Shopaholic And Sister Part 29

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 Sat.u.r.day!"

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.

s.h.i.+t.

"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 cla.s.s.

"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 ha.s.sled and angry.

Option 2. Tell Luke something.

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

Oh G.o.d. 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 impa.s.sive 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.

The more I think along these lines, the more rea.s.sured I feel. Nathan Temple can't seriously be expecting Luke to work for him. He'll have found some other PR company already. The whole thing will be under way and he'll have forgotten all about Brandon Communications. Exactly. So I don't have to do anything at all.

Even so, I might write a short letter of thanks. And kind of mention that Luke's unfortunately taken a turn for the worse.

So before we head off to the supermarket I scribble a polite card to Nathan Temple and drop it in the pillar-box outside. As I stride away I actually feel rather satisfied. I have this whole situation under control, and Luke doesn't know a thing. I am superwife!

My spirits rise even further as we walk into the supermarket. G.o.d, supermarkets are great places. They're all bright and airy and music is playing, and they're always giving away free samples of cheese or something. Plus you can buy loads of CDs and makeup, and it all goes on the credit card bill as Tesco.

The first thing that catches my eye as I walk in is a display of specialty teas, with a free flower-shaped tea infuser if you buy three.

"Bargain!" I say, grabbing three boxes at random.

"It's not really a bargain," Jess intones disapprovingly beside me. Why did she have to come along?

Never mind. I'll just stay polite and courteous.

"It is a bargain," I explain. "They're giving away a free gift."

"Do you ever drink jasmine tea?" she retorts, looking at the box in my hand.

"Er . . ."

Jasmine tea. That's the one that tastes like old compost heaps, isn't it?

But so what? The tea infuser is really cute, and I don't have one.

"You can always find a use for jasmine tea," I say airily, and toss it into my trolley. "Right! What next?"

I head toward the vegetable section, pausing to pick up a copy of InStyle as I go.

Ooh. And the new Elle is out too. With a free T-s.h.i.+rt!

"What are you doing?" comes Jess's sepulchral voice in my ear. Is she going to quiz me all the way round the b.l.o.o.d.y shop?

"I'm shopping!" I reply, and sling a new paperback book into the trolley.

"You could get that out of the library for nothing!" says Jess, looking horrified.

The library? I look at her in equal horror. I don't want some thumbed copy in a horrible plastic jacket, which I have to remember to take back.

"It's a modern cla.s.sic, actually," I say. "Everyone should have their own copy."

"Why?" she persists. "Why can't you get it out of the library?"

My temperature is beginning to rise.

Because I just want my own nice s.h.i.+ny copy! And p.i.s.s off and leave me alone!

"Because . . . I might want to make notes in the margin," I say loftily. "I have quite an interest in literary criticism, you know."

I push my trolley on, but she comes hurrying after me.

"Becky, look. I want to help you. You have to gain control of your spending. You have to learn to be more frugal. Luke and I were talking about it-"

"Oh, really?" I say, stung. "How nice for you!"

"I can give you some tips . . . show you how to be thrifty-"

"I don't need your help!" I retort in indignation. "I'm thrifty! I'm as thrifty as they come." Jess looks incredulous.

"You think it's thrifty to buy expensive magazines you could read for nothing in a public library?"

For a moment I can't quite think of a reply. Then my glance falls on Elle. Yes!

"If I didn't buy them, I wouldn't get the free gifts, would I?" I retort in triumph, and wheel my trolley round the corner.

So there, Miss Smarty-pants.

I head to the fruit section and start loading bags into my trolley.

How thrifty is this? Nice healthy apples. I look up-and Jess is wincing.

"What?" I say. "What is it now?"

"You should buy those loose." She gestures to the other side of the aisle, where a woman is laboriously picking her way through a mound of apples and filling a bag. "The unit cost is far lower! You'd save . . . twenty pence."

Twenty whole pence!

"Time is money," I reply coolly. "Frankly, Jess, it's not worth my while to be sorting through apples."

"Why not?" she says. "After all, you're unemployed."

I gasp, affronted. Unemployed? I am not unemployed! I'm a skilled personal shopper! I have a job lined up! In fact . . . I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. I turn on my heel and stalk over to the salad counter. I fill two huge cartons with luxury marinated olives and take them back to the trolley-and stop in astonishment.

Who put that huge sack of potatoes in my trolley?

Did I say I wanted a big sack of potatoes? Did I say I wanted any potatoes?

What if I'm on the Atkins diet?

I look around furiously, but Jess is nowhere to be seen. And the b.l.o.o.d.y thing's too heavy to lift on my own. Where's she gotten to, anyway?

Suddenly I spot her coming out of a side door, holding a big cardboard box and talking to a store employee. What's she doing now?

"I've been speaking with the produce manager," she says, approaching me. "We can have all these bruised bananas for nothing."

I look in the box and it's full of the most revolting, manky bananas I've ever seen.

"They're perfectly good. If you cut away the black bits," says Jess.

"But I don't want to cut away the black bits!" My voice is shriller than I intended, but I can't help myself. "I want to have nice yellow bananas! And I don't want this stupid great sack of potatoes, either!"