Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4)

Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) Page 23

“A lion?” Suze says in horror. “Daddy, you can’t have a lion here! It’ll eat the babies!”

“Gilbert, the lion belongs in the wild.” Caroline looks thunderous. “Free to roam its natural world. Anyone who has crossed the Serengeti Plain and seen a pride feeding at dawn…”

“Why does your dad want a lion?” I murmur to Suze as Caroline continues.

“He wants to start a zoo and open it to the public,” Suze mutters back. “It’s one of his mad schemes. Like the tortoises, remember?”

About four years ago, when Suze and I were sharing a flat in London, her father decided to become a tortoise breeder, and it was us who had to take a delivery of twenty baby tortoises and look after them all weekend.

“The noble animal looked at me,” Caroline is declaiming momentously, “and a deep understanding seemed to pass between us… ”

“You can look at my lion if you like,” says Sir Gilbert. “In its cage.” He bellows with laughter. “Eh?”

He looks so pleased with himself, and Caroline looks so disapproving, I can’t help a giggle. I just love Suze’s family. God, it’s good to be back.

“Maybe I’ll go over to the church,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I’ll see you later…”

“That reminds me!” Caroline breaks off. “I saw the vicar and he was saying some rubbish about warm water for the baptism. I said absolutely not! A bit of cold water’ll do these infants the power of good.”

“Mummy!” wails Suze. “I especially asked for warm water! They’re still so tiny!”

“Nonsense!” booms Caroline. “At their age, you were swimming in the lake! At the age of six months you were trekking with me up the Tsodilo Hills of Botswana. No warm water there!”

Suze gives me a despairing look, and I grin back sympathetically.

“I’d better go,” she says. “Bex, I’ll see you afterwards. You will stay a couple of days, won’t you?”

“We’d love to!” I say happily.

“Oh, and you must meet Lulu!” she adds, halfway out the door.

“Who’s Lulu?” I call back, but she doesn’t hear.

Oh, well. I’ll soon find out. It’s probably her new horse, or something.

I find Luke outside, where a tented walkway has been set up between the house and the church, just like at Suze’s wedding. As we start walking along the matting, I can’t help feeling a tingle of nostalgia. It was here that we first talked about getting married, in a roundabout sort of way. And then Luke proposed.

And now here we are. Married for nearly a year!

I hear footsteps coming up behind and look round to see Tarquin hurrying along the matting, holding a baby.

“Hi, Tarkie!” I say as he joins us. “So… which twin is this?”

“This one is Clementine,” says Tarquin, beaming. “Our little Clemmie.”

I peer more closely, and try to hide my surprise. Blimey. Suze is right. She does look like a boy.

“She’s beautiful!” I say quickly. “Absolutely gorgeous!”

I’m trying to think of something to say which will emphasize her very feminine qualities, when there’s a faint sound from up above. A kind of chopper-chopper-chopper. Now it’s getting louder. I look up, and to my astonishment, a huge black helicopter is approaching. In fact… it’s landing, on the field behind the house.

“Do you have a friend with a helicopter?” I say, amazed.

“Um… actually, that’s mine,” says Tarquin bashfully. “Lent it to a friend for a spin.”

Tarquin has a helicopter?

“Bought it last year,” he explains. “The Ring was on at Covent Garden, right in the middle of lambing season. Huge dilemma. I didn’t want to miss either.”

“Er… absolutely!” I nod, as if I really can sympathize.

Which, in a way, I can. If I was given the choice of watching sheep give birth in freezing-cold fields or listening to an endless Wagner opera… I’d buy a helicopter too. To escape.

By now we’ve arrived at the church, which is bustling with guests. Luke and I slip into a pew near the back, and I look around at all Suze’s relations. There’s Tarquin’s dad, wearing an aubergine-colored smoking jacket, and there’s Fenella, Tarquin’s sister. She’s dressed in cream and is shrieking excitedly at some girl with blond hair I don’t recognize.

“Who’s that, Agnes?” comes a piercing voice behind me. I glance round, and a woman with gray hair and a gigantic ruby brooch is peering at the blond girl too, through a lorgnette.