Confessions of a Shopaholic (23 page)

“Excellent,” I say vaguely, and clear my throat. “Just . . . just looking at Tarquin here.”

I have to check. I have to check there isn’t some other Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Please God,
please
let me be going out with the rich one.

“Oh yes,” says Suze casually. “He’s always in those things.” She runs her eyes down the text and shakes her head. “God, they always exaggerate everything. Twenty-five million pounds!”

My heart stops.

“Hasn’t he got £25 million, then?” I says carelessly.

“Oh, no!” She laughs as though the idea’s ridiculous. “The estate’s worth about . . . Oh, I don’t know, £18 million.”

Eighteen million pounds. Well, that’ll do. That’ll do nicely.

“These magazines!” I say, and roll my eyes sympathetically.

“Earl Grey?” says Suze, getting up. “Or normal?”

“Earl Grey,” I say, even though I actually prefer Typhoo. Because I’d better start acting posh, hadn’t I, if I’m going to be the girlfriend of someone called Tarquin Cleath-Stuart.

Rebecca Cleath-Stuart.

Becky Cleath-Stuart.

Hi, it’s Rebecca Cleath-Stuart here. Yes, Tarquin’s wife. We met at . . . Yes, I was wearing Chanel. How clever of you!

“By the way,” I add, “did Tarquin say where I should meet him?”

“Oh, he’s going to come and pick you up,” says Suze.

But of course he is. The fifteenth richest bachelor in Britain doesn’t just meet you at a tube station, does he? He doesn’t just say “See you under the big clock at Waterloo.” He comes and picks you up.

Oh, this is it. This is it! Forget Luke Brandon, forget suitcases. My new life has finally begun.

I have never spent so long on getting ready for a date in my life. Never. The process starts at eight on Saturday morning when I look at my open wardrobe and realize that I don’t have a
single
thing to wear—and only ends at seven-thirty that evening when I give my lashes another layer of mascara, spray myself in Coco Chanel, and walk into the sitting room for Suze’s verdict.

“Wow!” she says, looking up from a frame she is upholstering in distressed denim. “You look . . . bloody amazing!”

And I have to say, I agree. I’m wearing all black—but expensive black. The kind of deep, soft black you fall into. A simple sleeveless dress from Whistles, the highest of Jimmy Choos, a pair of stunning uncut amethyst earrings. And please don’t ask how much it all cost, because that’s irrelevant. This is investment shopping. The biggest investment of my life.

I haven’t eaten anything all day so I’m nice and thin, and for once my hair has fallen perfectly into shape. I look . . . well, I’ve never looked better in my life.

But of course, looks are only part of the package, aren’t they? Which is why I cannily stopped off at Waterstones on the way home and bought a book on Wagner. I’ve been reading it all afternoon, while I waited for my nails to dry, and have even memorized a few little passages to throw into the conversation.

I’m not sure what else Tarquin is into, apart from Wagner. Still, that should be enough to keep us going. And anyway, I expect he’s planning to take me somewhere really glamorous with a jazz band, so we’ll be too busy dancing cheek to cheek to make conversation.

The doorbell rings and I give a little start. I have to admit, my heart is pounding with nerves. But at the same time I feel strangely cool. This is it. Here begins my new multimillion-pound existence. Luke Brandon, eat your heart out.

“I’ll get it,” says Suze, grinning at me, and disappears out into the hall. A moment later I hear her saying “Tarkie!”

“Suze!”

I glance at myself in the mirror, take a deep breath, and turn to face the door, just as Tarquin appears. His head is as bony as ever, and he’s wearing another of his odd-looking suits. But somehow none of that seems to matter anymore. In fact, I’m not really taking in the way he looks. I’m just staring at him. Staring and staring at him, unable to speak; unable to frame any thought at all except: twenty-five million pounds.

Twenty-five million pounds.

The sort of thought that makes you feel dizzy and elated, like a fairground ride. I suddenly want to run around the room, yelling “Twenty-five million! Twenty-five million!” throwing bank notes up in the air as if I were in some Hollywood comedy caper.

But I don’t. Of course I don’t. I say, “Hi, Tarquin,” and give him a dazzling smile.

“Hi, Becky,” he says. “You look wonderful.”

“Thanks,” I say, and look bashfully down at my dress.

“D’you want to stay for a titchy?” says Suze, who is looking on fondly, as if she’s my mother and this is senior prom night and I’m dating the most popular boy in school.

“Ermm . . . no, I think we’ll just get going,” says Tarquin, meeting my eye. “What do you think, Becky?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Let’s go.”

A TAXI IS CHUGGING outside in the road, and Tarquin ushers me inside. To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed it isn’t a chauffeur-driven limousine—but still. This is pretty good, too. Being whisked off in a taxi by one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors to . . . who knows where? The Savoy? Claridges? Dancing at Annabel’s? Tarquin hasn’t told me yet where we’re going.

Oh God, maybe it’ll be one of those mad places where everything is served under a silver dome and there’s a million knives and forks and snooty waiters looking on, just waiting to catch you out.

“I thought we’d just have a nice quiet supper,” says Tarquin, looking over at me.

“Lovely,” I say. “Nice quiet supper. Perfect.”

Thank God. That probably means we’re not heading for silver domes. We’re going to some tiny tucked-away place that hardly anyone knows about. Some little private club where you have to knock on an anonymous-looking door in a back street, and you get inside and it’s packed with celebrities sitting on sofas, behaving like normal people. Yes! And maybe Tarquin knows them all!

But of course he knows them all. He’s a multimillionaire, isn’t he?

I look out of the window and see that we’re driving past Harrods. And for just a moment, my stomach tightens painfully as I remember the last time I was here. Bloody suitcases. Bloody Luke Brandon. Huh. In fact, I wish he was walking along the road right now, so I could give him a careless, I’m-with-the-fifteenth-richest-single-man-in-Britain wave.

“OK,” says Tarquin suddenly to the taxi driver. “You can drop us here.” He grins at me. “Practically on the doorstep.”

“Great,” I say, and reach for the door.

Practically on the doorstep of where? As I get out I look around, wondering where on earth we’re going. We’re at Hyde Park Corner. What’s at Hyde Park Corner? I turn round slowly, and glimpse a sign—and suddenly I realize what’s going on. We’re going to the Lanesborough!

Wow. How classy is that? Dinner at the Lanesborough. But naturally. Where else would one go on a first date?

“So,” says Tarquin, appearing at my side. “I just thought we could get a bite to eat and then . . . see.”

“Sounds good,” I say, as we start walking.

Excellent! Dinner at the Lanesborough and then on to some glam nightclub. This is all shaping up wonderfully.

We walk straight past the entrance to the Lanesborough, but I’m not fazed by that. Everyone knows VIPs always go in through the back to avoid the paparazzi. Not that I can actually see any paparazzi, but it probably becomes a habit. We’ll duck into some back alley, and walk through the kitchens while the chefs pretend they can’t see us, and then emerge in the foyer. This is so cool.

“I’m sure you’ve been here before,” says Tarquin apologetically. “Not the most original choice.”

“Don’t be silly!” I say, as we stop and head toward a pair of glass doors. “I simply adore . . .”

Hang on, where are we? This isn’t the back entrance to anywhere. This is . . .

Pizza on the Park.

Tarquin’s taking me to Pizza Express. I don’t believe it. The fifteenth richest man in the country is taking me to bloody Pizza Express.

“. . . pizza,” I finish weakly. “Love the stuff.”

“Oh good!” says Tarquin. “I thought we probably didn’t want anywhere too flashy.”

“Oh no.” I pull what I think is a very convincing face. “I hate flashy places. Much better to have a nice quiet pizza together.”

“That’s what I thought,” says Tarquin, turning to look at me. “But now I feel rather bad. You’ve dressed up so nicely . . .” He pauses doubtfully, gazing at my outfit. (As well he might. I didn’t go and spend a fortune in Whistles for Pizza Express.) “I mean, if you wanted to, we could go somewhere a bit smarter. The Lanesborough’s just around the corner . . .”

He raises his eyes questioningly, and I’m about to say “Oh, yes, please!” when suddenly, in a blinding flash, I realize what’s going on. This is a test, isn’t it? It’s like choosing out of three caskets in a fairy tale. Everyone knows the rules. You
never
choose the gold shiny one. Or even the quite impressive silver one. What you’re supposed to do is choose the dull little lead one, and then there’s a flash of light and it turns into a mountain of jewels. So this is it. Tarquin’s testing me, to see whether I like him for himself.

Which, frankly, I find rather insulting. I mean, who does he think I am?

“No, let’s stay here,” I say, and touch his arm briefly. “Much more relaxed. Much more . . . fun.”

Which is actually quite true. And I do like pizza. And that yummy garlic bread. Mmm. You know, now I come to think about it, this is quite a good choice.

As the waiter hands us our menus, I give a cursory flash down the list, but I already know what I want. It’s what I always have when I go to Pizza Express—Fiorentina. The one with spinach and an egg. I know, it sounds weird, but honestly, it’s delicious.

“Would you like an aperitif?” says the waiter, and I’m about to say what I usually do, which is Oh, let’s just have a bottle of wine, when I think, Sod it, I’m having dinner with a multimillionaire here. I’m bloody well going to have a gin and tonic.

“A gin and tonic,” I say firmly, and look at Tarquin, daring him to look taken aback. But he grins at me and says, “Unless you wanted champagne?”

“Oh,” I say, completely thrown.

“I always think champagne and pizza is a good combination,” he says, and looks at the waiter. “A bottle of Moet, please.”

Well, this is more like it. This is a lot more like it. Champagne and pizza. And Tarquin is actually being quite normal.

The champagne arrives and we toast each other and take a few sips. I’m really starting to enjoy myself. Then I spot Tarquin’s bony hand edging slowly toward mine on the table. And in a reflex action—completely without meaning to—I whip my fingers away, pretending I have to scratch my ear. A flicker of disappointment passes over his face and I find myself giving a really fake, embarrassed cough and looking intently at a picture on the wall to my left.

I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I
can
be attracted to him. It’s just a matter of self-control and possibly also getting very drunk. So I lift my glass and take several huge gulps. I can feel the bubbles surging into my head, singing happily “I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife! I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife!” And when I look back at Tarquin, he already seems a bit more attractive (in a stoaty kind of way). Alcohol is obviously going to be the key to our marital happiness.

My head is filled with a happy vision of our wedding day. Me in some wonderful designer dress; my mum and dad looking on proudly. No more money troubles ever.
Ever
. The fifteenth richest man in the country. A house in Belgravia. Mrs. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Just imagining it, I feel almost faint with longing.

I smile as warmly as I can at Tarquin, who hesitates—then smiles back. Phew. I haven’t wrecked things. It’s all still on. Now we just need to discover that we’re utter soul mates with loads of things in common.

“I love the—” I say.

“Do you—”

We both speak at once.

“Sorry,” I say. “Do carry on.”

“No,
you
carry on,” says Tarquin.

“Oh,” I say. “Well . . . I was just going to say again how much I love the picture you gave Suze.” No harm in complimenting his taste again. “I
love
horses,” I add for good measure.

“Then we should go riding together,” says Tarquin. “I know a very good livery near Hyde Park. Not quite the same as in the country, of course . . .”

“What a wonderful idea!” I say. “That would be such fun!”

There’s no way anyone’s getting me on a horse. Not even in Hyde Park. But that’s OK, I’ll just go along with the plan and then, on the day, say I’ve twisted my ankle or something.

“Do you like dogs?” asks Tarquin.

“I love dogs,” I say confidently.

Which is sort of true. I wouldn’t actually like to
have
a dog—too much hard work and hairs everywhere. But I like seeing Labradors running across the park. And cute little puppies. That kind of thing.

We lapse into silence, and I take a few sips of champagne.

“Do you like
EastEnders
?” I ask eventually. “Or are you a . . . a
Coronation Street
person?”

“I’ve never watched either, I’m afraid,” says Tarquin apologetically. “I’m sure they’re very good.”

“Well . . . they’re OK,” I say. “Sometimes they’re really good, and other times . . .” I tail off a bit feebly, and smile at him. “You know.”

“Absolutely,” exclaims Tarquin, as though I’ve said something really interesting.

There’s another awkward silence. This is getting a bit sticky.

“Are there good shops, where you live in Scotland?” I say at last. Tarquin pulls a little face.

“I wouldn’t know. Never go near shops if I can help it.”

“Oh right,” I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. “No, I . . . I hate shops, too. Can’t
stand
shopping.”

“Really?” says Tarquin in surprise. “I thought all girls loved shopping.”

“Not me!” I say. “I’d far rather be . . . out on the moors, riding along. With a couple of dogs running behind.”

“Sounds perfect,” says Tarquin, smiling at me. “We’ll have to do it sometime.”