Authors: Sophie Kinsella
‘I’d better go.’ Luke gets to his feet and I grab my bag. We head to the street, and Luke pauses to kiss me. ‘See you later, Becky.’
‘See you.’ I nod.
I’m off the hook. He’s just going to leave it. Even though there’s no way in a million years he believes the boob-job story.
Thanks for trusting me
, I want to message silently back into his head.
I wasn’t doing anything bad, –promise
.
I hold my breath and watch him walk away till he rounds the corner. Then I collapse on a nearby bench, pull out a compact mirror and start studying my face in detail.
OK, Luke knows nothing about anything. I could
easily
have had Botox. Look at that totally smooth bit, right by my hair. He must be blind.
I get back to The Look to find Jasmine on the phone.
‘Yeah, two o’clock, no problem,’ she’s saying. ‘See you then.’ She puts the receiver down and gives me a look of triumphant joy. (That’s to say, one corner of her mouth raises reluctantly in a smile. I’ve learned to read Jasmine pretty well.) ‘Well, your plan’s working. Three clients have uncancelled their appointments.’
‘Fantastic!’
‘And there’s a customer waiting right now,’ Jasmine adds. ‘No appointment. Says she wants to see you, no one else. She’s lurking around the floor till you get back.’
‘OK,’ I say in surprise. ‘Well, just give me a minute.’
I hurry to my dressing room, put my bag away and freshen up my lipgloss, wondering who it might be. People do quite often drop in without an appointment, so it could be anybody. God, I hope it’s not that girl who wants to look like Jennifer Aniston, because the truth is, she’s never going to in a million years, however many halter tops she buys—
‘Rebecca.’
A familiar, haughty voice interrupts my thoughts. For an instant I can’t react. I think I might be dreaming. The back of my neck is prickling as I finally turn round … and there she is. Immaculate as ever in a pistachio-coloured suit, rigid hair, equally immobile face and her crocodile Birkin dangling from one skinny arm.
It WAS her
, shoots through my mind.
It WAS her outside the church
.
‘Elinor!’ I manage. ‘What a surprise.’
This would be the understatement of the year.
‘Hello, Rebecca.’ She looks around the dressing room disdainfully as though to say ‘I expected no better,’ which is a nerve, as it’s just been redecorated.
‘Er … what can I do for you?’ I say at last.
‘I wish to …’ She stops and there’s a long, frozen silence. I feel as though we’re in a play and we’ve both forgotten our lines.
What the hell are you doing here?
is what I really want to say. Or, frankly, just
Hhhnnnnhh?
This silence is getting ridiculous. We can’t stand here for ever like two mannequins. Elinor told Jasmine she was a customer. Well, fine. I’ll treat her like a customer.
‘So, are you after anything in particular?’ I take out my notepad, just as if she were any other client. ‘Day wear, perhaps? We have some new Chanel pieces in, which I believe might be your style.’
‘Very well,’ says Elinor after a lengthy pause.
What?
She’s going to try on clothes? Here? Seriously?
‘OK,’ I say, feeling a bit surreal. ‘Fine. I’ll select some pieces that I think would … er … suit you.’
I go to collect the clothes myself, return to the dressing room and hand them to Elinor.
‘Feel free to try on as many or as few as you like,’ I say politely. ‘I’ll be just outside if you need any advice or help.’
I close the door quietly, and give a silent scream. Elinor. Here. What the fuck is going
on?
Am I going to tell Luke about this? The whole thing is too freaky. I suddenly wish I’d pressed Luke more on what exactly happened between them, and what heinous thing she said. Should I be telling Elinor dramatically to get out now and never darken the door of The Look again?
But if I did that I’d probably get fired.
After about a minute the door opens again and Elinor appears, holding the whole armful of clothes. She can’t have tried them on, she hasn’t had nearly enough time.
‘Shall I take those for you?’ I force myself to stay polite.
‘Yes. They were satisfactory.’ She nods.
For a moment I think I can’t have understood.
‘You mean … you want to take them?’ I say disbelievingly. ‘You’re going to
buy
them?’
‘Very well. Yes.’ She frowns impatiently as though this conversation is already irritating her.
Eight grand’s worth of clothes? Just like that? My bonus is going to
be fantastic
.
‘OK! Well, that’s great!’ I’m trying to suppress my glee. ‘Any alterations needed or anything?’
Elinor shakes her head with the barest of movements. This is officially the most bizarre appointment I’ve ever known. Most people, if they were going to spend eight grand on clothes, would at least come out and do a twirl and say, ‘What do you think?’
Jasmine passes by with a rack of clothes and I see her eyeing Elinor incredulously. She is quite a sight, Elinor, with her pale, tight, over-made-up face, and veiny hands laden with rocks, and her steely, imperious gaze. She’s looking older too, I abruptly realize. Her skin is looking thin and papery, and I can see a couple of grey wisps at her temple which the hairdresser obviously missed. (I expect he’ll be shot at dawn.)
‘So, is there anything else I can help you with? Evening wear? Accessories?’
Elinor opens her mouth. Then she closes it, then opens it again. She looks as though she’s really struggling to utter something, and I watch in apprehension. Is she going to mention Luke? Does she have some piece of bad news? There
has
to be a reason she’s come here.
‘Evening wear,’ she murmurs at last.
Yeah, right. That’s really what you were about to say.
I fetch her six evening dresses and she chooses three. And then two bags. And a stole. The whole thing is becoming farcical. She’s spent about twenty grand and she still won’t look me in the eye and she
still
won’t say whatever she’s come here to say.
‘Would you like any … refreshments?’ I say at last, trying to sound normal and pleasant. ‘Can I get you a cappuccino? A cup of tea? A glass of champagne?’
We’ve run out of categories of clothes. She can’t buy anything else. She can’t stave it off any longer. Whatever
it
is.
Elinor’s just standing there, her head bowed slightly, her hands clutched around the handle of her bag. I’ve never known her this subdued. It’s almost scary. And she hasn’t insulted me once, I realize in sudden astonishment. She hasn’t said my shoes are shoddy or my nail polish is vulgar. What’s up with her? Is she
ill?
At last, as though with a huge effort, she raises her head.
‘Rebecca.’
‘Yes?’ I say nervously. ‘What is it?’
When she speaks again, it’s so quietly I can barely hear her.
‘I wish to see my grandchild.’
Oh God, oh God, oh God. What do I do?
All the way home my head is spinning. Never in a million years did I think this would happen. I didn’t think Elinor was even
interested
in Minnie.
When Minnie was first born she didn’t bother visiting us for about three months. Then she just pitched up one day with her driver waiting outside, glanced into the crib, said ‘Is she normal?’ and when we’d said yes, left. And whereas most people give you gorgeous things like teddies or cute booties, Elinor sent the most hideous antique doll with ringlets and scary eyes like in a horror film. It was so creepy, Mum wouldn’t have it in the house, and in the end I sold it on eBay. (So Elinor had better not ask to see it or anything.)
And all this was before the big row between her and Luke, since when we’ve barely mentioned her name. About two months before Christmas I tried to ask if we’d be giving her a present, and Luke nearly bit my head off. I haven’t dared mention her since.
Of course there’s one easy option ahead of me. I could just throw her card in the bin and pretend I never saw her. Blank the whole thing from my mind. I mean, what could she do about it?
But somehow … I can’t bring myself to. I’ve never seen Elinor look vulnerable before; not like she did today. During those tense moments when she was waiting for me to answer, I couldn’t see Elinor the ice-queen, I just saw Elinor the lonely old woman with papery hands.
Then, as soon as I said ‘OK, I’ll ask Luke,’ she immediately reverted to her normal sub-zero manner and started telling me how inferior The Look was to shops in Manhattan and how the English didn’t understand service culture and how there were specks on the carpet in the dressing room.
But somehow she’d got under my skin. I can’t ignore her. I can’t throw her card away. She may be a total bitch ice-queen but she
is
Minnie’s grandmother. They are flesh and blood. You know. If Elinor had any of either.
And after all, it’s possible Luke might have mellowed. What I need to do is raise the subject very carefully. Very, very gently, like waving an olive branch in the air. And I’ll see what happens.
So that night I wait up till Luke gets back, has kissed Minnie goodnight, had a whisky and is getting undressed, before I broach anything.
‘Luke … about your mother,’ I begin tentatively.
‘I was thinking about Annabel today too.’ Luke turns, his face softened. ‘Dad emailed me some old pictures of her today. I’ll show you.’
Oh, great start, Becky. I should have been clear
which
mother. Now he thinks I’ve brought up the subject of Annabel, it’s impossible to segue neatly into Elinor.
‘I was just thinking about … um … family ties.’ I change tack. ‘And family traits,’ I add in sudden inspiration. ‘Who do you think Minnie takes after most? She totally gets being a drama queen from Mum, and she has your eyes … in fact, she probably takes after everyone in the family a little bit, even …’ I hesitate, my heart thumping. ‘Even your biological mother. Elinor.’
‘I sincerely hope not,’ says Luke curtly, and bangs a drawer shut.
OK. So he doesn’t sound mellow.
‘But she
is
her grandmother, after all,’ I persist. ‘Minnie’s bound to take after her in some way or other—’
‘I don’t see that.’ He cuts me off. ‘Nurture’s what counts. I was always Annabel’s son, never that woman’s.’
Yikes.
That woman
. Things are even worse than I thought.
‘Right,’ I say feebly.
I can’t pipe up with ‘So how about we take Minnie to visit Elinor?’ Not now. I’ll have to leave it for the moment.
‘So, did you have a good rest of the day?’ I change topic.
‘Not bad.’ He nods. ‘And you? Get back all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I say innocently. ‘I got a cab. Thanks for asking.’
‘Strange area to have a cosmetic-surgery clinic, I was thinking,’ he adds casually. ‘Not what you would expect in the financial district.’
I make the mistake of meeting his eye – and there’s a tell-tale glint in it. I
knew
he was on to me.
The only way forward is to brazen it out.
‘Are you crazy?’ I retort. ‘It makes total sense. Look at all those haggard City workers walking around. You know, a recent magazine survey showed that City workers are more prematurely aged than any other sector, by 20 per cent.’
I’ve made this up, but Luke doesn’t know that, does he? And I bet it’s true.
‘You know what?’ I add, having a sudden bright thought. ‘The same survey said that if people feel cherished by their bosses they age less quickly.
And
they work better.’
‘I’m sure.’ Luke is checking his BlackBerry.
‘And it said that one way is for bosses to give their employees personalized, signed birthday cards,’ I persist. ‘Isn’t that interesting? Do you give people personalized cards at Brandon Communications?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Luke barely nods.
What a nerve. I feel like saying, ‘No you don’t! They’re all just in a pile in your office, unsigned!’
‘Oh, good.’ I force myself to sound casual. ‘Because apparently people feel really happy to know their boss has signed the card themselves and it hasn’t just been done by an assistant or anything. It raises their endorphins by 15 per cent.’
Luke pauses in his tapping. Yes! I’ve got through to him.
‘Becky … you do read a lot of crap.’
Crap?
‘It’s called
research
, actually,’ I say with dignity. ‘I thought you might be interested in how a tiny little thing like a signed birthday card could make all the difference. Because a lot of bosses would just forget. But obviously not you.’
Ha. Take that, Mr Too-busy-to-sign.
For a moment Luke is silenced.
‘Fascinating,’ he says at last. But then he reaches for a pencil and makes a note on the to-do list he carries around in his pocket. I pretend not to notice, but inside I smile a little satisfied smile.
OK, now I feel we’re done with this conversation. And I really don’t want to reprise the one about Botox. So with an elaborate yawn, I settle down to go to sleep.
But as I close my eyes, a vision of Elinor is still lingering in my head. I actually feel
guilty
about her, which is very weird, and a brand-new experience for me. But I can’t work out what to do about it now.
Oh well. I’ll think about it tomorrow.
From: Bonnie Seabright
Subject: Cards
Date: 23 January 2006
To: Becky Brandon
Luke has signed all the birthday cards! Many thanks! Bonnie!
From: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re: Cards
Date: 24 January 2006
To: Bonnie Seabright
No problem! Let me know if anything else is bugging you.
Becky xxx
PS have you managed to mention the gym yet?
CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1
Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
6 February 2006
Dear Rebecca
Thank you for your letter of 1 February.
The Chancellor has indeed made a recent speech in which he highlighted the importance of retail to the British economy.
Unfortunately at this time there are no specific OBEs or damehoods ‘for shopping’ as you suggest. Should such an honour be introduced I will be sure to put your name forward.
I therefore return with thanks your package of receipts and store tags, which I looked at with interest and agree shows ‘real commitment to sustaining the economy’.
Yours sincerely
Edwin Tredwell
Director of Policy Research