Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4)

Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) Page 10

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.