all the way here from London!” I call through the door.
There’s no reply.
I refuse to give up. Not just like that.
“Jess!” I start hammering on the door. “You have to let me in! Please! I know we’ve had our differences—”
“Leave my door alone!” The door is wrenched open and Jess is standing there again. But this time she doesn’t just look hostile. She looks positively livid. “Becky, we haven’t just had our differences! We are different. I have no time for you. Frankly, I wish I’d never met you. And I have no idea what you’re doing here.”
“You don’t understand,” I say quickly, before she can slam the door again. “Everything’s gone wrong. Luke and I have argued. I… I did something stupid.”
Shopaholic and sister s-4 Page 23
