Shopaholic And Sister Part 14

It's a very weird feeling, not having my own income. Or a job. For three months. How am I going to survive three whole months? Should I get some other job to fill the s.p.a.ce? Maybe this is a great opportunity, it occurs to me. I could try something completely new!

I have a sudden image of myself as a landscape gardener. I could buy some really cool Wellingtons and specialize in shrubs.

Or . . . yes! I could start up some company offering a unique service that no one has ever provided, and make millions! Everyone would say "Becky's a genius! Why didn't we think of that?" And the unique service would be- It would consist of- OK, I'll come back to that one.

Then, as I watch Luke putting some papers in a Brandon Communications folder, I'm seized by a brilliant idea. Of course. I can help him in his work!

I mean, that's the whole point of marriage! It should be a partners.h.i.+p. I can get totally involved in the running of his company, like Hillary Clinton, and everyone will know it's really me who has all the good ideas. I have a vision of myself standing by Luke's side in a pastel suit, beaming radiantly while ticker tape rains down on us.

"Luke, listen," I say. "I want to help."

"Help?" He looks up with an absent frown.

"I want to help you out with the business."

"Becky, I'm not sure-"

"I really want to support you, and I'm free for three months! It's perfect! You wouldn't even have to pay me very much."

Luke looks slightly gobsmacked.

"What exactly would you do?"

"Well . . . I don't know yet," I admit. "But I could inject some new thoughts. Maybe on marketing. Like the time I came up with that slogan for Foreland Investments. You said I was really useful then. And when I came on that press tour to France, and I rewrote that media release for you? Remember that?"

Luke's barely listening.

"Sweetheart, we're really busy with this Arcodas pitch. I haven't got time to take you in. Maybe after the pitch is over-"

"It wouldn't take time!" I say in astonishment. "I'd save you time! I'd be a help! You once offered me a job, remember?"

"I know I did. But taking on a real, full-time job is a bit different from filling in for three months. If you want to change careers, that's different." He goes back to sorting through his papers.

He is making a big mistake. Everyone knows companies have to cross-pollinate with other industries. My personal shopping experience would probably be invaluable to him. Not to mention my background as a financial journalist.

As I'm watching, Luke tries to put a file away and b.u.mps his s.h.i.+n on a wooden carton full of saris.

"Jesus Christ," he says irritably. "Becky, if you really want to help me . . ."

"Yes?" I say eagerly.

"You can tidy up this apartment."

Here I am, prepared to devote myself to Luke's company, and he thinks I should tidy up.

I heft a wooden carton onto the slate coffee table and prize the lid off with a knife, and white foam peanuts cascade out everywhere like snowflakes. I dig in through the foam and pull out a bubble-wrapped parcel. For a few seconds I peer at it blankly-then suddenly I remember. These are the hand-painted eggs from j.a.pan. Each one depicts a scene from the legend of the Dragon King. I think I bought five.

I wipe my brow and glance at my watch. I've been at it now for a whole hour, and to be honest, the room doesn't look any better than before. In fact . . . it looks worse. As I survey the clutter, I'm suddenly full of gloom.

What I need is a cup of coffee. Yes.

I head out to the kitchen, already feeling lighter, and turn the kettle on. And maybe I'll have a biscuit, too. I open one of the stainless-steel cupboards, find the tin, select a biscuit, and put the tin away again. Every single movement makes a little clanging sound that echoes through the silence.

G.o.d, it's quiet in here, isn't it? We need to get a radio.

I trail my fingers over the granite work-top with a gusty sigh. Maybe I'll give Mum a ring and have a nice chat. Except she's still being all weird. I tried phoning home the other day and she sounded all s.h.i.+fty, and said she had to go because the chimney sweep was there. Like we've ever had a chimney sweep in all my life. She probably had people viewing the house or something.

I could phone Suze. . . .

No. Not Suze.

Or Danny! Danny was my best friend when we lived in New York. He was a struggling fas.h.i.+on designer then, but all of a sudden he's doing really well. I've even seen his name in Vogue! But I haven't spoken to him since we got back.

It's not a great time to be calling New York-but that's OK. Danny never keeps regular hours. I dial his number and wait impatiently as it rings.

"Greetings!"

"Hi!" I say. "Danny, it's-"

"Welcome to the ever-expanding Danny Kovitz empire!"

Oh, right. It's a machine.

"For Danny's fas.h.i.+on tips . . . press one. To receive a catalog . . . press two. If you wish to send Danny a gift or invite him to a party, press three. . . ."

I wait till the list comes to an end and a beep sounds.

"Hi!" I say. "Danny, it's Becky! I'm back! So . . . give me a ring sometime!" I give him my number, then put down the receiver.

The kettle comes to a noisy boil and I briskly start spooning grounds into the coffee pot, thinking of who else to call. But . . . there's no one. The truth is, I haven't lived in London for two years. And I've kind of lost touch with most of my old friends.

I'm lonely pops into my head with no warning.

No I'm not. I'm fine.

I wish we'd never come home.

Don't be silly. It's all great. I'm a married woman with my own home and . . . and plenty to be getting on with.

Suddenly the buzzer rings and I look up in surprise. I'm not expecting anyone.

It's probably a package. Or maybe Luke decided to come home early! I walk out into the hall and pick up the entry phone.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Becky, love?" crackles a familiar voice. "It's Mum."

I gape at the receiver. Mum? Downstairs?

"Dad and I have come to see you," she continues. "Is it all right if we pop up?"

"Of course!" I exclaim in bemus.e.m.e.nt, and hit the buzzer. What on earth are Mum and Dad doing here?

I quickly go into the kitchen, pour out the coffee, and arrange some biscuits on a plate, then hurry back out to the lift.

"Hi!" I say as the doors open. "Come on in! I've made you some coffee!"

As I hug Mum and Dad I can see them glancing at each other apprehensively. They're both dressed quite smartly and Mum has even got on the pearl brooch she normally wears to weddings.

What is going on? What?

"I hope we're not disturbing you, love," Mum says as she follows me into the flat.

"No! Of course not!" I say. "I mean, obviously I have my ch.o.r.es . . . things to be getting on with . . ."

"Oh yes." Mum nods. "Well, we don't want to take up your time. It's just . . ." She breaks off. "Shall we go and sit down?"

"Oh. Er . . ." I glance through the door of the sitting room. The sofa is surrounded by boxes spilling their contents, and covered in rugs and foam peanuts. "We haven't quite got the sitting room straight yet. Let's go in the kitchen."

Whoever designed our trendy kitchen bar stools obviously never had their parents come over for a cup of coffee. It takes Mum and Dad about five minutes to climb up onto them, while I watch, completely petrified they're going to topple over.

"Spindly legs, aren't they?" puffs Dad as he tries for the fifth time. Meanwhile Mum's inching slowly onto the seat, gripping the granite breakfast bar for dear life.

At last, somehow, they're both perched up safely on the steel seats, looking all self-conscious as though they're on a TV talk show.

"Are you all right?" I say anxiously. "Because I could go and get some different chairs . . ."

"Nonsense!" says Dad at once. "This is very comfy!"

He's lying. I can see him clenching his hands round the edges of the slippery seat and glancing down at the slate floor below as though he's balanced on a forty-fourth-floor ledge.

"The seats are a little hard, aren't they, love?" ventures Mum. "You should get some nice tie-on cus.h.i.+ons from Peter Jones."

"Er . . . maybe."

I hand Mum and Dad their cups, pull out a bar stool for myself, and nonchalantly swing myself up onto it.

Ow. That hurt.

G.o.d, they are a bit tricky to get onto. Stupid s.h.i.+ny seats.

"So . . . are you both well?" I say, reaching for my coffee.

There's a short silence.

"Becky, we came here for a reason," says Dad. "I have something to tell you."

He looks so grave, I feel worried. Maybe it's not the house after all. Maybe it's something worse.

"It's to do with me," he continues.

"You're ill," I say before I can stop myself. "Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d. I knew there was something wrong-"

"I'm not ill. It's not that. It's . . . something else." He ma.s.sages his temples, then looks up. "Becky, years ago-"

"Break it to her gently, Graham!" Mum interrupts.

"I am breaking it to her gently!" retorts Dad, swiveling round. "That's exactly what I'm doing!"

"You're not!" says Mum. "You're rus.h.i.+ng in!"

Now I'm totally bewildered.

"Break what to me gently?" I say, looking from face to face. "What's going on?"

"Becky, before I met your mother . . ." Dad avoids my gaze. "There was another . . . lady in my life."

"Right," I say, my throat thick.

Mum and Dad are getting divorced and that's why they're selling the house. I'm going to be the product of a broken home.

"We lost touch," Dad continues. "But recently . . . events have occurred."

"You're confusing her, Graham!" exclaims Mum.

"I'm not confusing her! Becky, are you confused?"

"Well . . . a bit," I admit.

Mum leans over and takes my hand.

"Becky, love, the long and the short of it is . . . you have a sister."

A sister?

I stare at her blankly. What's she talking about?

"A half sister, we should say," Dad adds, nodding earnestly. "Two years older than you."

My brain is short-circuiting. This doesn't make any sense. How could I have a sister and not know about it?