Shopaholic And Sister Part 35

"Luke . . . I'm sorry." At last I've found my voice, even if it is all shaky. "I'm sorry I've been such a disappointment to you." I raise my head, trying to keep a grip on myself. "But if you really want to know . . . you've been a disappointment to me too. You've changed. You were fun on our honeymoon. You were fun and you were laid-back and you were kind. . . ."

Suddenly I have a memory of Luke as he was. Sitting on his yoga mat with his bleached plaits and his earring. Smiling at me in the Sri Lankan sunshine. Reaching over to take my hand.

I feel an unbearable yearning for that easy, happy man, who bears no resemblance to the stressed corporate animal standing in front of me.

"You're different." The words come out in a sob and I can feel a tear trickling down my cheek. "You've gone back to the way you used to be before. The way you promised you'd never be again." I wipe away the tear roughly. "This isn't what I thought married life would be like, Luke."

"Nor me," says Luke. There's a familiar wryness to his voice, but he isn't smiling. "I have to go. Bye, Becky."

A few moments later I hear the front door slam.

I sink down onto the floor and bury my face in my knees. And he didn't even kiss me goodbye.

For a while I don't move. I just sit there in the hall, hugging my knees. Our marriage is in tatters. And it hasn't even been a year.

At last I rouse myself and get stiffly to my feet. I feel numb and s.p.a.ced-out. Slowly I walk into the silent, empty dining room, where our carved wooden table from Sri Lanka is standing proudly in the middle of the room.

The sight of it makes me want to cry all over again. I had such dreams for that table. I had such dreams of what our married life was going to be like. All the visions are piling back into my head: the glow of candlelight, me ladling out hearty stew, Luke smiling at me lovingly, all our friends gathered round the table. . . .

Suddenly I feel an overwhelming, almost physical longing. I have to talk to Suze. I have to hear her sympathetic voice. She'll know what to do. She always does.

I hurry, almost running, to the phone and jab in the number.

"h.e.l.lo?" It's answered by a high-pitched woman's voice-but it's not Suze.

"Hi!" I say, taken aback. "It's Becky here. Is that-"

"It's Lulu speaking! Hi, Becky! How are you?"

Her abrasive voice is like sandpaper on my nerves.

"I'm fine," I say. "Is Suze there, by any chance?"

"She's just putting the twins into their car seats, actually! We're off for a picnic, to Marsham House. Do you know it?"

"Er . . ." I rub my face. "No. I don't."

"Oh, you should definitely visit it! Cosmo! Sweetie! Not on your Pet.i.t Bateau overalls! It's a super National Trust house. And wonderful for the children, too. There's a b.u.t.terfly farm!"

"Right," I manage. "Great."

"I'll get her to call back in two secs, OK?"

"Thanks," I say in relief. "That would be great. Just tell her . . . I really need to talk to her."

I wander over to the window, press my face against the gla.s.s, and stare down at the pa.s.sing traffic below. The traffic light at the corner turns red and all the cars come to a halt. It turns green again and they all zoom off in a tearing hurry. Then they turn red again-and a new set of cars come to a stop.

Suze hasn't called. It's been more than two secs.

She isn't going to call. She lives in a different world now. A world of Pet.i.t Bateau overalls and picnics and b.u.t.terfly farms. There's no room for me and my stupid problems.

My head feels thick and heavy with disappointment. I know Suze and I haven't been getting on that well recently. But I thought . . . I honestly thought . . .

Maybe I could call Danny. Except . . . I've left about six messages for him and he's never returned any of them.

Never mind. It doesn't matter. I'll just have to pull myself together on my own.

What I will do is . . . I will make myself a cup of tea. Yes. And take it from there. With as much determination as I can muster I walk to the kitchen. I flick on the kettle, drop a tea bag in a mug, and open the fridge.

No milk.

For an instant I feel like falling to the floor again and crying till nightfall. But instead I take a deep breath and lift my chin. Fine. I'll go and buy some milk. And stock up generally. It'll be good to get some fresh air and take my mind off things.

I pick up my Angel bag, slick on some lip gloss, and head out of the apartment. I walk briskly out the gates and down the street, past the weird shop with all the gold furniture, and into the delicatessen on the corner.

The moment I get inside I start to feel a bit more steady. It's so warm and soothing in here, with the most delicious smell of coffee and cheese and whichever soup they're cooking that day. All the a.s.sistants wear long striped ticking ap.r.o.ns, and look like they're genuine French cheese-makers.

I pick up a wicker basket, head to the milk counter, and load in a couple of pints of organic semi-skimmed. Then my eye falls on a pot of luxury Greek yogurt. Maybe I'll buy myself a few little treats to cheer myself up. I put the yogurt into my basket, along with some individual chocolate mousses. Then I reach for a gorgeous handblown gla.s.s jar of gourmet brandied cherries.

That's a waste of money, a voice intones in my head. You don't even like brandied cherries.

It sounds a bit like Jess's. Weird. And anyway, I do like brandied cherries. Kind of.

I shake my head irritably and thrust the jar into my basket, then move along to the next display and reach for a mini olive-and-anchovy focaccia pizza.

Overpriced rubbish, comes the voice in my head. You could make it yourself at home for 20p.

Shut up, I retort mentally. No, I couldn't. Go away.

I dump the pizza in my basket, then move along the displays more swiftly, putting in punnets of white peaches, miniature pears, several cheeses, dark chocolate truffles, a French strawberry gateau. . . .

But Jess's voice is constantly in my head.

You're throwing money away. What happened to the budget? You think indulging yourself like this will bring Luke back?

"Stop it!" I say aloud, feeling rattled. G.o.d, I'm going crazy. Defiantly I shove three tins of Russian caviar into my overflowing basket and stagger to the checkout. I drop the basket down on the counter and reach inside my bag for my credit card.

As the girl behind the till starts unloading all my stuff, she smiles at me.

"The gateau's delicious," she says, carefully packing it into a box. "And so are the white peaches. And caviar!" She looks impressed. "Are you having a dinner party?"

"No!" I say, taken aback. "I'm not having a dinner party. I'm just . . . I'm . . ."

All of a sudden I feel like a fool. I look at my piles of stupid, overpriced food bleeping through the register and feel my face flame. What am I doing? What am I buying all this stuff for? I don't need it. Jess is right.

Jess is right.

The very thought makes me wince. I don't want to think about Jess.

But I can't help it. I can't escape the thoughts wheeling round in my head like big black crows. Out of nowhere I hear Luke's voice. She's a good person . . . she's honest, reliable, and hardworking. . . . you could learn a lot from your sister. . . .

You could learn a lot from your sister.

And suddenly it hits me like a bolt of lightning. Oh my G.o.d. This is the answer.

"That'll be a hundred and thirty pounds, seventy-three pence," says the girl behind the checkout.

"I-I have to go," I say. "Now."

"But your food!" says the girl.

"I don't need any of it."

I turn and stumble out of the shop, still clutching my credit card in my hand. It's all fallen into place. I must go and learn from Jess.

Like Yoda.

I'll be her apprentice and she'll teach me all her frugal ways. She'll show me how to become a good person, the kind of person that Luke wants. And I'll learn how to save my marriage.

She tried to help me before and I didn't listen. But this time I'll be grateful. I'll pay attention to every word she says.

I start walking along the street more and more quickly, until I'm breaking into a run. I have to go to c.u.mbria. Right this minute.

I sprint all the way home, and up about three flights of stairs before I realize my lungs are nearly exploding and I'm never going to make it all the way up to the penthouse. Puffing like a steam engine, I sit down for a few minutes, then take the lift up the rest of the way. I burst into the apartment and run to the bedroom, where I pull a bright red leather suitcase out from under the bed and start throwing things randomly into it, like they do on the telly. A T-shirt . . . some underwear . . . a pair of turquoise pumps with diamante buckles . . . I mean, it doesn't matter what I take, does it? I just have to get up there and build bridges with Jess.

At last I snap the case shut and haul it off the bed. I grab a jacket, wheel the case down the hall and out onto the landing, then turn and double-lock the front door. I take one last look at it, then step into the lift, feeling strong with a new resolve. Everything's going to change from this moment on. My new life starts here. Off I go, to learn what's really important in- Oh. I forgot my hair straighteners.

Instinctively I jab at the halt b.u.t.ton. The lift, which was about to descend, gives a kind of grumpy little b.u.mp but stays put.

I can't possibly go without my hair straighteners. And my Kiehl's lip balm.

OK, I might have to rethink the whole it-doesn't-matter-what-you-take strategy.

I hurry back out of the lift, unlock the front door, and head back into the bedroom. I haul another case out from under the bed, this one bright lime green, and start tossing things into that too.

Finally I pick up my Angel bag. And as I glimpse my reflection in the mirror, with no warning, Luke's voice resounds through my head: I just hope the handbag was worth it, Becky.

I stop still. For a few moments I feel a bit sick.

I almost feel like leaving it behind.

Which would be just ridiculous. How can I leave behind my most prized possession?

I heft it over my shoulder, trying to recapture the desire and excitement I felt when I first saw it. It's an Angel bag, I remind myself defiantly. I have the most coveted item in existence. People are fighting over these. There are waiting lists all over the world.

I shift uncomfortably. Somehow it feels heavier on my shoulder than before. Which is very weird. A bag can't just get heavier, can it?

Oh, right. I put my mobile phone charger in there. That's why.

OK. Enough of this. I'm going, and I'm taking the bag with me.

I descend to the ground floor and wheel the cases out of the gates. A lit-up taxi comes barreling along, and I stick out my hand. I load in my cases, feeling suddenly rather stirred up by what I'm planning to do.

"Euston Station, please," I say to the driver, my voice catching in my throat. "I'm going to reconcile with my long-lost-found-then-estranged sister."

The driver eyes me, unmoved.

"Is that the back entrance you want, love?"

Honestly. You'd think taxi drivers would have some sense of drama. You'd think they'd learn it at taxi school.

The roads are clear, and we arrive at Euston in about ten minutes. As I totter toward the ticket booth, dragging my cases behind me, I feel as though I'm in some old black-and-white movie. There should be clouds of steam everywhere, and the shriek and whistle of trains, and I should be wearing a well-cut tweed suit and fur stole, with marcelled hair.

"A ticket to c.u.mbria, please," I say with a throb of emotion, and drop a fifty-pound note on the counter.

This is where a lantern-jawed man should notice me and offer me a c.o.c.ktail, or get grit out of my eye. Instead, a woman in an orange nylon uniform is regarding me as though I'm a moron.

"c.u.mbria?" she says. "Where in c.u.mbria?"

Oh. That's a point. Does Jess's village even have a station?

Suddenly I have a blinding flash of memory. When I first met Jess, she talked about coming down from- "North Coggenthwaite. A return, please. But I don't know when I'm coming back." I smile bravely. "I'm going to reconcile with my long-lost-found-"

The woman cuts me off unsympathetically.

"That'll be a hundred and seventy-seven pounds."

What? How much? I could fly to Paris for that.

"Er . . . here you are," I say, handing over some of my Tiffany clock cash.

"Platform nine. Train leaves in five minutes."

"Right. Thanks."

I turn and start walking briskly over the concourse to platform nine. But as the huge intercity train comes into view, my confidence wanes a little. People are streaming round me, hugging friends, hefting luggage, and banging carriage doors.