Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3)

Shopaholic Ties the Knot (Shopaholic #3) Page 22

“Are there any signs of them…” Mum makes a vague, euphemistic gesture. “Starting a family,” she adds in a whisper.

“Not yet.” Janice’s smile flickers briefly. “Martin and I think they probably want to enjoy each other first. They’re such a happy young couple. They just dote on each other! And of course, Lucy’s got her career—”

“I suppose so,” says Mum consideringly. “Although it doesn’t do to wait too long…”

“Well, I know,” agrees Janice. They both turn to look at me — and suddenly I realize what they’re driving at.

For God’s sake, I’ve only been engaged a day! Give me a chance!

I escape to the garden and wander round for a bit, sipping my coffee. The snow is starting to melt outside, and you can just see patches of green lawn and bits of rosebush. As I pick my way down the gravel path, I find myself thinking how nice it is to be in an English garden again, even if it is a bit cold. Manhattan doesn’t have any gardens like this. There’s Central Park, and there’s the odd little flowery square. But it doesn’t have any proper English gardens, with lawns and trees and flower beds.

I’ve reached the rose arbor and am looking back at the house, imagining what a marquee will look like on the lawn, when suddenly there’s a rumble of conversation from the garden next door. I wonder if it’s Martin, and I’m about to pop my head over the fence and say “Hello!” when a girl’s voice comes clearly over the snow, saying: “Define frigid! Because if you ask me—”

It’s Lucy. And she sounds furious! There’s a mumbled reply, which can only be Tom.

“And you’re such a bloody expert, are you?”

Mumble mumble.

“Oh, give me a break.”

I edge surreptitiously toward the fence, wishing desperately I could hear both sides.

“Yeah, well, maybe if we had more of a life, maybe if you actually organized something once in a blue moon, maybe if we weren’t stuck in such a bloody rut…”

Lucy’s voice is so hectoring. And now Tom’s voice is raised defensively in return.

“We went out to… all you could do was complain… made a real bloody effort…”

Crack!

Shit. Shit. I’ve stepped on a twig.

For an instant I consider running. But it’s too late, their heads have already appeared over the garden fence, Tom’s all pink and distressed, and Lucy’s tight with anger.

“Oh, hi!” I say, trying to look relaxed. “How are you? I’m just… um… having a little stroll… and I dropped my… hanky.”

“Your hanky?” Lucy looks suspiciously at the ground. “I can’t see any hanky.”

“Well… erm… So… how’s married life?”

“Fine,” says Lucy shortly. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

There’s an awkward pause, and I find myself running my eyes over Lucy’s outfit, taking in her top (black polo-neck, probably M&S), trousers (Earl Jeans, quite cool, actually), and boots (high-heeled with laces, Russell & Bromley).

This is something I’ve always done, checking out people’s clothes and listing them in my mind like on a fashion page. I thought I was the only one who did it. But then I moved to New York — and there, everyone does it. Seriously, everybody. The first time you meet anyone, whether it’s a rich society lady or a doorman, they give you a swift, three-second top-to-toe sweep. You can see them costing your entire outfit to the nearest dollar before they even say hello. I call it the Manhattan Onceover.

“So how’s New York?”

“It’s great! Really exciting… I love my job… it’s such a great place to live!”

“I’ve never been,” says Tom wistfully. “I wanted to go there for our honeymoon.”

“Tom, don’t start that again,” says Lucy sharply. “OK?”

“Maybe I could come and visit,” says Tom. “I could come for the weekend.”

“Er… yes! Maybe! You could both come…” I tail off lamely as Lucy rolls her eyes and stomps toward the house. “Anyway, lovely to see you and I’m glad married life is treating you… er… treating you, anyway.”

I hurry back into the kitchen, dying to tell Mum what I just heard, but it’s empty.

“Hey, Mum!” I call. “I just saw Tom and Lucy!”

I hurry up the stairs, and Mum is halfway down the loft ladder, pulling down a big white squashy bundle all wrapped up in plastic.