Shopaholic and Sister

Two

OK, I CANNOT believe Luke was planning to come to Milan without me. How could he come here without me? I was made for Milan.

No. Not Milan, Milano.

I haven’t actually seen much of the city yet except for a taxi and our hotel room — but for a world traveler like me, that doesn’t actually matter. You can pick up the vibe of a place in an instant, like bushmen in the wild. And as soon as I looked round the hotel foyer at all those chic women in Prada and D&G, kissing each other while simultaneously downing espressos, lighting cigarettes, and flinging their shiny hair about, I just knew, with a natural instinct: this is my kind of city.

I take a gulp of room-service cappuccino and glance across at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Honestly, I look Italian! All I need is some capri pants and dark eyeliner. And maybe a Vespa.

“Ciao,” I say casually, and flick my hair back. “Sì. Ciao.”

I could so be Italian. Except I might need to learn a few more words.

“Sì.” I nod at myself. “Sì. Milano.”

Maybe I’ll practice by reading the paper. I open the free copy of Corriere della Sera, which arrived with our breakfast, and start perusing the lines of text. The first story is all about the president washing his piano. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what presidente and lavoro pieno must mean.

“You know, Luke, I could really live in Italy,” I say as he comes out of the bathroom. “I mean, it’s the perfect country. It has everything! Cappuccinos… yummy food… Everyone’s so elegant… You can get Gucci cheaper than at home… ”

“And the art,” says Luke, deadpan. “Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, for instance.”

I was just about to mention the art.

“Well, obviously the art,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I mean, the art goes without saying.”

I flick over a page of Corriere della Sera and briskly skim the headlines. Then my brain suddenly clicks.

I put the paper down and stare at Luke again.

What’s happened to him?

I’m looking at the Luke Brandon I used to know back when I was a financial journalist. He’s completely clean-shaven, and dressed in an immaculate suit, with a pale green shirt and darker green tie. He’s wearing proper shoes and proper socks. His earring is gone. His bracelet is gone. The only vestige of our travels is his hair, which is still in tiny plaits.

I can feel a bubble of dismay growing inside. I liked him the way he was, all laid-back and disheveled.

“You’ve… smartened up a bit!” I say. “Where’s your bracelet?”

“In my suitcase.”

“But the woman in the Masai Mara said we must never take them off!” I say in shock. “She said that special Masai prayer!”

“Becky…” Luke sighs. “I can’t go into a meeting with an old bit of rope round my wrist.”

Old bit of rope? That was a sacred bracelet, and he knows it.

“You’ve still got your plaits!” I retort. “If you can have plaits, you can have a bracelet!”

“I’m not keeping my plaits!” Luke looks incredulous. “I’ve got a haircut booked in”—he consults his watch—“ten minutes.”

A haircut?

This is all too fast. I can’t bear the idea of Luke’s sun-bleached hair being snipped off and falling to the floor. Our honeymoon hair, all gone.

“Luke, don’t,” I say, before I can stop myself. “You can’t.”

“What’s wrong?” Luke turns and looks at me more closely. “Becky, are you OK?”

No. I’m not OK.

“You can’t cut off your hair,” I say desperately. “Then it will all be over!”

“Sweetheart… it is over.” Luke comes over and sits down beside me. He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. “You know that, don’t you? It’s over. We’re going home. We’re going back to real life.”

“I know!” I say, after a pause. “It’s just… I really love your hair long.”

“I can’t go into a business meeting like this.” Luke shakes his head so the beads in his hair click together. “You know that as well as I do!”

“But you don’t have to cut it off!” I say, suddenly inspired. “Plenty of Italian men have long hair. We’ll just take the plaits out!”

“Becky…”

“I’ll do it! I’ll take them out! Sit down.”

I push Luke down onto the bed and carefully edge out the first few little beads, then gently start to unbraid his hair. As I lean close, I can smell the business-y smell of Luke’s expensive Armani aftershave, which he always wears for work. He hasn’t used it since before we got married.

I shift round on the bed and carefully start unbraiding the plaits on the other side of his head. We’re both silent; the only sound in the room is the soft clicking of beads. As I pull out the very last one, I feel a lump in my throat — which is ridiculous.

I mean, we couldn’t stay on our honeymoon forever, could we? And I am looking forward to seeing Mum and Dad again, and Suze, and getting back to real life…

But still. I’ve spent the last ten months with Luke. We haven’t spent more than a few hours out of each other’s sight. And now that’s all ending.

Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll be busy with a new job… and all my friends…

“Done!”

I reach for my Paul Mitchell Gloss Drops, put some on Luke’s hair, and carefully brush it out. It’s a bit wavy, but that’s OK. He just looks European.

“You see?” I say at last. “You look brilliant!”

Luke surveys his reflection doubtfully and for an awful moment I think he’s going to say he’s still getting a haircut. Then he smiles.

“OK. Reprieved. But it will have to come off sooner or later.”

“I know,” I say, suddenly feeling light again. “But just not today.”

I watch as Luke gathers some papers together and puts them in his briefcase.

“So… who exactly are you meeting with today?”

Luke did tell me, on the flight from Colombo — but they were serving free champagne at the time, and I’m not entirely sure I took it all in.

“We’re going after a new client. The Arcodas Group.”

“That’s right. Now I remember. So what are they? Fund managers?”

Luke’s company is called Brandon Communications, and it’s a PR agency for financial institutions like banks and building societies and investment houses. That’s kind of how we met, actually, during my days on Successful Saving magazine.

“Nope.” Luke snaps his briefcase shut. “We want to broaden out of finance.”

“Really?” I look at him in surprise.

“It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. The company’s successful as it is, but I want to go bigger. Wider. The Arcodas Group is a very large corporation with lots of different interests. They own property developments… sports centers… shopping malls…”

“Shopping malls?” I say, suddenly alert. “Do you get a discount?”

“If we get the account. Maybe.”

“So, does Arcodas have any shopping malls in Milan?” I say, trying to sound helpful. “Because I could go and visit one. For research.”

“They haven’t got any in Milan. They’re only over here for a retail conference.” Luke puts his briefcase down and gives me a long look.

“What?” I say.

“Becky… I know this is Milan. But please. Don’t go crazy today.”

“Go crazy?” I say, a little offended. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’re going to go shopping… ”

How does he know that? Honestly, Luke has such a nerve. How does he know I’m not going to go and see some famous statues or something?

“I’m not going to go shopping!” I say haughtily. “I simply mentioned the shopping malls to show an interest in your work.”

“I see.” Luke gives me a quizzical look, which bugs me.

“I’m actually here for the culture.” I lift my chin. “And because Milan is a city I’ve never seen.”

“Uh-huh.” Luke nods. “So you weren’t planning to visit any designer shops today?”

“Luke,” I say kindly, “I am a professional personal shopper. Do you really think I’m going to get excited by a few designer shops?”

“Frankly, yes,” says Luke.

I feel a slight swell of indignation. Didn’t we make vows to each other? Didn’t he promise to respect me and not ever doubt my word?

“You think I came here just to go shopping? Well, take this!” I reach for my bag, then take out my purse and thrust it at him.

“Becky, don’t be silly—”

“Take it! I’ll just have a simple walk around the city! I’ll go and look at the cathedral.”

“OK, then.” Luke shrugs and pockets my purse.

Damn. I didn’t think he’d actually take it.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I have another credit card hidden in my bag, which Luke doesn’t know about.

“Fine,” I say, folding my arms. “Keep my money. I don’t care!”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” says Luke. “You can always use the credit card you keep hidden in your bag.”

What?

How does he know about that? Has he been spying on me?

This has to be grounds for divorce, surely.

“Have it!” I say furiously, reaching into my bag. “Have everything! Take the shirt off my back!” I throw my credit card at him. “You may think you know me, Luke. But you don’t. All I want is to soak up a little culture, and maybe invest in the odd souvenir or local artifact.”

“Local artifact?” echoes Luke. “By ‘local artifact’ do you mean ‘Versace shoes’?”

“No!” I say, after a short pause.

Which is true.

True-ish.

I was thinking more of Míu Míu. Apparently it’s really cheap over here!

“Look, Becky, just don’t go overboard, OK?” says Luke. “We’re up to our luggage limits as it is.” He glances at our open cases. “What with the South American ritual mask and the voodoo stick… Oh, and let’s not forget the ceremonial dancing swords… ”

How many times is Luke going to give me grief about the ceremonial dancing swords? Just because they ripped his stupid shirt.

“For the millionth time, they’re presents!” I say. “We couldn’t have shipped them. We have to have them with us as we arrive, otherwise we won’t look like proper travelers!”

“That’s fine. All I’m saying is, we don’t have room for South American masks and six extra pairs of boots.”

Oh, he thinks he’s so funny.

“Luke, I’m not like that anymore, OK?” I say, a little crushingly. “I’ve grown up a little. I would have thought you might have noticed.”

“If you say so.” Luke picks up my credit card, scrutinizes it, then gives it back to me. “You’ve only got a couple of hundred pounds left on this one, anyway.”

What?

“How do you know that?” I say in outrage. “That’s my private credit card!”

“Then don’t hide the statement under the mattress. The maid in Sri Lanka found it when she was making the bed and gave it to me.” He kisses me and picks up his briefcase. “Enjoy the city!”

As the door closes I feel a tad disgruntled. Little does Luke know. Little does Luke know I was actually planning to buy him a present today. Years ago, when I first met him, Luke had this belt which he really loved, made of gorgeous Italian leather. But he left it in the bathroom one day and it got hot leg-wax on it.

Which was not entirely my fault. Like I told him, when you’re in total agony, you don’t think “What would be the most suitable implement to scrape burning wax off my shins?” You just grab the nearest thing.

Anyway. So I was planning to buy him a replacement today. A little “end of honeymoon” gift. But maybe he doesn’t deserve it if he’s going to spy on me and read my private credit card statements. I mean, what a cheek. Do I read his private letters?

Well, actually I do. Some of them are really interesting! But the point is—

Oh my God. I freeze, struck by a dreadful thought. Does that mean he saw how much I spent in Hong Kong that day he went off to see the stock exchange?

Fuck.

And he hasn’t said anything about it. OK, maybe he does deserve a present, after all.

I take a sip of cappuccino. Anyway, I’m the one laughing, not Luke. He thinks he’s so clever, but what he doesn’t know is that I’ve got a secret genius plan.

Half an hour later I arrive downstairs at reception, wearing tight black trousers (not quite capri but close enough), a striped T-shirt, and a scarf knotted round my neck, European-style. I head straight for the foreign exchange desk and beam at the woman behind it.

“Ciao!” I say brightly. “Il…”

I trail off into silence.

What was I thinking? That if I started confidently enough, with hand gestures, Italian would just pour naturally out of my mouth?

“I’d like to change some money into euros, please,” I say, switching into English. I reach into my bag and triumphantly pull out a bundle of creased-up notes. “Rupees, dirhams, ringgits…” I dump the notes on the counter and reach for some more. “Kenyan dollars…” I peer at a strange pink note I don’t recognize. “Whatever that one is…”

It is incredible how much money I was carrying around with me without even noticing! I had loads of rupees in my bath bag, and a whole bunch of Ethiopian birrs inside a paperback book. Plus there were loads of odd notes and coins floating around at the bottom of my carry-on bag.

And the point is, this is free money! This is money we already had.

I watch excitedly as the woman sorts it all into piles. “You have seventeen different currencies here,” she says at last, looking a bit dazed.

“We’ve been to lots of countries,” I explain. “So, how much is it all worth?”

As the woman starts tapping on a small computer, I feel quite excited. Maybe the exchange rates on some of these have moved in my favor. Maybe this is all worth loads!

Then I feel a bit guilty. After all, it’s Luke’s money too. Abruptly I decide that if it’s more than a hundred euros, I’ll give half back to him. That’s only fair. But that’ll still leave me with fifty! Not bad, for doing absolutely nothing!

“After commission…” The woman looks up. “Seven forty-five.”

“Seven hundred and forty-five euros?” I stare at her in joy and amazement. I had no idea I was carrying around that kind of money! God, it just shows! All those people who say, “Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves”… they’re right! Who would have thought it?

I’ll be able to buy a present for Luke and a pair of Míu Míu shoes, and—

“Not seven hundred and forty-five.” The woman scribbles it on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Seven euros, forty-five cents.”

“What?” My happy smile slips off my face. That can’t be right.

“Seven euros, forty-five cents,” repeats the woman patiently. “How would you like that?”

How can so much genuine money be worth only seven euros? It makes no sense. As I explained to the woman, you could buy absolutely loads in India for those rupees. You could probably buy a whole car… or a palace, even. But she wouldn’t budge. Oh, well.

I start walking down the street, carefully following the map the hotel concierge gave me. He was such a helpful man. I explained to him how I wanted to take in the cultural sights of Milan, and he started talking about Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, which he “knew” I would be desperate to see.

Obviously I do want to see it. Very much so. But priorities are priorities. So I politely explained I was actually more interested in contemporary Italian culture, and he started going on about some artist who does short films about death.

So then I clarified that by “contemporary Italian culture” I was really referring to cultural icons such as Prada and Gucci — and his eyes lit up in understanding. He marked a street for me which is in an area called the Golden Quadrilateral and is apparently “full of culture” which he was “sure I would appreciate.”

It’s a sunny day with a light breeze, and the sunlight is glinting off windows and cars, and whizzy Vespas are zipping everywhere. God, Milan is cool. Every single person I pass is wearing designer sunglasses and carrying a designer handbag — even the men!

For a moment I consider buying Luke a continental handbag instead of a belt. I try to imagine him walking into the office with a chic little bag dangling from his wrist…

Hmm. Maybe I’ll stick to a belt.

Suddenly I notice a girl in front of me wearing a cream trouser suit, high strappy shoes, and a pink scooter helmet with leopard-print trim.

I stare at her, gripped with desire. God, I want one of those helmets. I mean, I know I haven’t got a Vespa — but I could wear the helmet anyway, couldn’t I? It could be my signature look. People would call me the Girl in the Vespa Helmet. Plus, it would protect me from muggers, so it would actually be a safety feature…

Maybe I’ll ask where she got it.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!” I call out, impressed at my own sudden fluency. “J’adore votre chapeau!”

The girl gives me a blank look, then disappears round a corner. Which, frankly, I think is a bit unfriendly. I mean, here I am, making an effort to speak her lang—

Oh. Oh, right.

OK, that’s a bit embarrassing.

Well, never mind. I’m not here to buy Vespa helmets, anyway. I’m here to buy a present for Luke. That’s what marriage is all about, after all. Putting your partner first. Placing his needs before your own.

Plus, what I’m thinking is, I can always fly back here for the day. I mean, it wouldn’t take any time from London, would it? And Suze could come too, I think with sudden delight. God, that would be fun. I suddenly have an image of Suze and me, striding down the street, arm in arm, swinging our bags and laughing. A girly trip to Milan! We have to do it!

I reach another corner and stop to consult my map. I must be getting closer. He said it wasn’t that far away…

Just then a woman walks past me carrying a bag from Versace, and I stiffen with excitement. I have to be getting close to the source! This is just like when we visited that volcano in Peru, and the guide kept pointing out signs that we were nearing the core. If I just keep my eyes peeled for more Versace bags…

I walk forward a little more — and there’s another one! That woman in oversize shades having a cappuccino has got one, plus about six zillion bags from Armani. She gesticulates to her friend and reaches inside one of them — and pulls out a pot of jam, with an Armani label.

Armani jam? Armani does jam?

Maybe in Milan everything has a fashion label! Maybe Dolce & Gabanna does toothpaste. Maybe Prada does tomato ketchup!

I start walking on again, more and more quickly, prickling with excitement. I can sense the shops in the air. The designer bags are appearing more frequently. The air is becoming heavy with expensive scent. I can practically hear the sound of hangers on rails and zips being done up…

And then, suddenly, there it is.

A long, elegant boulevard stretches before me, with the chicest, most designer-clad people on earth milling about. Tanned, model-like girls in Pucci prints and heels are sauntering along with powerful-looking men in immaculate linen suits. A girl in white Versace jeans and red lipstick is pushing along a pram upholstered in Louis Vuitton monogrammed leather. A blond woman in a brown leather miniskirt trimmed with rabbit fur is gabbling into a matching mobile phone while dragging along her little boy, dressed head to foot in Gucci.

And… the shops. Shop after shop after shop.

Ferragamo. Valentino. Dior. Versace. Prada.

As I venture down the street, my head swiveling from side to side, I feel giddy. It’s complete culture shock. How long has it been since I’ve seen a shop that wasn’t selling ethnic crafts and wooden beads? I mean… it’s been months! I feel like I’ve been on some starvation cure, and now I’m gorging on tiramisu with double cream.

Just look at that amazing coat. Look at those shoes.

Where do I start? Where do I even—

I can’t move. I’m paralyzed in the middle of the street, like the donkey in that Aesop’s fable who couldn’t choose between the bales of hay. They’ll find me in years to come, still frozen to the spot, clutching my credit card.

Suddenly my eyes fall on a display of leather belts and wallets in the window of a nearby boutique.

Leather. Luke’s belt. This is what I’m here to buy. Focus.

I totter toward the shop and push open the door, still in a daze. At once I’m hit by the overwhelming smell of expensive leather. In fact, it’s so strong it actually seems to clear my head.

The shop is amazing. It’s carpeted in pale taupe, with softly lit display cabinets. I can see wallets, belts, bags, jackets… I pause by a mannequin wearing the most amazing chocolate brown coat, all leather and satin. I stroke it fondly, then lift the price tag — and nearly faint.

But, of course, it’s in lire. I smile in relief. No wonder it looks so—

Oh no. It’s euros now.

Bloody hell.

I gulp, and move away from the mannequin.

Which just proves that Dad was right all along — the single currency was a huge mistake. When I was thirteen I went on holiday to Rome with my parents — and the whole point about lire was, the prices looked like a lot but they weren’t really. You could buy something for about a zillion lire — and in real life it cost about three quid! It was fantastic!

Plus, if you accidentally ended up buying a bottle of really expensive perfume, no one (i.e., your parents) could blame you, because, like Mum said, who on earth can divide numbers like that in their head?

As I start to look through a display of belts, a stocky middle-aged man comes out of a fitting room, chomping on a cigar and wearing an amazing black cashmere coat trimmed with leather. He’s about fifty and very tanned, with close-cropped gray hair and piercing blue eyes. The only thing which doesn’t look quite so good is his nose, which to be honest is a bit of a mishmash.

“Oy, Roberto,” he says in a raspy voice.

He’s English! His accent is weird, though. Kind of transatlantic meets cockney.

A shop assistant in a black suit with angular black glasses comes hurrying out from the fitting room, holding a tape measure.

“Yes, Signor Temple?”

“How much cashmere is in this?” The stocky man smooths down the coat critically.

“Signore, this is one hundred percent cashmere.”

“The best cashmere?” The stocky man lifts a warning finger. “I don’t want you palming me off now. You know my motto. Only the best.”

The guy in black glasses gives a little wince of dismay.

“Signore, we would not, er… palm you off.”

The man gazes at himself in a mirror silently for a few seconds, then nods.

“Fair enough. I’ll take three. One to London.” He counts off on stubby fingers. “One to Switzerland. One to New York. Got it?”

The assistant in black glasses glances over at me, and I realize it’s totally obvious I’m eavesdropping.

“Oh, hi!” I say quickly. “I’d like to buy this, please, and have it gift wrapped.” I hold up the belt I’ve chosen.

“Silvia will help you.” He gestures dismissively toward the woman at the till, then turns back to his customer.

I hand the belt over to Silvia and watch idly as she wraps it up in shiny bronze paper. I’m half admiring her deft ability with ribbon and half listening to Mr. Cashmere, who’s now looking at a briefcase.

“Don’t like the texture,” he states. “Feels different. Something’s wrong.”

“We have changed our supplier recently… ” The black glasses guy is wringing his hands. “But it is a very fine leather, signore… ”

He trails off as Mr. Cashmere takes his cigar from his mouth and gives him a look.

“You’re palming me off, Roberto,” he says. “I pay good money, I want quality. What you’ll do is make me up one using leather from the old supplier. Got it?”

He looks over, sees me watching, and winks.

“Best place for leather in the world, this. But don’t take any of their crap.”

“I won’t!” I beam back. “And I love that coat, by the way!”

“Very kind of you.” He nods affably. “You an actress? Model?”

“Er… no. Neither.”

“No matter.” He waves his cigar.

“How will you pay, signorina?” Silvia interrupts us.

“Oh! Er… here you are.”

As I hand over my Visa card I feel a glow of goodness in my heart. Buying presents for other people is so much more satisfying than buying for yourself! And this will take me up to my limit on my Visa card, so that’s my shopping all finished for the day.

What shall I do next? Maybe I’ll take in some culture. I could go and look at that famous painting the concierge was talking about.

I can hear a buzz of interest coming from the back of the shop and turn idly to see what’s happening. A mirrored door to a stockroom is open, and a woman in a black suit is coming out, surrounded by a gaggle of eager assistants. What on earth is she holding? Why is everyone so—

Then suddenly I catch a glimpse of what she’s carrying. My heart stops. My skin starts to prickle.

It can’t be.

But it is. She’s carrying an Angel bag.