Shopaholic and Sister

Fourteen

I WAKE UP the next morning with a splitting headache, which could have something to do with the fact that I polished off an entire bottle of champagne myself last night, plus one and a half trays of chocolates. Meanwhile, Jess, Luke, and Gary spent hours around the computer. Even when I took them in some pizza, they barely looked up. So I just watched the whole of Pretty Woman and then half of Four Weddings and a Funeral, before going to bed on my own.

As I blearily put on a dressing gown, Luke is already showered and dressed in the “casual weekend” clothes he wears when he’s actually going to spend the whole time in the office.

“What time did you finish last night?” I ask, my throat all hoarse and croaky.

“Not till late.” Luke shakes his head. “Once we started discussing it, we couldn’t stop. Jess had a lot of ideas.”

“Right!” I try to sound enthusiastic.

“You know, I take it back about her,” he adds, tying up his shoelaces. “Your sister’s got a lot going for her. She couldn’t have been more helpful last night. She certainly knows her way around a computer!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. She’s great!” He stands up and gives me a kiss. “You were right. I’m very glad you invited her for the weekend.”

“Me too!” I say, forcing a bright smile. “We’re all having so much fun!”

I shuffle into the kitchen, where Jess is sitting at the counter in her jeans and a T-shirt, with a glass 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 muffins. 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, flashing 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 bloody 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.

Shit. What have I typed? Delete… retype… £200.50.

I jab SEND and the next screen comes up. User ID… password… 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. Shit.

“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 God’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 chores, 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 glass 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 bloody 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.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” comes a man’s voice. “I have a delivery of flowers for Brandon.”

I press the button 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 relationship 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 passionate kiss, and she’ll say something really humble like “I had no idea what a perfect relationship 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 God. 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 pass 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 Brandon

I was extremely sorry to hear of your illness. Please let me know if I can be of any help. And be assured, 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.

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 Saturday!”

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.

Shit.

“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 class.

“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 hassled and angry.

Option 2. Tell Luke something.

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

Oh God. 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 impassive 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 reassured 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. God, 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-shirt!

“What are you doing?” comes Jess’s sepulchral voice in my ear. Is she going to quiz me all the way round the bloody 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 classic, 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 shiny copy! And piss 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 bloody 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!”

“You can make three weeks’ worth of meals from that one sack,” says Jess, looking offended. “They’re the most economical, nutritious food you can buy. One potato alone—”

Please! Not another potato lecture.

“Where am I supposed to put them?” I interrupt. “I haven’t got a cupboard big enough.”

“There’s a cupboard in the hall,” says Jess. “You could use that. If you joined a warehouse club you could use it to store flour and oats, too.”

Oats? What do I want oats for? And anyway, clearly she hasn’t looked inside that cupboard.

“That’s my handbag cupboard,” I point out. “And it’s totally full.” Jess shrugs.

“You could get rid of some of your handbags.”

Is she seriously suggesting I should get rid of some of my handbags… for potatoes?

“Let’s carry on,” I say at last, and push the trolley forward as calmly as I can.

Stay polite. Stay gracious. She’ll be gone in twenty-four hours.

But as we progress round the store I am really starting to lose my cool. Jess’s voice is constantly droning in my ear like a bumblebee, on and on until I want to turn round and swat her.

You could make your own pizzas for half the price… Have you considered buying a secondhand slow-cooker?… Store-brand washing powder is 40p cheaper… You can use vinegar instead of fabric softener…

“I don’t want to use vinegar!” I almost snap. “I want to use fabric softener, OK?” I put a bottle of it into the trolley and stalk off toward the juice section, Jess following behind.

“Any comments?” I say as I load two cartons into the trolley. “Anything wrong with lovely, healthy orange juice?”

“No,” says Jess, shrugging. “Except you could get the same health benefits from a glass of tap water and a cheap bottle of vitamin C tablets.”

OK. Now I seriously want to slap her.

Defiantly I dump another two cartons in my trolley, yank it round, and make for the bread section. There’s a delicious smell of baking in the air, and as I get near I see a woman at a counter, demonstrating something to a small crowd of people. She’s got a shiny chrome gadget plugged into the wall, and as she opens it up, it’s full of heart-shaped waffles, all golden brown and yummy-looking.

“The waffle-maker is quick and easy to use!” she’s saying. “Wake up every morning to the smell of fresh waffles baking.”

God, wouldn’t that be great? I have a sudden vision of me and Luke in bed, eating heart-shaped waffles and maple syrup, with big frothy cappuccinos.

“The waffle-maker normally costs £49.99,” the woman is saying. “But today we are selling it at a special reduced price of… £25. That’s 50 percent off.”

Fifty percent off? OK, I have to have one.

“Yes, please!” I say, and push my trolley forward.

“What are you doing?” says Jess.

“I’m buying a waffle-maker, obviously.” I roll my eyes. “Can you get out of my way?”

“No!” says Jess, planting herself firmly in front of the trolley. “I’m not going to let you waste twenty-five pounds on a gadget you don’t need.”

I’m outraged. How does she know what I do or don’t need?

“I do need a waffle-maker!” I retort. “It’s on my list of things I need. In fact, Luke said only the other day, ‘What this house really needs is a waffle-maker.’ ”

Which, OK, is a bit of a stretch. What he really said was “Is there anything for breakfast except Coco Pops?”

But he might have done. How would she know he didn’t?

“Plus I’m saving money, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I push the trolley round her. “It’s a bargain!”

“It’s not a bargain if you don’t need one!” She grabs the trolley and tries to haul it back.

“Get your hands off my trolley!” I say indignantly. “I need a waffle-maker! And I can easily afford it! Easily! I’ll take one,” I add to the woman, and take a box off the table.

“No, she won’t,” says Jess, grabbing it out of my arms.

What? What?

“I’m only doing it for your own good, Becky! You’re addicted to spending! You have to learn how to say no!”

“I can say no!” I practically spit in fury. “I can say no whenever I like! I’m just not choosing to say it right now! I will take one,” I say to the nervous-looking woman. “In fact, I’ll take two. I can give one to Mum for Christmas.”

I snatch two more boxes and defiantly put them in my trolley.

“So you’re just going to waste fifty pounds, are you?” says Jess contemptuously. “Just throw away money you don’t have.”

“I’m not throwing it away.”

“Yes, you are!”

“I’m bloody not!” I retort. “And I do have the money. I have plenty of money.”

“You’re living in a total fantasyland!” Jess suddenly shouts. “You have money until you run out of stuff to sell. But what happens then? And what happens when Luke finds out what you’ve been doing? You’re just storing up trouble!”

“I’m not storing up trouble!” I lash back angrily.

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I’m no—”

“Will you two sisters just stop fighting for once!” interrupts an exasperated woman’s voice, and we both jump.

I look around in bewilderment. Mum isn’t here, is she?

Then suddenly I spot the woman who spoke. She isn’t even looking at us. She’s addressing a pair of toddlers in a trolley seat.

Oh.

I push the hair back off my hot face, suddenly feeling a bit shamefaced. I glance over at Jess — and she’s looking rather shamefaced too.

“Let’s go and pay,” I say in dignified tones, and push the trolley on.

We drive home without exchanging a word, but underneath my calm exterior I’m seething. Who does she think she is, lecturing me? Who does she think she is, telling me I have a problem?

We get home and unload the shopping with minimal communication. We barely even look each other in the eye.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I say with exaggerated formality as I put the last packet away.

“No, thanks,” she replies with equal formality.

“I’ll just busy myself in the kitchen, if you can amuse yourself for a while.”

“Fine.”

She disappears into her room and the next moment comes out again holding a book called Petrography of British Igneous Rocks.

Boy, she really knows how to have fun.

As she sits down on a bar stool I flick on the kettle and get down a couple of mugs. A few moments later Luke wanders in, looking harassed.

“Hi, darling!” I say, injecting even more warmth into my voice than usual. “I got us a lovely waffle-maker! We can have waffles every morning!”

“Excellent!” he says distractedly, and I shoot a glance of vindication at Jess.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Er… yes. Thanks.” He rubs his brow and peers behind the kitchen door. Then he looks on top of the fridge.

“Are you OK?” I say. “Is anything wrong?”

“I’ve lost something.” He frowns. “It’s ridiculous. Things can’t just vanish.”

“What is it?” I say sympathetically. “I’ll help you look.”

“Don’t worry.” Luke shakes his head. “It’s just a work thing. It’ll turn up. It can’t have disappeared out of the apartment.”

“But I want to help!” I run an affectionate hand along his shoulders. “I’ve already told you that, darling. Tell me what you’re looking for, and we’ll search as a team. Is it a file… or a book… some papers…”

“That’s kind of you.” He kisses me. “Actually, it’s nothing like that. It’s a box of clocks. From Tiffany. Ten of them.”

My breath catches in my throat.

Across the room I’m aware of Jess lifting her head out of her book.

“Did you say… Tiffany clocks?” I manage.

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “You know we’re hosting a big dinner with the Arcodas Group tomorrow night? It’s all part of the pitch. We’re basically trying to butter them up. So I bought a load of clocks as corporate gifts — and I don’t know what the fuck has happened to them. One minute they were here… the next, they’d vanished!”

I can feel Jess’s eyes on me like laser beams.

“That’s a lot of clocks to go missing,” she says tonelessly.

I’m swallowing hard. How can I have sold Luke’s corporate gifts? How can I have been so stupid? I mean, I thought I didn’t remember buying them on honeymoon…

“Maybe I put them down in the garage.” Luke reaches for his keys. “I’ll go and have a look.”

Oh God. I have to confess.

“Luke…” I say in a tiny voice. “Luke, please don’t get angry… ”

“What?” He swivels on his heel — and as he sees my face he’s suddenly alert. “What is it?”

“Well.” I lick my dry lips. “I might possibly have…”

“What?” His eyes are narrowing. “What might you have done, Becky?”

“Sold them,” I whisper.

“Sold them?”

“You wanted me to declutter the place! I didn’t know how to do it! We had too much stuff! So I’ve been selling everything on eBay. And I… I sold the clocks too. By mistake.”

I’m biting my lip, half hoping Luke might smile, or even laugh, but he just looks deeply fed up.

“Jesus Christ, Becky. We are up to our fucking eyes. We really need this kind of hassle.” He reaches for his mobile, jabs in a number, and listens for a few seconds. “Hi, Marie? We’ve got a small problem with the Arcodas Group dinner tomorrow night. Call me back.” He snaps his phone shut and the only sound in the kitchen is the kettle coming to the boil.

“I didn’t know!” I say desperately. “If you’d told me they were corporate gifts… If you’d let me help—”

“Help?” Luke cuts me off. “Becky, you have to be kidding.”

Shaking his head, he stalks out of the room.

I look over at Jess. I can see “I told you” in a big thought bubble above her head. A moment later, she gets up and follows him into the study.

“If I can do anything,” I hear her saying in a low voice, “just let me know.”

“It’s fine,” he replies. “But thanks.”

Jess says something else, but now her voice is muffled. She must have closed the door.

Suddenly I have to know what she’s saying. I tiptoe to the door of the kitchen, then creep out to the hall, edging as close as I can to the study door, then press my ear against it.

“I don’t know how you can live with her,” Jess is saying, and I feel a jolt of indignant shock. How can she say that? She’s only just met me!

I can’t move, I can’t breathe, waiting for Luke’s response.

“It’s difficult,” comes Luke’s voice at last.

Something cold plunges into my heart.

Luke finds it difficult to live with me.

There’s a noise as if someone’s coming toward the door, and I leap back in fright. I hurry back to the kitchen and close the door, my eyes hot with tears.

We’ve only been married eleven months. How can he find it difficult to live with me?

The kettle’s come to a boil, but I don’t want tea anymore. I open the fridge, get out a half-open bottle of wine, and slosh some into a glass. I drain the entire thing in three gulps, and am refilling the glass as Jess comes back into the kitchen.

“Hi,” she says. “It seems like Luke’s sorted out the gift problem.”

“Great,” I say tightly, and take another swig of wine.

So she and Luke sort everything out now, do they? She and Luke have little conversations which I’m not invited to. As I watch her sit down and open her book again, a great tide of anger and hurt starts welling up inside me.

“I would have thought you might take my side.” I’m trying to sound calm. “We are supposed to be sisters, after all.”

“What do you mean?” Jess frowns.

“You could have defended me!”

“Defended you?” Jess looks up. “You think I’m going to defend you when you’re that irresponsible?”

“So I’m irresponsible,” I say, a little savagely. “And you’re perfect, I suppose.”

“I’m not perfect! But yes! You’re irresponsible!” Jess claps her book shut. “Frankly, Becky, I think you need to get your act together. You seem to have no idea of personal duty… You’re obsessed with spending money… you lie—”

“Well, you’re a misery!” My words come out in a roar. “You’re a skinflint miserable cow who doesn’t know how to have a good time!”

“What?” Jess looks utterly dumbfounded.

“I made every effort this weekend!” I cry. “I did everything I could to make you welcome, and you wouldn’t join in with anything! OK, so you don’t like When Harry Met Sally. But you could have pretended!”

“So you’d rather I was insincere?” says Jess, folding her arms. “You’d rather I lied? That just about sums you up, Becky.”

“It’s not lying to pretend you like something!” I shout in frustration. “I just wanted us to have a good time together! I did research, and I planned your room and everything… and you’re so cold! It’s like you don’t have any feelings!”

Suddenly I feel close to tears. I can’t believe I’m yelling at my sister. I can’t believe things have disintegrated this badly. I break off and take a few deep breaths, trying to regroup. Maybe I can retrieve things. Maybe we can still make it work.

“The thing is, Jess… I did it all because I wanted us to be friends,” I say. And it’s true. I really did. “I just wanted us to be friends.”

I expect to see her face softening, but if anything she looks more contemptuous than before.

“And you always have to get what you want,” she says. “Don’t you, Becky?”

I feel my face flame.

“Wh-What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re spoiled!” Her harsh voice cuts like a knife. “What you want, you get! Everything’s handed to you on a plate. If you get into trouble your parents bail you out, and if they don’t, Luke does! Your whole life makes me sick.” She gestures with her book. “It’s empty! You’re shallow and materialistic… and I’ve never met anyone so obsessed with their own appearance and shopping—”

“Talk about obsessed!” I shriek. “Talk about obsessed! You’re obsessed with saving money! I’ve never met anyone so bloody miserly! You’ve got thirty grand in the bank and you go around like you’re penniless! Getting free bubble wrap and horrible bruised bananas! Who cares if washing powder costs forty pence less?”

“You’d care if you’d been buying your own washing powder since the age of fourteen,” Jess snaps back. “Maybe if you took a little more care of the forty pence here and there you wouldn’t get into trouble. I heard about how you nearly ruined Luke in New York. I just don’t understand you!”

“Well, I don’t understand you!” I yell, in tears. “I was so excited when I heard I had a sister, I thought we’d bond and be friends. I thought we could go shopping, and have fun… and eat peppermint creams on each other’s beds… ”

“Peppermint creams?” Jess looks at me as though I’m crazy. “Why would we want to eat peppermint creams?”

“Because!” I flail my arms in frustration. “Because it would be fun! You know, ‘fun’?”

“I know how to have fun,” she snaps.

“Reading about rocks?” I grab Petrography of British Igneous Rocks. “How can rocks be interesting? They’re just… rocks! They’re the most boring hobby in the world! Which just about suits you!”

Jess gasps. “Rocks are… not boring!” she lashes back, grabbing her book. “They’re a lot more interesting than peppermint creams and mindless shopping and getting yourself into debt!”

“Did you have a fun bypass operation or something?”

“Did you have a responsibility bypass operation?” yells Jess. “Or were you just born a spoiled brat?”

We glare at each other, both trying to collect ourselves. The kitchen is silent apart from the whir of the fridge-freezer.

I’m not entirely sure what the Gracious Hostess is supposed to do in this situation.

Jess’s chin tightens. “Well… I don’t think there’s any point in my sticking around. I can catch a coach back to Cumbria if I leave now.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll get my stuff.”

“You do that.”

She turns on her heel and leaves the kitchen, and I take another swig of wine. My head is pounding.

She can’t be my sister. She can’t be. She’s a miserable, tightwad, sanctimonious cow, and I never want to see her again.

Never.

The Cindy Blaine Show

Cindy Blaine TV Productions

43 Hammersmith Bridge Road

London W6 8TH

Mrs Rebecca Brandon

37 Maida Vale Mansions

Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

22 May 2003

Dear Mrs Brandon:

Thank you for your message.

We are sorry to hear you will no longer be able to appear on the Cindy Blaine show “I Found a Sister and a Soul Mate.”

May we suggest that you appear instead on our upcoming show “My Sister Is a Bitch!!!” Please give me a call if this idea appeals to you.

Very best wishes,

Kayleigh Stuart

Assistant Producer

(mobile: 077878 3456789)

FINERMAN WALLSTEIN

Attorneys-at-Law

Finerman House

1398 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10105

Mrs. Rebecca Brandon

37 Maida Vale Mansions

Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

May 27, 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon:

Thank you for your message. I have altered your will according to your instructions. Clause 5, section (f) now reads:

“And nothing at all to Jess, since she’s so mean. And anyway, she’s got heaps of money.”

With kind regards,

Jane Cardozo