Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4)

Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) Page 36

It would consist of—

OK, I’ll come back to that one.

Then, as I watch Luke putting some papers in a Brandon Communications folder, I’m seized by a brilliant idea. Of course. I can help him in his work!

I mean, that’s the whole point of marriage! It should be a partnership. I can get totally involved in the running of his company, like Hillary Clinton, and everyone will know it’s really me who has all the good ideas. I have a vision of myself standing by Luke’s side in a pastel suit, beaming radiantly while ticker tape rains down on us.

“Luke, listen,” I say. “I want to help.”

“Help?” He looks up with an absent frown.

“I want to help you out with the business.”

“Becky, I’m not sure—”

“I really want to support you, and I’m free for three months! It’s perfect! You wouldn’t even have to pay me very much.”

Luke looks slightly gobsmacked.

“What exactly would you do?”

“Well… I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I could inject some new thoughts. Maybe on marketing. Like the time I came up with that slogan for Foreland Investments. You said I was really useful then. And when I came on that press tour to France, and I rewrote that media release for you? Remember that?”

Luke’s barely listening.

“Sweetheart, we’re really busy with this Arcodas pitch. I haven’t got time to take you in. Maybe after the pitch is over—”

“It wouldn’t take time!” I say in astonishment. “I’d save you time! I’d be a help! You once offered me a job, remember?”

“I know I did. But taking on a real, full-time job is a bit different from filling in for three months. If you want to change careers, that’s different.” He goes back to sorting through his papers.

He is making a big mistake. Everyone knows companies have to cross-pollinate with other industries. My personal shopping experience would probably be invaluable to him. Not to mention my background as a financial journalist.

As I’m watching, Luke tries to put a file away and bumps his shin on a wooden carton full of saris.

“Jesus Christ,” he says irritably. “Becky, if you really want to help me…”

“Yes?” I say eagerly.

“You can tidy up this apartment.”

Here I am, prepared to devote myself to Luke’s company, and he thinks I should tidy up.

I heft a wooden carton onto the slate coffee table and prize the lid off with a knife, and white foam peanuts cascade out everywhere like snowflakes. I dig in through the foam and pull out a bubble-wrapped parcel. For a few seconds I peer at it blankly — then suddenly I remember. These are the handpainted eggs from Japan. Each one depicts a scene from the legend of the Dragon King. I think I bought five.

I wipe my brow and glance at my watch. I’ve been at it now for a whole hour, and to be honest, the room doesn’t look any better than before. In fact… it looks worse. As I survey the clutter, I’m suddenly full of gloom.

What I need is a cup of coffee. Yes.

I head out to the kitchen, already feeling lighter, and turn the kettle on. And maybe I’ll have a biscuit, too. I open one of the stainless-steel cupboards, find the tin, select a biscuit, and put the tin away again. Every single movement makes a little clanging sound that echoes through the silence.

God, it’s quiet in here, isn’t it? We need to get a radio.

I trail my fingers over the granite work-top with a gusty sigh. Maybe I’ll give Mum a ring and have a nice chat. Except she’s still being all weird. I tried phoning home the other day and she sounded all shifty, and said she had to go because the chimney sweep was there. Like we’ve ever had a chimney sweep in all my life. She probably had people viewing the house or something.

I could phone Suze…

No. Not Suze.

Or Danny! Danny was my best friend when we lived in New York. He was a struggling fashion designer then, but all of a sudden he’s doing really well. I’ve even seen his name in Vogue! But I haven’t spoken to him since we got back.

It’s not a great time to be calling New York — but that’s OK. Danny never keeps regular hours. I dial his number and wait impatiently as it rings.

“Greetings!”

“Hi!” I say. “Danny, it’s—”

“Welcome to the ever-expanding Danny Kovitz empire!”

Oh, right. It’s a machine.

“For Danny’s fashion tips… press one. To receive a catalog… press two. If you wish to send Danny a gift or invite him to a party, press three… ”