Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4)

Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) Page 114

“It — it doesn’t matter.” Somehow I force myself to smile. “These things happen.”

With sore, stiff fingers I open my compact — and amazingly, the mirror’s still intact. Cautiously I take a look at myself and recoil. I look like a beaten-up scarecrow. My hair is everywhere, and both my cheeks are grazed, and there’s a huge lump on my forehead.

“What are we going to do?” I snap the compact shut.

“We’ll have to stay here until the storm dies down,” says Jess.

“Yes, but I mean… what shall we do? While we wait in the tent.”

Jess’s expression is unreadable.

“I thought we could watch When Harry Met Sally and eat popcorn,” she says.

I can’t help giggling. Jess does actually have a sense of humor. Underneath it all.

“Shall I do your nails?” I suggest. “I’ve got my stuff here.”

“Do my nails?” says Jess. “Becky… you realize we’re on a mountain.”

“Yes!” I say eagerly. “That’s the whole point! It’s extra-tough lacquer that lasts whatever you do. Look at this!” I show her the bottle of nail polish. “The model’s actually climbing a mountain in the picture.”

“Unbelievable,” says Jess, taking the bottle from me and peering at it. “And people fall for this?”

“Come on! What else are we going to do?” I pause innocently. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve got anything fun to do, like our accounts… ”

Jess’s eyes flash at me.

“OK,” she says. “You win. Do my nails.”

While the storm rages around us, we paint each other’s nails a bright sparkly pink.

“That’s great!” I say in admiration as Jess finishes my left hand. “You could be a manicurist!”

“Thanks,” she says dryly. “You’ve made my day.”

I wave my fingers in the torchlight, then get out my compact to admire my reflection.

“You need to learn to put one finger thoughtfully to your mouth,” I explain, demonstrating. “It’s the same when you get a new ring or bracelet. Just to let people see.” I offer her the mirror, but she turns away, her face closing up.

“No, thanks.”

I put away the compact, thinking hard. I want to ask her why she hates mirrors. But I have to put it tactfully.

“Jess…” I say at last.

“Yes?”

“Why do you hate mirrors?”

The only sound is the whistling of the wind. At last Jess lifts her head.

“I dunno,” she says. “I suppose because every time I looked into a mirror when I was young, my dad told me not to be vain.”

“Vain?” I look at her, wide-eyed. “What, every time?”

“Most of the time.” She shrugs, then sees my face. “Why? What did yours say?”

“My parents used to say…” Now I’m a bit embarrassed. “They used to say I was the most beautiful little angel who had ever fallen down from heaven.”

“Well.” Jess hunches her shoulders as though to say “Go figure.”

“God, you’re right,” I say suddenly. “I’ve been spoiled. My parents have always given me everything. I’ve never had to stand on my own two feet. Ever. I’ve always had people there for me. Mum and Dad… then Suze… then Luke.”

“I had to stand on my feet right from the word go,” says Jess. Her face is in the torch’s shadow, and I can’t make out her expression.

“He sounds quite… tough, your dad,” I say tentatively.

“Dad never really expressed emotion,” she says at last. “Never really told you when he was proud. He felt it,” she adds vehemently. “But in our family we don’t go blabbing about everything, the way you do.”

A sudden gust of wind loosens up a corner of the tent, blowing in a flurry of rain. Jess grabs the flap and reaches for a metal pin.

“I’m the same,” she says, banging the metal pin into the ground with a rock. “Just because I don’t say things doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.” She looks round and meets my eyes with a visible effort. “Becky, when I came to visit your flat, I didn’t mean to be unfriendly. Or… cold.”

“I should never have called you that,” I say in a flood of remorse. “I’m really sorry—”

“No,” Jess interrupts. “I’m sorry. I could have made more effort. I could have joined in.” She puts the rock down on the ground and gazes at it for a few seconds. “To be honest, I was a bit… unnerved by you.”