Sophie Kinsella - Shopaholic and sister

Out of the corner of my eye I can see a guy picking up the bundle of twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns. Shit.

I think I have to get Luke away from these lorries as soon as possible.

“We’ll sort it all out,” I say quickly. “I promise. But now, why don’t you go upstairs and have a nice drink? You just relax! And I’ll stay down here and do the supervising.”

An hour later it’s all finished. The men close up the lorries and I hand them a hefty tip. As they roar away I look over to see Luke coming out the front door of the building.

“Hi!” I say. “Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“Do you want to come upstairs a minute?” Luke says in a strange voice.

As we travel up in the lift I smile at Luke a couple of times, but he doesn’t smile back.

“So… did you put all the stuff in the sitting room?” I say as we approach the front door. “Or in the—”

My voice dies away as the door swings open.

Oh my God.

Luke’s flat is totally unrecognizable.

The beige carpet has disappeared under a sea of parcels, trunks, and pieces of furniture. The hall is crammed with boxes which I recognize from the outlet in Utah, plus the batik paintings from Bali and the two Chinese urns. I edge past them into the sitting room, and gulp as I look around. There are packages everywhere. Rolled-up kilims and dhurries are propped up in one corner. In another, the Indonesian gamelan is jostling for space with a slate coffee table turned on its side and a Native American totem pole.

I’m sensing it’s my turn to speak.

“Gosh!” I give a little laugh. “There are quite a lot of… rugs, aren’t there?”

“Seventeen,” says Luke, still in the same strange voice. “I’ve counted.” He steps over a bamboo coffee table which I got in Thailand and looks at the label of a large wooden chest. “This box apparently contains forty mugs.” He looks up. “Forty mugs?”

“I know it sounds like a lot,” I say quickly. “But they were only about 50p each! It was a bargain! We’ll never need to buy mugs ever again!”

Luke regards me for a moment.

“Becky, I never want to buy anything ever again.”

“Look…” I try to step toward him but bump my knee on a painted wooden statue of Ganesh, the god of wisdom and success. “It’s… it’s not that bad! I know it seems like a lot. But it’s like… an optical illusion. Once it’s all unpacked, and we put it all away… it’ll look great!”

“We have five coffee tables,” says Luke, ignoring me. “Were you aware of that?”

“Er… well.” I clear my throat. “Not exactly. So we might have to… rationalize a bit.”

“Rationalize?” Luke looks around the room incredulously. “Rationalize this lot? It’s a mess!”

“Maybe it looks a bit of a mishmash at the moment,” I say hurriedly. “But I can pull it all together! I can make it work! It’ll be our signature look. If we just do some mood boards—”

“Becky,” Luke interrupts. “Would you like to know what mood I’m in right now?”

“Er…”

I watch nervously as Luke shifts two packages from Guatemala aside and sinks down on the sofa.

“What I want to know is… how did you pay for all this?” he asks, wrinkling his brow. “I had a quick check through our bills, and there’s no record of any Chinese urns. Or giraffes. Or tables from Copenhagen…” He gives me a hard look. “What’s been going on, Becky?”

I’m totally pinned. Even if I did want to run, I’d probably skewer myself on Ganesh’s pointy fingers.

“Well.” I can’t quite meet his eye. “I do have this… this credit card.”

“The one you keep hidden in your bag?” says Luke without missing a beat. “I checked that too.”

Oh God.

There’s no way out of this.

“Actually… not that one.” I swallow hard. “Another one.”

“Another one?” Luke is staring at me. “You have a second secret credit card?”

“It’s just for emergencies! Everyone has the odd emergency—”

“What, emergency silk dressing gowns? Emergency Indonesian gamelans?”

There’s silence. I can’t quite reply. My fingers are all twisted in knots behind my back.

“So… you’ve been paying it off secretly, is that it?” He looks at my agonized face and his expression changes. “You haven’t been paying it off?”

“The thing is…” My fingers twist even tighter. “They gave me quite a big limit.”

“For God’s sake, Becky—”

“It’s OK! I’ll pay it off! You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of it—”

“With what?” retorts Luke.

My face flames with humiliation. I know I’m not earning right now. But he doesn’t have to rub it in.

“When I start my job,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I am going to have an income, you know, Luke. I’m not some kind of freeloader.”

Luke looks at me for a few moments, then sighs.

“I know,” he says gently. He holds out his hand. “Come here.”

After a moment I pick my way across the crowded floor to the sofa. I find a tiny space to sit down and he puts his arm round me. For a while we both look silently at the ocean of clutter. It’s like we’re two survivors on a desert island.

“Becky, we can’t carry on like this,” Luke says at last. “Do you know how much our honeymoon cost us?”

“Er… no.”

Suddenly it strikes me that I have absolutely no idea what anything has cost. It was me who bought the round-the-world airline tickets, but apart from that, Luke’s been doing all the paying, all the way along.

Has our honeymoon ruined us?

I glance sideways at Luke — and for the first time see how stressed he looks.

Oh God. We’ve lost all our money and Luke’s been trying to hide it from me.

I suddenly feel like the wife in It’s a Wonderful Life when James Stewart comes home and snaps at the children. Even though we’re on the brink of financial disgrace, it’s my role to be brave and serene.

“Luke… are we very poor?” I ask, as calmly as I can.

Luke turns his head and looks at me.

“No, Becky,” he says patiently. “We’re not very poor. But we will be if you keep buying mountains of crap.”

Mountains of crap? I’m about to make an indignant retort when I see his expression. Instead, I close my mouth and nod humbly.

“So I think…” Luke pauses. “I think we need to institute a budget.”

A BUDGET.

This is OK. I can handle a budget. Easily. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be quite liberating, knowing exactly how much I can spend.

Plus everyone knows, the point about budgets is that you make them work for you. Exactly.

“So… how much is my budget for today?” I say, hovering by the study door. It’s about an hour later and Luke is searching for something in his desk. He looks a bit stressed.

“I’m sorry?” he says without looking up.

“I was just wondering what my budget is for today. About twenty pounds?”

“I guess so,” Luke says distractedly.

“So… can I have it?”

“What?”

“Can I have my twenty pounds?”

Luke stares at me for a moment as though I’m completely mad, then takes his wallet out of his pocket, gets out a twenty-pound note, and hands it to me. “OK?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

I look at the note. Twenty pounds. That’s my challenge. I feel like some wartime housewife being given her ration book.

It’s a very weird feeling, not having my own income. Or a job. For three months. How am I going to survive three whole months? Should I get some other job to fill the space? Maybe this is a great opportunity, it occurs to me. I could try something completely new!

I have a sudden image of myself as a landscape gardener. I could buy some really cool Wellingtons and specialize in shrubs.

Or… yes! I could start up some company offering a unique service that no one has ever provided, and make millions! Everyone would say “Becky’s a genius! Why didn’t we think of that?” And the unique service would be—

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… ”

I wait till the list comes to an end and a beep sounds.