Shopaholic Takes Manhattan s-2

by Sophie Kinsella

  Finance is the most

  God, I wish I were writing a book about clothes. Or makeup. Becky Bloomwood’s Guide to Lipstick.

  Anyway, I’m not. So concentrate.

  Finance is something which

  You know, my chair’s quite uncomfortable. I’m sure it can’t be healthy, sitting on a squashy chair like this for hours on end. I’ll get repetitive strain injury, or something. Really, if I’m going to be a writer, I should invest in one of those ergonomic ones which swivel round and go up and down.

  Finance is very

  Maybe they sell chairs like that on the Internet. Maybe I should just have a quick little look. Since the computer’s on, and everything.

  In fact — surely it would be irresponsible of me if I didn’t. I mean, you have to look after yourself, don’t you? Mens sana in healthy sana, or whatever it is.

  I reach for my mouse, quickly click onto the Internet icon, and search for “office chairs”—and soon I’m coasting happily through the list. And I’ve already noted down a few good possibilities — when all of a sudden I land on this incredible Web site which I’ve never seen before, all full of office supplies. Not just boring white envelopes, but really amazing high-tech stuff. Like smart chrome filing cabinets, and cool pen holders, and really nice personalized nameplates to put on your door.

  I scroll through all the photographs, utterly mesmerized. I mean, I know I’m not supposed to be spending money at the moment — but this is different. This is investment in my career. After all — this is my office, isn’t it? It should be well equipped. It needs to be well equipped. In fact, I can’t believe how shortsighted I’ve been. How on earth was I expecting to write a book without the necessary equipment? It would be like climbing Everest without a tent.

  I’m so dazzled by the array of stuff you can get that I almost can’t decide what to get. But there are a few essentials which I absolutely must buy.

  So I click on an ergonomic swivel chair upholstered in purple to match my iMac, plus a Dictaphone which translates stuff straight into your computer. And then I find myself adding a really cool steel claw which holds up notes while you’re typing, a set of laminated presentation folders — which are bound to come in useful — and a mini paper shredder. Which is a complete essential because I don’t want the whole world seeing my first drafts, do I? And I’m toying with the idea of some modular reception furniture — except I don’t really have a reception area in my bedroom — when Suze comes back into the room.

  “Hi! How’s it going?”

  I jump guiltily, quickly click on “send” without even bothering to check what the final amount was, click off the Internet — and look up just as my Chapter One reappears on the screen.

  “You’re working really hard!” says Suze, shaking her head. “You should take a break. How much have you done?”

  “Oh… quite a lot,” I say.

  “Can I read it?” And to my horror she starts coming toward me.

  “No!” I exclaim. “I mean — it’s a work in progress. It’s… sensitive material.” Hastily I close the document and stand up. “You look really great, Suze. Fantastic!”

  “Thanks!” She beams at me and twirls around in my dress as the doorbell rings. “Ooh! That’ll be Fenny.”

  Fenella is one of Suze’s weird posh cousins from Scotland. Except to be fair, she’s not actually that weird anymore. She used to be as peculiar as her brother, Tarquin, and spend the whole time riding horses and shooting fish, or whatever they do. But recently she’s moved to London and got a job in an art gallery, and now she just goes to parties instead. As Suze opens the front door I can hear her high-pitched voice — and a whole gaggle of girls’ voices following her. Fenny can’t move three feet without a huge cloud of shrieking people around her. She’s like some socialite version of a rain god.

  “Hi!” she says, bursting into my room. She’s wearing a really nice pink velvet skirt from Whistles, which I’ve also got — but she’s teamed it with a disastrous brown Lurex polo neck. “Hi, Becky! Are you coming tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” I say. “I’ve got to work.”

  “Oh well.” Fenella’s face droops just like Suze’s did — then brightens. “Then can I borrow your Jimmy Choos? We’ve got the same size feet, haven’t we?”

  “OK,” I say. “They’re in the wardrobe.” I hesitate, trying to be tactful. “And do you want to borrow a top? It’s just I’ve actually got the top that goes with your skirt. Pink cashmere with little beads. Really nice.”

  “Have you?” says Fenny. “Ooh, yes! I shoved on this polo neck without really thinking.” As she peels it off, a blond girl in a black shift comes in and beams at me.

  “Hi, er… Milla,” I say, remembering her name just in time. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine!” she says, and gives me a hopeful look. “Fenny said I could borrow your English Eccentrics wrap.”

  “I’m lending it to Suze,” I say, pulling a regretful face. “But what about… a purple shawl with sequins?”

  “Yes, please! And Binky says, have you still got that black wraparound skirt?”

  “I have,” I say thoughtfully. “But actually, I’ve got another skirt I think would look even better on her…”

  It’s about half an hour before everyone has borrowed what they want. Eventually they all pile out of my room, shrieking to me that they’ll return it all in the morning, and Suze comes in, looking completely stunning with her hair piled up on her head and hanging down in blond tendrils.

  “Bex, are you sure you don’t want to come?” she says. “Tarquin’s going to be there, and I know he’d like to see you.”

  “Oh right,” I say, trying not to look too appalled at the idea. “Is he in London, then?”

  “Just for a few days.” Suze looks at me, a little sorrowfully. “You know, Bex, if it weren’t for Luke… I reckon Tarkie still likes you.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t,” I say quickly. “That was ages ago now. Ages!”

  My one and only date with Tarquin is one of those events I am trying very hard never to remember again, ever.

  “Oh well,” says Suze, shrugging. “See you later. And don’t work too hard!”

  “I won’t,” I reply, and give a world-weary sigh. “Or at least, I’ll try not to.”

  I wait until the front door bangs behind her, and the taxis waiting outside have roared off. Then I take a sip of tea and turn back to my first chapter.

  Chapter One

  Finance is very

  Actually, I’m not really in the mood for this anymore. Suze is right, I should have a break. I mean, if I sit here hour after hour, I’ll get all jaded, and lose the creative flow. And the point is, I’ve made a good start.

  I stand up and stretch, then wander into the sitting room, and pick up a copy of Tatler. It’s EastEnders in a minute, and then it might be Changing Rooms or something, or that documentary about the vets. I’ll just watch that — and then I’ll go back to work. I mean, I’ve got a whole evening ahead, haven’t I? I need to pace myself.

  Idly, I flick open the magazine and am scanning the contents page for something interesting when suddenly my eye stops in surprise. It’s a little picture of Luke, with the caption Best of Brandon, page seventy-four! Why on earth didn’t he tell me he was going to be in Tatler?

  The photograph is his new official one, the one I helped him choose an outfit for (blue shirt, dark blue Fendi tie). He’s staring at the camera, looking all serious and businesslike — but if you look closely at his eyes, there’s a little friendly spark in there. As I stare at his face I feel a tug of affection and realize Suze is right. I should just trust him, shouldn’t I? I mean — what does Alicia Bitchy-pants know about anything?

  I turn to page seventy-four, and it’s an article on “Britain’s Top Movers and Shakers.” I scan down the page, and I can’t help noticing that some of the movers and shakers are pictured with their partners. Maybe there’ll be a picture of me with Luke! After all, somebody m
ight have taken a picture of us together at a party or something, mightn’t they? Come to think of it, we were once snapped by the Evening Standard at a launch for some new magazine, although it never actually got into the paper.

  Ooh! Here he is, number thirty-four! And it’s just him, in that same official photo, with not a glimpse of me. Still, I feel a twinge of pride as I see his picture (much bigger than some of the others, ha!) and a caption reading: “Brandon’s ruthless pursuit of success has knocked lesser competitors off the starting blocks.” Then the piece starts: “Luke Brandon, dynamic owner and founder of Brandon Communications, the blah-di blah-di…”

  I skim over the text, feeling a pleasant anticipation as I reach the section labeled “Vital Statistics.” This is the bit where I’ll be mentioned! “Currently dating TV personality Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or maybe, “Partner of well-known finance expert Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or else—

  Luke James Brandon

  Age: 34

  Education: Cambridge

  Current status: Single.

  Single?

  Luke told them he was single?

  A hurt anger begins to rise through me as I stare at Luke’s confident, arrogant gaze. Suddenly I’ve had enough of all this. I’ve had enough of being made to feel insecure and paranoid and wondering what’s going on. Hands trembling, I pick up the phone and jab in Luke’s number.

  “Yes,” I say, as soon as the message has finished. “Yes, well. If you’re single, Luke, then I’m single too. OK? And if you’re going to New York, then I’m going to… to Outer Mongolia. And if you’re…”

  Suddenly my mind goes blank. Shit, and it was going so well.

  “… if you’re too cowardly to tell me these things yourself, then maybe it’s better for both of us if we simply…”

  I’m really struggling here. I should have written it all down before I began.

  “… if we just call it a day. Or perhaps that’s what you think you’ve already done,” I finish, breathing hard.

  “Becky?” Suddenly Luke’s deep voice is in my ear, and I jump with fright.

  “Yes?” I say, trying to sound dignified.

  “What is all this gibberish you’re spouting on my machine?” he asks calmly.

  “It’s not gibberish!” I reply indignantly. “It’s the truth!”

  “ ‘If you’re single, then I’m single’? What’s that supposed to be? Lyrics to a pop song?”

  “I was talking about you! And the fact that you’ve told the whole world you’re single.”

  “I’ve done what?” says Luke, sounding amused. “When did I do that?”

  “It’s in Tatler!” I say furiously. “This month!” I grab for the magazine and flip it open. “Britain’s top movers and shakers. Number thirty-four, Luke Brandon.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” says Luke. “That thing.”

  “Yes, that thing!” I exclaim. “That thing! And it says you’re single. How do you think it felt for me to see you’d said you were single?”

  “It quotes me, does it?”

  “Well… no,” I say after a pause. “It doesn’t exactly quote you. But I mean, they must have phoned you up and asked you—”

  “They did phone me up and ask me,” he says. “And I said no comment.”

  “Oh.” I’m silenced for a moment, trying to think clearly. OK, so maybe he didn’t say he was single — but I’m not at all sure I like “no comment.” Isn’t that what people say when things are going really badly?

  “Why did you say no comment?” I say at last. “Why didn’t you say you were going out with me?”

  “My darling,” says Luke, sounding a little weary, “think about it. Do you want our private life splashed all over the media?”

  “Of course not.” I twist my hands into a complicated knot. “Of course not. But you…” I stop.

  “What?”

  “You told the media when you were going out with Sacha,” I say in a small voice.

  Sacha is Luke’s ex-girlfriend.

  I can’t quite believe I just said that.

  Luke sighs.

  “Becky, Sacha told the media about us. She would have had People magazine photographing us in the bath if they’d been interested. That’s the kind of girl she was.”

  “Oh,” I say, winding the telephone cord round my finger.

  “I’m not interested in that kind of thing. My clients can do what they like, but personally, I can’t think of anything worse. Hence the no comment.” He pauses. “But you’re right. I should have thought. I should have warned you. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” I say awkwardly. “I suppose I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

  “So are we OK?” says Luke, and there’s a warm, teasing note to his voice. “Are we back on course?”

  “What about New York?” I say, hating myself. “Is that all a mistake, too?”

  There’s a long, horrible silence.

  “What have you heard about New York?” says Luke at last — and to my horror, he sounds all businesslike and distant.

  Oh God. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth closed?

  “Nothing really!” I stammer. “I… I don’t know. I just…”

  I tail off feebly, and for what seems like hours, neither of us says anything. My heart is pounding hard, and I’m clutching the receiver so hard, my ear’s starting to hurt.

  “Becky, I need to talk to you about a few things,” says Luke finally. “But now is not the time.”

  “Right,” I say, feeling a pang of fright. “What… sort of things?”

  “Not now. We’ll talk when I get back, OK? Saturday. At the wedding.”

  “Right,” I say again, talking brightly to hide the nerves in my voice. “OK! Well, I’ll… I’ll see you then, then…”

  But before I can say any more, he’s gone.

  MANAGING YOUR MONEY

  A Comprehensive Guide to

  Personal Finance

  By Rebecca Bloomwood

  COPYRIGHT © REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

  Important: No part of this manuscript to be

  reproduced without the author’s express permission!

  FIRST EDITION (UK)

  (FIRST DRAFT)

  P A R T O N E

  Chapter one. Finance is very

  ENDWICH BANK

  Fulham Branch

  3 Fulham Road

  London SW6 9JH

  Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd.

  London SW6 8FD

  12 September 2000

  Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

  Further to my letter of 8 September, I have conducted a thorough examination of your account. Your current overdraft limit vastly exceeds the bank’s approved ratios. I cannot see any need for this excessive level of debt, nor that any genuine attempts have been made to reduce it. The situation is little short of a disgrace.

  Whatever special status you have enjoyed in the past will not be continuing in the future. I will certainly not be increasing your overdraft limit as you request, and would ask as a matter of urgency that you make an appointment with me to discuss your position.

  Yours sincerely,

  John Gavin

  Overdraft Facilities Director

  Six

  I ARRIVE AT MY PARENTS’ house at ten o’clock on Saturday, to find the street full of festivity. There are balloons tied to every tree, our drive is full of cars, and a billowing marquee is just visible from next door’s garden. I get out of my car, reach for my overnight bag, then just stand still for a few moments, staring at the Websters’ house. God, this is strange. Tom Webster getting married. I can hardly believe it. To be honest — and this may sound a bit mean — I can hardly believe that anyone would want to marry Tom Webster. He has smartened up his act recently, admittedly. He’s got a few new clothes, and a better hairstyle. But his hands are still all huge and clammy — and frankly, he’s not Brad Pitt.

  Still, that’s the point of love, I think, closing
my car door with a bang. You love people despite their flaws. Lucy obviously doesn’t mind that Tom’s got clammy hands — and he obviously doesn’t mind that her hair’s all flat and boring. It’s quite romantic, I suppose.

  As I’m standing there, gazing at the house, a girl in jeans with a circlet of flowers in her hair appears at the Websters’ front door. She gives me an odd, almost aggressive look, then disappears inside the house again. One of Lucy’s bridesmaids, obviously. I expect she’s a bit nervous, being seen in her jeans.

  Lucy’s probably in there too, it occurs to me — and instinctively I turn away. I know she’s the bride and everything, but to be honest, I’m not desperately looking forward to seeing Lucy again. I’ve only met her a couple of times and we’ve never jelled. Probably because she had the idea I was in love with Tom. Still, at least when Luke arrives I’ll finally be able to prove them all wrong.

  At the thought of Luke, there’s a painful stab in my chest, and I take a deep, slow breath to calm myself. I’m determined I’m not going to put the cart before the horse this time. I’m going to keep an open mind, and see what he says today. And if he does tell me he’s moving away to New York then I’ll just… deal with it. Somehow.

  Anyway. Don’t think about it now. Briskly I head for the front door and let myself in. I head for the kitchen and find my dad drinking coffee in his waistcoat, while Mum, dressed in a nylon cape with her hair in curlers, is buttering a round of sandwiches.

  “I just don’t think it’s right,” she’s saying as I walk in. “It’s not right. They’re supposed to be leading our country, and look at them. They’re a mess! Dowdy jackets, dreadful ties…”

  “You really think the ability to govern is affected by what you wear, do you?”

  “Hi, Mum,” I say, dumping my bag on the floor. “Hi, Dad.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing!” says Mum. “If they’re not prepared to make an effort with their dress, then why should they make any effort with the economy?”