Minnie surveys the pony with total indifference. “Wagon.” “Pony!” I grab the pony off the floor.
This is so frustrating. How can she be so fickle? She definitely gets that trait from Mum.
“Wagon!”
“Pony!” I cry, more loudly than I meant to, and brandish the pony at her. “I want the poneee—”
Suddenly I get a prickly-neck feeling. I look round to see the woman with the toddler boys, standing a few yards away, staring at me with her pebblelike eyes.
“I mean . . .” I hastily lower the pony, my cheeks burning. “Yes, you may buy the pony out of your pocket money. Basic financial planning,” I add briskly to the pebble-eyed woman. “What we learned today is that you have to save up before you can buy things, didn’t we, darling? Minnie’s spent all her pocket money on the pony, and it was a very good choice—”
“I’ve found the other pony!” The assistant suddenly appears again, breathless and carrying a dusty box. “I knew we had one left in the stockroom; they were originally a pair, you see . . .”
There’s another pony?
I can’t help gasping as she draws it out. It’s midnight blue with a raven mane, speckled with stars, and with golden wheels. It’s absolutely stunning. It complements the other one perfectly. Oh God, we have to have them both. We have to.
Rather annoyingly, the pebble-eyed woman is still standing there with her buggy, watching us.
“Shame you’ve spent all your pocket money, isn’t it?” she says to Minnie with one of those tight, unfriendly smiles which proves she never has any fun or sex. You can always tell that about people, I find.
“Yes, isn’t it?” I say politely. “That’s a problem. So we’ll have to think of a solution.” I think hard for a moment, then turn to Minnie.
“Darling, here’s your second important lesson in financial planning. Sometimes, when we see an amazing one-off bargain, we can make an exception to the saving-up rule. It’s called seizing the opportunity.”
“You’re just going to buy it?” says the pebble-eyed woman in tones of disbelief.
What business is it of hers? God, I hate other mothers. They always have to butt in. The minute you have a child, it’s as if you’ve turned into a box on an Internet site that says, Please add all your rude and offensive comments here.
“Of course I’m not going to buy it,” I say, a little stonily. “She’ll have to get it out of her own pocket money. Darling.” I crouch down to get Minnie’s attention. “If you pay for the other pony out of your pocket money at fifty pence a week, it’ll take about . . . sixty more weeks. You’ll have to have an advance. Like an ‘overdraft.’?” I enunciate clearly. “So you’ll basically have spent all your pocket money till you’re three. All right?”
Minnie looks a bit bewildered. But then, I expect I looked a bit bewildered when I took out my first overdraft. It goes with the territory.
“All sorted.” I beam at the assistant and hand over my Visa card. “We’ll take both ponies, thank you. You see, darling?” I add to Minnie. “The lesson we’ve learned today is: Never give up on something you really want. However impossible things seem, there’s always a way.”
I can’t help feeing proud of myself, imparting this nugget of wisdom. That’s what parenting’s all about. Teaching your child the ways of the world.
“You know, I once found the most amazing opportunity,” I add, as I punch in my PIN. “It was a pair of Dolce and Gabbana boots at ninety percent off! Only, my credit card was up to my limit. But did I give up? No! Of course I didn’t!”
Minnie is listening as avidly as if I’m recounting The Three Bears.
“I went round my flat and searched in all my pockets and bags, and I collected up all my little coins—and guess what?” I pause for effect. “I had enough money! I could get the boots! Hooray!”
Minnie claps her hands, and to my delight, the toddler boys start cheering raucously.
“Do you want to hear another story?” I beam at them. “Do you want to hear about the sample sale in Milan? I was walking along the street one day, when I saw this mysterious sign.” I open my eyes wide. “And what do you think it said?”
“Ridiculous.” The pebble-eyed woman turns her buggy with an abrupt gesture. “Come on, it’s time to go home.”
“Story!” wails one of the boys.
“We’re not hearing the story,” she snaps. “You’re insane,” she adds over her shoulder as she strides off. “No wonder your child’s so spoiled. What are those little shoes of hers, then, Gucci?”
Spoiled?
Blood zings to my face and I stare at her in speechless shock. Where did that come from? Minnie is not spoiled!
And Gucci doesn’t even make shoes like that. “She’s not spoiled!” I manage at last.
But the woman has already disappeared behind the Postman Pat display. Well, I’m certainly not going to run after her and yell, “At least my child doesn’t just loll in the buggy sucking its thumb all day, and by the way have you ever thought about wiping your children’s noses?”
Because that wouldn’t be a good example to Minnie.
“Come on, Minnie.” I try to compose myself. “Let’s go and see Father Christmas. Then we’ll feel better.”
Excerpted from Mini Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella. Copyright © 2010 by Sophie Kinsella. Excerpted by permission of The Dial Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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SHOPAHOLIC TAKES MANHATTAN
A Delta Book
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by Sophie Kinsella
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
Delta® is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION INFORMATION
Kinsella, Sophie.
Shopaholic takes Manhattan / Sophie Kinsella.
p. cm.
“Delta trade paperbacks.''
“A Delta book''—T.p. verso.
1. British—New York (State)—New York—Fiction.
2. Manhattan (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.
3. Young women—Fiction.
4. Shopping—Fiction.
I. Title.
PR6061.I54 S56 2001
823'.92—dc21 2001047364
First published in 2001 by Transworld, United Kingdom, as Shopaholic Abroad
February 2002
eISBN: 978-0-440-33448-4
v3.0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Ch
apter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Acknowledgments
Also by Sophie Kinsella
For Gemma, who has always known the importance to a girl of a Denny and George scarf
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
18 July 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your letter of 15 July.
It is true that we have known each other a long time, and I am pleased that you consider me “more than just a bank manager.” I agree that friendship is important and was glad to hear that you would always lend me money should I need it.
However, I cannot reciprocate, as you suggest, by wiping £1,000 off your overdraft “accidentally on purpose.” I can assure you, the money would be missed.
Instead, I am prepared to extend your overdraft limit by another £500, taking it up to £4,000, and suggest that we meet before too long to discuss your ongoing financial needs.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
23 July 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
I am glad that my letter of 18 July proved helpful.
I should, however, be grateful if you refrained from referring to me personally on your television show as “Sweetie Smeathie” and “the best bank manager in the world.”
Although naturally I am pleased you feel this way, my superiors are a little anxious at the image of Endwich Bank which is being presented, and have asked that I write to you on the matter.
With all best wishes,
Derek Smeath
Manager
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
20 August 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your letter of 18 August.
I was sorry to hear that keeping within your new overdraft limit is proving so difficult. I understand that the Pied a Terre summer sale is a unique opportunity to save money in the long run, and I can certainly increase your limit by £63.50 if, as you say, this would “make all the difference.”
However, I would also recommend that you come into the branch for a more comprehensive review of your financial situation. My assistant, Erica Parnell, will be pleased to set up an appointment.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
One
OK, DON'T PANIC. Don't panic. It's simply a question of being organized and staying calm and deciding what exactly I need to take. And then fitting it all neatly into my suitcase. I mean, just how hard can that be?
I step back from my cluttered bed and close my eyes, half-hoping that if I wish hard enough, my clothes might magically organize themselves into a series of neatly folded piles. Like in those magazine articles on packing, which tell you how to go on holiday with one cheap sarong and cleverly turn it into six different outfits. (Which I always think is a complete con, because, OK, the sarong costs ten quid, but then they add loads of accessories which cost hundreds, and we're not supposed to notice.)
But when I open my eyes again, the clutter is all still there. In fact, there seems to be even more of it, as if while my eyes were shut, my clothes have been secretly jumping out of the drawers and running around on my bed. Everywhere I look, there are huge great tangled piles of . . . well . . . stuff. Shoes, boots, T-shirts, magazines . . . a Body Shop gift basket that was on sale . . . a Linguaphone Italian course which I'm definitely going to start soon . . . a facial sauna thingy . . . And, sitting proudly on my dressing table, a fencing mask and sword which I bought yesterday. Only forty quid from a charity shop!
I pick up the sword and experimentally give a little lunge toward my reflection in the mirror. It was a real coincidence, because I've been meaning to take up fencing for ages, ever since I read this article about it in The Daily World. Did you know that fencers have better legs than any other athletes? Plus, if you're an expert you can become a stunt double in a film and earn loads of money! So what I'm planning to do is find some fencing lessons nearby, and get really good, which I should think I'll do quite quickly.
And then—this is my secret little plan—when I've got my gold badge, or whatever it is, I'll write to Catherine Zeta-Jones. Because she must need a stunt double, mustn't she? And why shouldn't it be me? In fact she'd probably prefer someone British. Maybe she'll phone back and say she always watches my television appearances on cable, and she's always wanted to meet me! We'll probably really hit it off, and turn out to have the same sense of humor and everything. And then I'll fly out to her luxury home, and get to meet Michael Douglas and play with the baby. We'll be all relaxed together like old friends, and some magazine will do a feature on celebrity best friends and have us in it, and maybe they'll even ask me to be . . .
“Hi, Bex!” With a jolt, the happy pictures of me laughing with Michael and Catherine vanish, and my brain snaps into focus. Suze, my flatmate, is wandering into my room, wearing a pair of ancient paisley pajamas, with her blond hair in plaits. “What are you doing?” she asks curiously.
“Nothing!” I say, hastily putting the fencing sword back. “Just . . . you know. Keep fit.”
“Oh right,” she says vaguely. “So—how's the packing going?” She wanders over to my mantelpiece, picks up a lipstick, and begins to apply it. Suze always does this in my room—just wanders about picking things up and looking at them and putting them down again. She says she loves the way you never know what you might find, like in a junk shop. Which I'm fairly sure she means in a nice way.
“It's going really well,” I say. “I'm just deciding which suitcase to take.”
“Ooh,” says Suze, turning round, her mouth half bright pink. “What about that little cream one? Or your red holdall?”
“I thought maybe this one,” I say, hauling my new acid-green shell case out from under the bed. I bought it last weekend, and it's absolutely gorgeous.
“Wow!” says Suze, her eyes widening. “Bex! That's fab! Where did you get it?”
“Fenwicks,” I say, grinning broadly. “Isn't it amazing?”
“It's the coolest case I've ever seen!” says Suze, running her fingers admiringly over it. “So . . . how many suitcases have you got now?” She glances up at my wardrobe, on which are teetering a brown leather case, a lacquered trunk, and three vanity cases.
“Oh, you know,” I say, shrugging a little defensively. “The normal amount.”
I suppose I have been buying quite a bit of luggage recently. But the thing is, for ages I didn't have any, just one battered old canvas bag. Then, a few months ago I had an incredible revelation in the middle of Harrods, a bit like Saint Paul on the road to Mandalay. Luggage. And since then, I've been making up for all the lean years.
Besides which, everyone knows good luggage is an investment.
“I'm just making a cup of tea,” says Suze. “D'you want one?”
“Ooh, yes please!” I say. “And a KitKat?” Suze grins.
“Definitely a KitKat.”
Recently, we had this friend of Suze's to stay on our sofa—and when he left he gave us this huge box full of a hundred KitKats. Which is such a great thank-you present, but it means all we eat, all day long, is KitKats. Still, as Suze pointed out last night, the quicker we eat them, the quicker they'll be gone—so in a way, it's healthier just to stuff in as many as possible right away.
Suze ambles out of the room and I turn to my case. Right. Concentrate. Packing. This really shouldn't take long. All I need is a very basic, pared-down capsule wardrobe for a romantic minibreak in
Somerset. I've even written out a list, which should make things nice and simple.
Jeans: two pairs. Easy. Scruffy and not quite so scruffy.
T-shirts:
Actually, make that three pairs of jeans. I've got to take my new Diesel ones, they're just so cool, even if they are a bit tight. I'll just wear them for a few hours in the evening or something.
T-shirts:
Oh, and my embroidered cutoffs from Oasis, because I haven't worn them yet. But they don't really count because they're practically shorts. And anyway, jeans hardly take up any room, do they?
OK, that's probably enough jeans. I can always add some more if I need to.
T-shirts: selection. So let's see. Plain white, obviously. Gray, ditto. Black cropped, black vest (Calvin Klein), other black vest (Warehouse, but actually looks nicer), pink sleeveless, pink sparkly, pink—
I stop, halfway through transferring folded-up T-shirts into my case. This is stupid. How am I supposed to predict which T-shirts I'm going to want to wear? The whole point about T-shirts is you choose them in the morning according to your mood, like crystals, or aromatherapy oils. Imagine if I woke up in the mood for my “Elvis Is Groovy” T-shirt and I didn't have it with me?
You know, I think I'll just take them all. I mean, a few T-shirts aren't going to take up much room. I'll hardly even notice them.
I tip them all into my case and add a couple of cropped bra-tops for luck.
Excellent. This capsule approach is working really well. OK, what's next?
Ten minutes later, Suze wanders back into the room, holding two mugs of tea and three KitKats to share. (We've come to agree that four sticks, frankly, doesn't do it.)
“Here you are,” she says—then gives me a closer look. “Bex, are you OK?”
“I'm fine,” I say, rather pink in the face. “I'm just trying to fold up this insulated vest a bit smaller.”