Shopaholic And Sister Part 2

"Of course not!" I retort, barely missing a beat.

That is, actually, kind of what I'd pictured. Except I'd be there too, with a bottle of champagne and maybe some party poppers.

"I'm not quite that stupid," I add witheringly.

"Good." Luke grins at me. "Why don't you order us some drinks and I'll be out in a moment."

As I sit down at a table on the shady terrace, I'm just a tad preoccupied. I'm trying to remember all the things I've bought and had s.h.i.+pped home without telling Luke.

I mean, I'm not worried or anything. It can't be that much stuff. Can it?

Oh G.o.d. I close my eyes, trying to remember.

There were the wooden giraffes in Malawi. The ones Luke said were too big. Which is just ridiculous. They'll look amazing! Everyone will admire them!

And there was all that gorgeous batik art in Bali. Which I did intend to tell him about . . . but then kind of never got round to it.

And there were the twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns.

Which . . . OK, I know twenty sounds like quite a lot. But they were such a bargain! Luke just didn't seem to understand my point that if we bought twenty now, they would last us a lifetime and be a real investment. For someone who works in financial PR, he can be a bit slow off the mark sometimes.

So I snuck back to the shop and bought them anyway, and had them s.h.i.+pped home.

The thing is, s.h.i.+pping just makes everything so easy. You don't have to lug anything about-you just point and s.h.i.+p: "I'd like that s.h.i.+pped, please. And that. And that." And you give them your card and off it goes, and Luke never even sees it. . . .

Maybe I should have kept a list.

Anyway, it's fine. I'm sure it's fine.

And, I mean, we want a few souvenirs, don't we? What's the point of going round the world and coming back empty-handed? Exactly.

I see Chandra walking past the terrace and give him a friendly wave.

"You did very well in cla.s.s today, Becky!" he says, and comes over to the table. "And now I would like to ask you something. In two weeks' time I am leading an advanced meditation retreat. The others are mainly monks and long-term yoga pract.i.tioners, but I feel you have the commitment to join us. Would you be interested?"

"I'd love to!" Then I pull a regretful face. "But I can't. Luke and I are going home!"

"Home?" Chandra looks shocked. "But . . . you are doing so well. You are not going to abandon the path of yoga?"

"Oh no," I say rea.s.suringly. "Don't worry. I'll buy a video."

As Chandra walks off, he looks a little sh.e.l.l-shocked. Which actually, isn't surprising. He probably didn't even realize you could get yoga videos. He certainly didn't seem to have heard of Geri Halliwell.

A waiter appears and I order a beer for Luke, plus a mango and papaya c.o.c.ktail, which in the menu is called Happy Juice. Well, that just about suits me. Here I am in the suns.h.i.+ne, on my honeymoon, about to have a surprise reunion with all the people I love. Everything's perfect!

I look up to see Luke approaching the table, holding his handheld computer. Is it my imagination, or is he walking faster and looking more animated than he has for months?

"OK," he says. "I've spoken to the office."

"Is everything all right?"

"It certainly is." He seems full of a suppressed energy. "It's going very well. In fact, I want to set up a couple of meetings for the end of this week."

"That was quick!" I say in astonishment.

Blimey. I'd thought it would take about a week just to get ourselves organized.

"But I know how much you're getting out of this yoga retreat," he adds. "So what I propose is that I go on ahead, and you join me later . . . and then we return to Britain together."

"So, where are your meetings?" I say, confused.

"Italy."

The waiter appears with my Happy Juice and Luke's beer.

"But I don't want to be separated from you!" I say as the waiter retreats. "This is our honeymoon!"

"We have had ten solid months together. . . ." Luke gently points out.

"I know. But still . . ." I take a disconsolate sip of Happy Juice. "Where are you going in Italy?"

"Nowhere exciting," Luke says after a pause. "Just a . . . northern Italian city. Very dull. I recommend you stay here. Enjoy the suns.h.i.+ne."

"Well . . ." I look around, feeling torn. It is pretty nice here. "Which city?"

There's silence.

"Milan," Luke says reluctantly.

"Milan?" I nearly fall off my chair with excitement. "You're going to Milan? I've never been to Milan! I'd love to go to Milan!"

"No," says Luke. "Really?"

"Yes! Definitely! It's the fas.h.i.+on capital of the world! I mean, it's got Prada . . . and Dolce-" I break off as I catch his expression. "And . . . er . . . it's a place of great cultural interest which no modern traveler should miss. Luke, I have to come."

"OK." Luke shakes his head ruefully. "I must be mad, but OK."

Elated, I lean back in my chair and take a big slurp of Happy Juice. This honeymoon just gets better and better!

Two.

OK, I CANNOT believe Luke was planning to come to Milan without me. How could he come here without me? I was made for Milan.

No. Not Milan, Milano.

I haven't actually seen much of the city yet except for a taxi and our hotel room-but for a world traveler like me, that doesn't actually matter. You can pick up the vibe of a place in an instant, like bushmen in the wild. And as soon as I looked round the hotel foyer at all those chic women in Prada and D&G, kissing each other while simultaneously downing espressos, lighting cigarettes, and flinging their s.h.i.+ny hair about, I just knew, with a natural instinct: this is my kind of city.

I take a gulp of room-service cappuccino and glance across at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Honestly, I look Italian! All I need is some capri pants and dark eyeliner. And maybe a Vespa.

"Ciao," I say casually, and flick my hair back. "S. Ciao."

I could so be Italian. Except I might need to learn a few more words.

"S." I nod at myself. "S. Milano."

Maybe I'll practice by reading the paper. I open the free copy of Corriere della Sera, which arrived with our breakfast, and start perusing the lines of text. The first story is all about the president was.h.i.+ng his piano. At least I'm pretty sure that's what presidente and lavoro pieno must mean.

"You know, Luke, I could really live in Italy," I say as he comes out of the bathroom. "I mean, it's the perfect country. It has everything! Cappuccinos . . . yummy food . . . Everyone's so elegant. . . . You can get Gucci cheaper than at home. . . ."

"And the art," says Luke, deadpan. "Da Vinci's The Last Supper, for instance."

I was just about to mention the art.

"Well, obviously the art," I say, rolling my eyes. "I mean, the art goes without saying."

I flick over a page of Corriere della Sera and briskly skim the headlines. Then my brain suddenly clicks.

I put the paper down and stare at Luke again.

What's happened to him?

I'm looking at the Luke Brandon I used to know back when I was a financial journalist. He's completely clean-shaven, and dressed in an immaculate suit, with a pale green s.h.i.+rt and darker green tie. He's wearing proper shoes and proper socks. His earring is gone. His bracelet is gone. The only vestige of our travels is his hair, which is still in tiny plaits.

I can feel a bubble of dismay growing inside. I liked him the way he was, all laid-back and disheveled.

"You've . . . smartened up a bit!" I say. "Where's your bracelet?"

"In my suitcase."

"But the woman in the Masai Mara said we must never take them off!" I say in shock. "She said that special Masai prayer!"

"Becky . . ." Luke sighs. "I can't go into a meeting with an old bit of rope round my wrist."

Old bit of rope? That was a sacred bracelet, and he knows it.

"You've still got your plaits!" I retort. "If you can have plaits, you can have a bracelet!"

"I'm not keeping my plaits!" Luke looks incredulous. "I've got a haircut booked in"-he consults his watch-"ten minutes."

A haircut?

This is all too fast. I can't bear the idea of Luke's sun-bleached hair being snipped off and falling to the floor. Our honeymoon hair, all gone.

"Luke, don't," I say, before I can stop myself. "You can't."

"What's wrong?" Luke turns and looks at me more closely. "Becky, are you OK?"

No. I'm not OK.

"You can't cut off your hair," I say desperately. "Then it will all be over!"

"Sweetheart . . . it is over." Luke comes over and sits down beside me. He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. "You know that, don't you? It's over. We're going home. We're going back to real life."

"I know!" I say, after a pause. "It's just . . . I really love your hair long."

"I can't go into a business meeting like this." Luke shakes his head so the beads in his hair click together. "You know that as well as I do!"

"But you don't have to cut it off!" I say, suddenly inspired. "Plenty of Italian men have long hair. We'll just take the plaits out!"

"Becky . . ."

"I'll do it! I'll take them out! Sit down."

I push Luke down onto the bed and carefully edge out the first few little beads, then gently start to unbraid his hair. As I lean close, I can smell the business-y smell of Luke's expensive Armani aftershave, which he always wears for work. He hasn't used it since before we got married.

I s.h.i.+ft round on the bed and carefully start unbraiding the plaits on the other side of his head. We're both silent; the only sound in the room is the soft clicking of beads. As I pull out the very last one, I feel a lump in my throat-which is ridiculous.

I mean, we couldn't stay on our honeymoon forever, could we? And I am looking forward to seeing Mum and Dad again, and Suze, and getting back to real life. . . .

But still. I've spent the last ten months with Luke. We haven't spent more than a few hours out of each other's sight. And now that's all ending.

Anyway, it'll be fine. I'll be busy with a new job . . . and all my friends. . . .

"Done!"

I reach for my Paul Mitch.e.l.l Gloss Drops, put some on Luke's hair, and carefully brush it out. It's a bit wavy, but that's OK. He just looks European.

"You see?" I say at last. "You look brilliant!"

Luke surveys his reflection doubtfully and for an awful moment I think he's going to say he's still getting a haircut. Then he smiles.

"OK. Reprieved. But it will have to come off sooner or later."

"I know," I say, suddenly feeling light again. "But just not today."

I watch as Luke gathers some papers together and puts them in his briefcase.