Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (Shopaholic #2)

Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (Shopaholic #2) Page 92

“You don’t think throwing away opportunity is a crime?” says Luke furiously. “Because as far as I’m concerned…” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Becky! We both had it all. We had New York.” His hand clenches into a fist. “And now, look at us both. All because you’re so bloody obsessed by shopping—”

“Obsessed?” I cry. Suddenly I can’t stand his accusing gaze anymore. “I’m obsessed? What about you?”

“What do you mean?” he says dismissively.

“You’re obsessed by work! By making it in New York! The first thing you thought of when you saw that piece wasn’t me or… or how I was feeling, was it? It was how it affected you and your deal.” My voice rises tremulously. “All you care about is your own success, and I always come second. I mean, you didn’t even bother to tell me about New York until it was all decided! You just expected me to… to fall in line and do exactly what you wanted. No wonder Alicia said I was tagging along!”

“You’re not tagging along,” he says impatiently.

“Yes, I am! That’s the way you see me, isn’t it? As some little nobody, who has to be… to be slotted into your grand magnificent plan. And I was so stupid, I just went along with it…”

“I haven’t got time for this,” says Luke, standing up.

“You’ve never got time!” I say tearfully. “Suze has got more time for me than you have! You didn’t have time to come to Tom’s wedding; our holiday turned into a meeting; you didn’t have time to visit my parents…”

“So I don’t have a lot of time!” yells Luke suddenly, shocking me into silence. “So I can’t sit around making mindless tittle-tattle with you and Suze.” He shakes his head in frustration. “Do you realize how fucking hard I work? Do you have any idea how important this deal is?”

“Why is it important?” I hear myself shrieking. “Why is it so bloody important to make it in America? So you can impress your complete cow of a mother? Because if you’re trying to impress her, Luke, then I’d give up now! She’ll never be impressed. Never! I mean, she hasn’t even bothered to see you! God, you buy her an Herm`es scarf — and she can’t even rearrange her schedule to find five minutes for you!”

I break off, panting, into complete silence.

Oh fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.

I dart a look at Luke, and he’s staring at me, his face ashen with anger.

“What did you call my mother?” he says slowly.

“Look, I… I didn’t mean it.” I swallow, trying to keep control of my voice. “I just think… there’s got to be a sense of proportion in all this. All I did was a bit of shopping…”

“A bit of shopping,” echoes Luke scathingly. “A bit of shopping.” He gives me a long look — then, to my horror, heads to the huge cedar-wood wardrobe where I’ve been stashing all my stuff. He opens it silently and we both stare at the bags crammed to the ceiling.

And as I see it all, I feel a slight nausea overcoming me. All those things which seemed so vital when I bought them, all those things which I got so excited about… now just look like a great big pile of rubbish bags. I could barely even tell you what’s in any of the packages. It’s just… stuff. Piles and piles of stuff.

Without saying anything, Luke closes the door again, and I feel shame drenching over me like hot water.

“I know,” I say, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know. But I’m paying for it. I really am.”

I turn away, unable to meet his eye, and suddenly I just have to get out of this room. I have to get away from Luke, from myself in the mirror, from the whole horrendous day.

“I’ll… I’ll see you later,” I mutter and without looking back, head for the door.

The bar downstairs is dimly lit, soothing, and anonymous. I sink into a sumptuous leather chair, feeling weak and achy, as though I’ve got the flu. When a waiter comes up, I order an orange juice, then, as he’s walking away, change my order to a brandy. It arrives in a huge glass, warm and reviving, and I take a few sips — then look up as a shadow appears on the table in front of me. It’s Michael Ellis. I feel my heart sink. I really don’t feel up to talking.

“Hello,” he says. “May I?” He gestures to the chair opposite and I nod weakly. He sits down and gives me a kind look as I drain my glass. For a while, we’re both silent.

“I could be polite, and not mention it,” he says at last. “Or I could tell you the truth — which is that I was very sorry for you this morning. Your British papers are vicious. No one deserves that kind of treatment.”