Shopaholic And Sister Part 28

I shuffle into the kitchen, where Jess is sitting at the counter in her jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, with a gla.s.s of water.

Cleverclogs. I expect she'll split the atom this morning. In between sit-ups.

"Morning," she says.

"Morning!" I say in my most pleasant, good-hostess manner.

I was rereading The Gracious Hostess last night, and it says that even if your guest is annoying you, you must behave with charm and decorum.

Well, fine. I can be charming. I can be decorative.

"Did you sleep well? Let me get you some breakfast!"

I open the fridge and get out the freshly squeezed orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juices. I reach into the bread bin and pull out some seeded granary bread, croissants, and m.u.f.fins. Then I start rooting around in the cupboards for jams. Three kinds of luxury marmalade, strawberry jam with champagne, wild blossom honey . . . and Belgian chocolate spread. Finally I get down a range of luxury coffees and teas to choose from. There. No one's going to say I don't give my guests a good breakfast.

I'm aware of Jess watching my every move, and as I turn round she's got a strange expression on her face.

"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, flas.h.i.+ng 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

s.h.i.+t. What have I typed? Delete. . . . retype . . . 200.50.

I jab SEND and the next screen comes up. User ID . . . pa.s.sword . . . 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. s.h.i.+t.

"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 G.o.d'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 ch.o.r.es, 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 gla.s.s 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo," comes a man's voice. "I have a delivery of flowers for Brandon."

I press the b.u.t.ton 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sionate kiss, and she'll say something really humble like "I had no idea what a perfect relations.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d. 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 pa.s.s 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 BrandonI was extremely sorry to hear of your illness. Please let me know if I can be of any help. And be a.s.sured, 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.