Shopaholic & Sister (23 page)

“What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says awkwardly. She folds her napkin into little squares. “Luke told me last night. About your . . . problem.”

“My what?”

“Your spending.”

I try to hide my dismay. He did, did he?

“I don’t have a problem,” I say, flashing her a smile. “He was exaggerating.”

“He said you’re on a budget.” Jess looks concerned. “It sounds like money’s a bit tight at the moment.”

“That’s right,” I say pleasantly. Not that it’s any of your business, I think. I can’t
believe
Luke’s been blabbing everything to her.

“So . . . how come you can afford luxury coffee and strawberry jam with champagne?” She gestures at all the food laid out on the counter.

“Thrifty management,” I say smoothly. “Prioritizing. If you save on some items you can splash out on others. That’s the first rule of financial management. As I learned at financial journalism school,” I add.

OK, that’s a slight lie. I didn’t go to financial journalism school.

“So—which items are you saving on?” says Jess, her brow creased. “I can’t see anything in this kitchen that doesn’t come from Fortnum’s or Harrods.”

I’m about to make an indignant rejoinder when I realize she might be right. I got into a bit of a Harrods Food Hall habit after I started making all this money off eBay. But then, Harrods is a perfectly legitimate food shop.

“My husband appreciates a good standard of living,” I say crisply, opening a fresh jar of marmalade.

“But you could do it on less.” Jess leans forward, looking animated. “You could make savings everywhere! I could give you some tips.”

Tips? Tips from Jess?

Suddenly the oven timer goes off with a ping. It’s time!

“Are you cooking something?” says Jess, looking puzzled.

“Er . . . not exactly. Just help yourself . . . I’ll be back in a minute. . . .”

I hurry into the study and switch on the computer. Bidding on the orange vintage coat ends in five minutes, and I am bloody well going to get it. I tap my fingernails impatiently, and as soon as the screen clears I bring up the saved eBay page.

I knew it. Kittybee111 has bid again—£200.

She thinks she’s so clever. Well, take
this
, kittybee111.

I get out Luke’s stopwatch from the desk and set it for three minutes. As the time gets near I poise my hands over the keyboard like an athlete on the starting blocks.

OK. One minute before the bidding ends. Go.

As quickly as I can, I type in *@00.50.

Shit. What have I typed? Delete. . . . retype . . . £200.50.

I jab SEND and the next screen comes up. User ID . . . password . . . I’m typing as fast as I can.

You are the current high bidder.

Ten seconds to go. My heart is thumping. What if someone else is bidding
right now
?

Frantically I click on REFRESH.

“What are you doing, Becky?” comes Jess’s voice at the door. Shit.

“Nothing!” I say. “Why don’t you make yourself some nice toast, while I just—”

The page is coming back up again. Did I . . . did I . . .

Congratulations! You won the item!

“Yeeess!” I cry out, unable to stop myself, and punch the air. “Yes! I got it!”

“Got what?” Jess has advanced across the room and is peering over my shoulder at the screen. “Is that
you
? You’re on a tight budget and you’re buying a coat for two hundred pounds?”

“It’s not like that!” I say, rattled at her disapproving expression. I get up, close the door of the study, and turn to face her.

“Look,” I say, keeping my voice lowered. “It’s OK. I’ve got all this money which Luke doesn’t know about. I’ve been selling off all the stuff we bought on our honeymoon—and I’ve made loads! I sold ten Tiffany clocks the other day and made two thousand quid!” I lift my chin proudly. “So I can
easily
afford this.”

Jess’s expression doesn’t waver.

“You could have put that money into a high-interest savings account,” she says. “Or used it to clear an outstanding bill.”

I quell a sudden urge to snap.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” I say, forcing a pleasant tone. “I bought a coat.”

“And Luke has no idea?” Jess fixes me with an accusing gaze.

“He doesn’t
need
to have any idea! Jess, my husband is a very busy man.”

“So you lie to him.”

“Every marriage needs an air of mystery,” I respond coolly. “It’s a well-known fact.”

Jess shakes her head.

“And is this how you can afford all the Fortnum’s jam, too?” She gestures to the computer. “Shouldn’t you just be honest?”

Oh, for God’s sake. Doesn’t she understand anything?

“Jess . . . let me explain,” I say kindly. “Our marriage is a complicated, living organism, which only the two of us can really understand. I naturally know what to tell Luke and what not to bother him with. Call it instinct . . . call it discretion . . . call it emotional intelligence, if you will.”

Jess regards me for a few moments.

“Well, I think you need help,” she says at last.

“I do not need
help
!” I retort.

I shut down the computer, push back my chair, and stalk past her into the kitchen, where Luke is making a pot of coffee.

“Enjoying your breakfast, darling?” I say in loud tones.

“Fantastic!” says Luke. “Where did you get these quails’ eggs?”

“Oh . . . you know . . .” I give him an affectionate smile. “I know you like them, so I tracked some down.” I shoot a triumphant look at Jess, who rolls her eyes.

“We’re out of bacon, though,” says Luke. “And a couple of other things. I’ve written them down.”

“OK,” I say, suddenly having an idea. “In fact . . . I’ll go out and get them this morning. Jess, you don’t mind if I do some household chores, do you? I don’t expect
you
to come, of course,” I add sweetly. “I know how much you despise shopping.”

Thank goodness. Escape.

“It’s OK,” says Jess, filling a glass of water at the tap. “I’d like to come.”

My smile freezes on my face.

“To Harr— To the supermarket? But it’ll be very boring. Please don’t feel that you have to.”

“I’d like to.” She looks at me. “If you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” I say, my smile still rigid. “Why would I mind? I’ll just go and get ready.”

As I head into the hall I’m hot with indignation. Who does she think she is, saying I need help?

She
needs help, more like it. Help in how to crank her miserable mouth into a smile.

And what a bloody nerve, giving me advice on my marriage. What does she know about it? Luke and I have a brilliant marriage! We’ve hardly ever even had a row!

The entry phone buzzes, and I pick up the receiver, still distracted.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” comes a man’s voice. “I have a delivery of flowers for Brandon.”

I press the button in delight. Someone’s sent me flowers?

I clap my hand over my mouth. Luke must have sent me flowers. He’s so romantic! This is probably some really cute anniversary that I’d forgotten all about, like the first time we had dinner together, or slept together, or something.

Actually . . . that would be the same anniversary, now that I think about it.

But anyway, the point is, this just proves it. This just proves what a fantastic relationship we have and how Jess is totally wrong. About everything.

I throw open the apartment door and stand expectantly by the lift. This’ll show her! I’ll take my flowers straight into the kitchen and give Luke a huge passionate kiss, and she’ll say something really humble like “I had no idea what a perfect relationship you two had.” And I’ll smile kindly and say “You know, Jess—”

My thoughts are interrupted as the lift doors start opening. And oh . . . my God. Luke must have spent an absolute
fortune
!

Two uniformed deliverymen are carrying the most enormous bouquet of roses—plus a huge fruit basket full of oranges, papayas, and pineapples, all wrapped up in trendy raffia.

“Wow!” I say in delight. “Those are absolutely fantastic!” I beam at the man offering me a clipboard and scribble my signature.

“And you’ll pass them on to Mr. Brandon,” says the man as he gets back into the lift.

“Of course!” I say gaily.

A moment later his words register.

Hang on a minute. These are for
Luke
? Who on earth is sending flowers to Luke?

I spot a card nestled among the flowers and pull it out with a pleasant thrill of curiosity.

Dear Mr Brandon

I was extremely sorry to hear of your illness. Please let me know if I can be of any help. And be assured, we can delay the hotel launch as long as is necessary to enable your full recovery.

All best wishes,
Nathan Temple

I’m paralyzed with horror. Nathan Temple wasn’t supposed to send flowers. He wasn’t supposed to delay the hotel launch. He was supposed to
go away
.

“What’s that?” comes Luke’s voice. I start in panic and look up to see him heading out of the kitchen toward me.

In one seamless movement I crumple Nathan Temple’s card and stuff it into the pocket of my dressing gown.

“Hi!” I say, my voice a little high-pitched. “Aren’t these great?”

“Are those for me?” Luke says incredulously, spotting the delivery label. “Who are they from?”

“They’re . . . um . . . they’re . . . from me!” I say brightly.

“From
you
?” Luke stares at me.

“Yes! I thought I’d like to send you some flowers. And . . . er . . . fruit. Here you are, darling! Happy Saturday!”

Somehow I manhandle the enormous bouquet and basket into Luke’s arms, then kiss him lightly on the cheek.

“Becky, I’m very touched,” he says, looking bewildered. “Really. But . . . why did you send me all this? Why did you send me a fruit basket?”

“Do I have to have a reason to send my husband a fruit basket?” I say at last, managing to sound a little hurt. “I just thought they could be a token of our marriage. You know, we’re coming up to our very first anniversary!”

“Right,” says Luke after a pause. “Well . . . thank you. That’s lovely.” He peers more closely at the bouquet. “What’s this?”

I follow his gaze only to see a set of gold plastic lettering nestled inside the flowers, spelling out
Get Well Soon
.

Shit.

“
Get well soon
?” Luke looks up, taken aback.

My mind races frantically.

“That . . . that . . . doesn’t
mean
get well soon,” I say with a laugh. “It’s . . . in code!”

“In
code
?”

“Yes! Every marriage needs a secret code between husband and wife! You know, for little loving secret messages. So I thought I’d introduce one!”

Luke has the same expression he had in Egypt when I said I thought we should take a couples’ belly-dancing class.

“So, what does ‘get well soon’ mean?” he inquires. “In our secret code.”

“It’s actually . . . er . . . very easy.” I clear my throat self-consciously. “
Get
means . . .
I
. And
well
means . . .
love
. And
soon
means . . .”

“
You
?” offers Luke.

“Yes!” I say. “You’re getting the idea! Isn’t it cunning?”

My hands are clenched by my sides. I have no idea what Luke is thinking.

“And the florist wouldn’t have sent the wrong package by mistake?” he suggests.

Oh.

Now, that’s a
much
better explanation. Why didn’t I think of that?

“You’ve rumbled me!” I exclaim. “Drat! How did you guess? You just know me too well. Now . . . er . . . go and have some nice breakfast and I’ll get ready for the supermarket.”

As I put on my makeup my mind is going round and round in circles.

What if Nathan Temple phones up to see how Luke is? What if he sends more flowers? What if he wants to come and visit Luke’s
sickbed
?

OK, just . . . stay calm. Let’s go through all the options.

Option 1. Tell Luke everything.

No. No way. Just the thought of it makes my stomach churn. He’s so busy with this Arcodas pitch. It’ll just get him all hassled and angry.

Option 2. Tell Luke something.

Like the edited highlights. Maybe tweaked in a way that leaves out the name Nathan Temple.

Oh God. Impossible.

Option 3. Manage situation in discreet Hillary-style manner.

But I tried that already and it didn’t work.

Anyway, I bet Hillary had help. What I need is a team, like in
The West Wing
. Then I’d just go up to Allison Janney and whisper, “We have a problem—but don’t let the president know.” And she’d murmur, “Don’t worry, we’ll contain it.” Then we’d exchange warm but tense smiles and walk into the Oval Office, where Luke would be promising a group of underprivileged kids that their playground would be saved. And his eyes would meet mine . . . and we’d flash back to the two of us waltzing in the White House corridors the night before, watched only by an impassive security guard—

The grinding motor of a dustbin truck outside brings me back to reality. Luke isn’t president. I’m not in
The West Wing
. And I still don’t know what to do.

Option 4. Do nothing.

This has a lot of obvious advantages. And the point is . . . do I actually
need
to do anything?

I reach for my lip liner and start applying it thoughtfully. I mean, all that has actually happened is that someone has sent Luke some flowers. That’s all.

Plus he wants Luke to work for him. And reckons he’s owed a favor.

And is a gangster.

No. Stop it. He’s not a gangster. He’s a . . . a businessman with a former criminal conviction. It’s totally different.

And anyway—
anyway
—he was probably just being polite in that note, wasn’t he? Like he’s really going to hold up an entire hotel launch so Luke can do it. What a ludicrous idea.