Shopaholic & Sister (4 page)

“I’m not going to go shopping!” I say haughtily. “I simply mentioned the shopping malls to show an interest in your work.”

“I see.” Luke gives me a quizzical look, which bugs me.

“I’m actually here for the culture.” I lift my chin. “And because Milan is a city I’ve never seen.”

“Uh-huh.” Luke nods. “So you weren’t planning to visit any designer shops today?”

“Luke,” I say kindly, “I am a professional personal shopper. Do you really think I’m going to get excited by a few designer shops?”

“Frankly, yes,” says Luke.

I feel a slight swell of indignation. Didn’t we make vows to each other? Didn’t he promise to respect me and not ever doubt my word?

“You think I came here just to go shopping? Well, take this!” I reach for my bag, then take out my purse and thrust it at him.

“Becky, don’t be silly—”

“Take it! I’ll just have a simple walk around the city! I’ll go and look at the cathedral.”

“OK, then.” Luke shrugs and pockets my purse.

Damn. I didn’t think he’d actually take it.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I have another credit card hidden in my bag, which Luke doesn’t know about.

“Fine,” I say, folding my arms. “Keep my money. I don’t care!”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” says Luke. “You can always use the credit card you keep hidden in your bag.”

What?

How does he know about that? Has he been
spying
on me?

This has to be grounds for divorce, surely.

“Have it!” I say furiously, reaching into my bag. “Have everything! Take the shirt off my back!” I throw my credit card at him. “You may think you know me, Luke. But you don’t. All I want is to soak up a little culture, and maybe invest in the odd souvenir or local artifact.”

“Local artifact?” echoes Luke. “By ‘local artifact’ do you mean ‘Versace shoes’?”

“No!” I say, after a short pause.

Which is true.

True-ish.

I was thinking more of Míu Míu. Apparently it’s really cheap over here!

“Look, Becky, just don’t go overboard, OK?” says Luke. “We’re up to our luggage limits as it is.” He glances at our open cases. “What with the South American ritual mask and the voodoo stick . . . Oh, and let’s not forget the ceremonial dancing swords. . . .”

How many times is Luke going to give me grief about the ceremonial dancing swords? Just because they ripped his stupid shirt.

“For the millionth time, they’re presents!” I say. “We couldn’t have shipped them. We have to have them with us
as we arrive
, otherwise we won’t look like proper travelers!”

“That’s fine. All I’m saying is, we don’t have room for South American masks
and
six extra pairs of boots.”

Oh, he thinks he’s so funny.

“Luke, I’m not like that anymore, OK?” I say, a little crushingly. “I’ve grown up a little. I would have thought you might have noticed.”

“If you say so.” Luke picks up my credit card, scrutinizes it, then gives it back to me. “You’ve only got a couple of hundred pounds left on this one, anyway.”

What?

“How do you know that?” I say in outrage. “That’s my private credit card!”

“Then don’t hide the statement under the mattress. The maid in Sri Lanka found it when she was making the bed and gave it to me.” He kisses me and picks up his briefcase. “Enjoy the city!”

As the door closes I feel a tad disgruntled. Little does Luke know. Little does Luke know I was actually planning to buy him a
present
today. Years ago, when I first met him, Luke had this belt which he really loved, made of gorgeous Italian leather. But he left it in the bathroom one day and it got hot leg-wax on it.

Which was not entirely my fault. Like I told him, when you’re in total agony, you don’t think “What would be the most suitable implement to scrape burning wax off my shins?” You just grab the nearest thing.

Anyway. So I was planning to buy him a replacement today. A little “end of honeymoon” gift. But maybe he doesn’t deserve it if he’s going to spy on me and read my private credit card statements. I mean, what a cheek. Do I read
his
private letters?

Well, actually I do. Some of them are really interesting! But the point is—

Oh my God. I freeze, struck by a dreadful thought. Does that mean he saw how much I spent in Hong Kong that day he went off to see the stock exchange?

Fuck.

And he hasn’t said anything about it. OK, maybe he does deserve a present, after all.

I take a sip of cappuccino. Anyway, I’m the one laughing, not Luke. He thinks he’s so clever, but what he doesn’t know is that I’ve got a secret genius plan.

Half an hour later I arrive downstairs at reception, wearing tight black trousers (not quite capri but close enough), a striped T-shirt, and a scarf knotted round my neck, European-style. I head straight for the foreign exchange desk and beam at the woman behind it.

“
Ciao
!” I say brightly. “
Il . .
.”

I trail off into silence.

What was I thinking? That if I started confidently enough, with hand gestures, Italian would just pour naturally out of my mouth?

“I’d like to change some money into euros, please,” I say, switching into English. I reach into my bag and triumphantly pull out a bundle of creased-up notes. “Rupees, dirhams, ringgits . . .” I dump the notes on the counter and reach for some more. “Kenyan dollars . . .” I peer at a strange pink note I don’t recognize. “Whatever that one is . . .”

It is incredible how much money I was carrying around with me without even noticing! I had loads of rupees in my bath bag, and a whole bunch of Ethiopian birrs inside a paperback book. Plus there were loads of odd notes and coins floating around at the bottom of my carry-on bag.

And the point is, this is free money! This is money
we already had
.

I watch excitedly as the woman sorts it all into piles. “You have seventeen different currencies here,” she says at last, looking a bit dazed.

“We’ve been to lots of countries,” I explain. “So, how much is it all worth?”

As the woman starts tapping on a small computer, I feel quite excited. Maybe the exchange rates on some of these have moved in my favor. Maybe this is all worth loads!

Then I feel a bit guilty. After all, it’s Luke’s money too. Abruptly I decide that if it’s more than a hundred euros, I’ll give half back to him. That’s only fair. But that’ll still leave me with fifty! Not bad, for doing absolutely nothing!

“After commission . . .” The woman looks up. “Seven forty-five.”

“Seven hundred and forty-five euros?” I stare at her in joy and amazement. I had no
idea
I was carrying around that kind of money! God, it just shows! All those people who say, “Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves” . . . they’re right! Who would have thought it?

I’ll be able to buy a present for Luke
and
a pair of Míu Míu shoes, and—

“Not seven hundred and forty-five.” The woman scribbles it on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Seven euros, forty-five cents.”

“What?” My happy smile slips off my face. That can’t be right.

“Seven euros, forty-five cents,” repeats the woman patiently. “How would you like that?”

How can so much genuine money be worth only seven euros? It makes no sense. As I explained to the woman, you could buy absolutely loads in India for those rupees. You could probably buy a whole car . . . or a palace, even. But she wouldn’t budge. Oh, well.

I start walking down the street, carefully following the map the hotel concierge gave me. He was such a helpful man. I explained to him how I wanted to take in the cultural sights of Milan, and he started talking about Da Vinci’s
The Last Supper
, which he “knew” I would be desperate to see.

Obviously I
do
want to see it. Very much so. But priorities are priorities. So I politely explained I was actually more interested in
contemporary
Italian culture, and he started going on about some artist who does short films about death.

So then I clarified that by “contemporary Italian culture” I was really referring to cultural icons such as Prada and Gucci—and his eyes lit up in understanding. He marked a street for me which is in an area called the Golden Quadrilateral and is apparently “full of culture” which he was “sure I would appreciate.”

It’s a sunny day with a light breeze, and the sunlight is glinting off windows and cars, and whizzy Vespas are zipping everywhere. God, Milan is cool. Every single person I pass is wearing designer sunglasses and carrying a designer handbag—even the men!

For a moment I consider buying Luke a continental handbag instead of a belt. I try to imagine him walking into the office with a chic little bag dangling from his wrist. . . .

Hmm. Maybe I’ll stick to a belt.

Suddenly I notice a girl in front of me wearing a cream trouser suit, high strappy shoes, and a pink scooter helmet with leopard-print trim.

I stare at her, gripped with desire. God, I want one of those helmets. I mean, I know I haven’t got a Vespa—but I could wear the helmet anyway, couldn’t I? It could be my signature look. People would call me the Girl in the Vespa Helmet. Plus, it would protect me from muggers, so it would actually be a
safety
feature. . . .

Maybe I’ll ask where she got it.

“
Excusez-moi, mademoiselle
!” I call out, impressed at my own sudden fluency. “
J’adore votre chapeau
!”

The girl gives me a blank look, then disappears round a corner. Which, frankly, I think is a bit unfriendly. I mean, here I am, making an effort to speak her lang—

Oh. Oh, right.

OK, that’s a bit embarrassing.

Well, never mind. I’m not here to buy Vespa helmets, anyway. I’m here to buy a present for Luke. That’s what marriage is all about, after all. Putting your partner first. Placing his needs before your own.

Plus, what I’m thinking is, I can always fly back here for the day. I mean, it wouldn’t take any time from London, would it? And Suze could come too, I think with sudden delight. God, that would be fun. I suddenly have an image of Suze and me, striding down the street, arm in arm, swinging our bags and laughing. A girly trip to Milan! We
have
to do it!

I reach another corner and stop to consult my map. I must be getting closer. He said it wasn’t that far away. . . .

Just then a woman walks past me carrying a bag from Versace, and I stiffen with excitement. I have to be getting close to the source! This is just like when we visited that volcano in Peru, and the guide kept pointing out signs that we were nearing the core. If I just keep my eyes peeled for more Versace bags. . . .

I walk forward a little more—and there’s another one! That woman in oversize shades having a cappuccino has got one, plus about six zillion bags from Armani. She gesticulates to her friend and reaches inside one of them—and pulls out a pot of jam, with an Armani label.

Armani jam? Armani does
jam
?

Maybe in Milan everything has a fashion label! Maybe Dolce & Gabanna does toothpaste. Maybe Prada does tomato ketchup!

I start walking on again, more and more quickly, prickling with excitement. I can sense the shops in the air. The designer bags are appearing more frequently. The air is becoming heavy with expensive scent. I can practically
hear
the sound of hangers on rails and zips being done up. . . .

And then, suddenly, there it is.

A long, elegant boulevard stretches before me, with the chicest, most designer-clad people on earth milling about. Tanned, model-like girls in Pucci prints and heels are sauntering along with powerful-looking men in immaculate linen suits. A girl in white Versace jeans and red lipstick is pushing along a pram upholstered in Louis Vuitton monogrammed leather. A blond woman in a brown leather miniskirt trimmed with rabbit fur is gabbling into a matching mobile phone while dragging along her little boy, dressed head to foot in Gucci.

And . . . the shops. Shop after shop after shop.

Ferragamo. Valentino. Dior. Versace. Prada.

As I venture down the street, my head swiveling from side to side, I feel giddy. It’s complete culture shock. How long has it been since I’ve seen a shop that wasn’t selling ethnic crafts and wooden beads? I mean . . . it’s been months! I feel like I’ve been on some starvation cure, and now I’m gorging on tiramisu with double cream.

Just look at that amazing coat. Look at those
shoes
.

Where do I start? Where do I even—

I can’t move. I’m paralyzed in the middle of the street, like the donkey in that Aesop’s fable who couldn’t choose between the bales of hay. They’ll find me in years to come, still frozen to the spot, clutching my credit card.

Suddenly my eyes fall on a display of leather belts and wallets in the window of a nearby boutique.

Leather. Luke’s belt. This is what I’m here to buy. Focus.

I totter toward the shop and push open the door, still in a daze. At once I’m hit by the overwhelming smell of expensive leather. In fact, it’s so strong it actually seems to clear my head.

The shop is amazing. It’s carpeted in pale taupe, with softly lit display cabinets. I can see wallets, belts, bags, jackets. . . . I pause by a mannequin wearing the most amazing chocolate brown coat, all leather and satin. I stroke it fondly, then lift the price tag—and nearly faint.

But, of course, it’s in lire. I smile in relief. No wonder it looks so—

Oh no. It’s euros now.

Bloody hell.

I gulp, and move away from the mannequin.

Which just proves that Dad was right all along—the single currency
was
a huge mistake. When I was thirteen I went on holiday to Rome with my parents—and the whole point about lire was, the prices looked like a lot
but they weren’t really
. You could buy something for about a zillion lire—and in real life it cost about three quid! It was fantastic!

Plus, if you accidentally ended up buying a bottle of really expensive perfume, no one (i.e., your parents) could blame you, because, like Mum said, who on earth can divide numbers like that in their head?