Shopaholic And Sister Part 13

"Look, darling," I say hurriedly. "It's our dining table from Sri Lanka. Remember? Our personalized table! Our symbol of married love." I give him an affectionate smile, but he's shaking his head.

"Becky-"

"Don't spoil the moment!" I put an arm round him. "It's our special honeymoon table! It's our heirloom of the future! We have to watch it being delivered!"

"OK," Luke says at last. "Whatever."

The men are carefully carrying the table down the ramp, and I have to say, I'm impressed. Bearing in mind how heavy it is, they seem to be managing it quite easily.

"Isn't it exciting?" I clutch Luke's arm as it comes into sight. "Just think! There we were in Sri Lanka-"

I break off, a little confused.

This isn't the wooden table after all. It's a transparent gla.s.s table, with curved steel legs. And another guy behind is carrying a pair of trendy red felt-covered chairs.

I stare at it in horror. A cold feeling is creeping over me.

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t.

The table I bought at the Copenhagen Design Fair. I had totally forgotten about that.

How could I forget I bought a whole dining table? How?

"Hold on," Luke's calling, his hand raised. "Guys, that's the wrong table. Ours is wooden. A big carved-wood table from Sri Lanka."

"There's one of them an' all," says the delivery guy. "In the other lorry."

"But we didn't buy this!" says Luke.

He gives me a questioning look and I quickly rearrange my features as though to say "I'm as baffled as you are!"

Inside, my mind is working frantically: I'll deny I've ever seen it; we'll send it back; it'll all be fine- " 's.h.i.+pped by Mrs. Rebecca Brandon,' " the guy reads aloud from the label. "Table and ten chairs. From Denmark. Here's the signature."

f.u.c.k.

Very slowly, Luke turns toward me.

"Becky, did you buy a table and ten chairs in Denmark?" he says almost pleasantly.

"Er . . ." I lick my lips nervously. "Er . . . I-I might have."

"I see." Luke closes his eyes for a moment as though weighing up a math problem. "And then you bought another table-and ten more chairs-in Sri Lanka?"

"I forgot about the first one!" I say desperately. "I totally forgot! Look, it was a very long honeymoon. . . . I lost track of a few things. . . ."

Out of the corner of my eye I can see a guy picking up the bundle of twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns. s.h.i.+t.

I think I have to get Luke away from these lorries as soon as possible.

"We'll sort it all out," I say quickly. "I promise. But now, why don't you go upstairs and have a nice drink? You just relax! And I'll stay down here and do the supervising."

An hour later it's all finished. The men close up the lorries and I hand them a hefty tip. As they roar away I look over to see Luke coming out the front door of the building.

"Hi!" I say. "Well, that wasn't too bad, was it?"

"Do you want to come upstairs a minute?" Luke says in a strange voice.

As we travel up in the lift I smile at Luke a couple of times, but he doesn't smile back.

"So . . . did you put all the stuff in the sitting room?" I say as we approach the front door. "Or in the-"

My voice dies away as the door swings open.

Oh my G.o.d.

Luke's flat is totally unrecognizable.

The beige carpet has disappeared under a sea of parcels, trunks, and pieces of furniture. The hall is crammed with boxes which I recognize from the outlet in Utah, plus the batik paintings from Bali and the two Chinese urns. I edge past them into the sitting room, and gulp as I look around. There are packages everywhere. Rolled-up kilims and dhurries are propped up in one corner. In another, the Indonesian gamelan is jostling for s.p.a.ce with a slate coffee table turned on its side and a Native American totem pole.

I'm sensing it's my turn to speak.

"Gos.h.!.+" I give a little laugh. "There are quite a lot of . . . rugs, aren't there?"

"Seventeen," says Luke, still in the same strange voice. "I've counted." He steps over a bamboo coffee table which I got in Thailand and looks at the label of a large wooden chest. "This box apparently contains forty mugs." He looks up. "Forty mugs?"

"I know it sounds like a lot," I say quickly. "But they were only about 50p each! It was a bargain! We'll never need to buy mugs ever again!"

Luke regards me for a moment.

"Becky, I never want to buy anything ever again."

"Look . . ." I try to step toward him but b.u.mp my knee on a painted wooden statue of Ganesh, the G.o.d of wisdom and success. "It's . . . it's not that bad! I know it seems like a lot. But it's like . . . an optical illusion. Once it's all unpacked, and we put it all away . . . it'll look great!"

"We have five coffee tables," says Luke, ignoring me. "Were you aware of that?"

"Er . . . well." I clear my throat. "Not exactly. So we might have to . . . rationalize a bit."

"Rationalize?" Luke looks around the room incredulously. "Rationalize this lot? It's a mess!"

"Maybe it looks a bit of a mishmash at the moment," I say hurriedly. "But I can pull it all together! I can make it work! It'll be our signature look. If we just do some mood boards-"

"Becky," Luke interrupts. "Would you like to know what mood I'm in right now?"

"Er . . ."

I watch nervously as Luke s.h.i.+fts two packages from Guatemala aside and sinks down on the sofa.

"What I want to know is . . . how did you pay for all this?" he asks, wrinkling his brow. "I had a quick check through our bills, and there's no record of any Chinese urns. Or giraffes. Or tables from Copenhagen . . ." He gives me a hard look. "What's been going on, Becky?"

I'm totally pinned. Even if I did want to run, I'd probably skewer myself on Ganesh's pointy fingers.

"Well." I can't quite meet his eye. "I do have this . . . this credit card."

"The one you keep hidden in your bag?" says Luke without missing a beat. "I checked that too."

Oh G.o.d.

There's no way out of this.

"Actually . . . not that one." I swallow hard. "Another one."

"Another one?" Luke is staring at me. "You have a second secret credit card?"

"It's just for emergencies! Everyone has the odd emergency-"

"What, emergency silk dressing gowns? Emergency Indonesian gamelans?"

There's silence. I can't quite reply. My fingers are all twisted in knots behind my back.

"So . . . you've been paying it off secretly, is that it?" He looks at my agonized face and his expression changes. "You haven't been paying it off?"

"The thing is . . ." My fingers twist even tighter. "They gave me quite a big limit."

"For G.o.d's sake, Becky-"

"It's OK! I'll pay it off! You don't need to worry about anything. I'll take care of it-"

"With what?" retorts Luke.

My face flames with humiliation. I know I'm not earning right now. But he doesn't have to rub it in.

"When I start my job," I say, trying to sound calm. "I am going to have an income, you know, Luke. I'm not some kind of freeloader."

Luke looks at me for a few moments, then sighs.

"I know," he says gently. He holds out his hand. "Come here."

After a moment I pick my way across the crowded floor to the sofa. I find a tiny s.p.a.ce to sit down and he puts his arm round me. For a while we both look silently at the ocean of clutter. It's like we're two survivors on a desert island.

"Becky, we can't carry on like this," Luke says at last. "Do you know how much our honeymoon cost us?"

"Er . . . no."

Suddenly it strikes me that I have absolutely no idea what anything has cost. It was me who bought the round-the-world airline tickets, but apart from that, Luke's been doing all the paying, all the way along.

Has our honeymoon ruined us?

I glance sideways at Luke-and for the first time see how stressed he looks.

Oh G.o.d. We've lost all our money and Luke's been trying to hide it from me.

I suddenly feel like the wife in It's a Wonderful Life when James Stewart comes home and snaps at the children. Even though we're on the brink of financial disgrace, it's my role to be brave and serene.

"Luke . . . are we very poor?" I ask, as calmly as I can.

Luke turns his head and looks at me.

"No, Becky," he says patiently. "We're not very poor. But we will be if you keep buying mountains of c.r.a.p."

Mountains of c.r.a.p? I'm about to make an indignant retort when I see his expression. Instead, I close my mouth and nod humbly.

"So I think . . ." Luke pauses. "I think we need to inst.i.tute a budget."

Eight.

A BUDGET.

This is OK. I can handle a budget. Easily. In fact, I'm looking forward to it. It'll be quite liberating, knowing exactly how much I can spend.

Plus everyone knows, the point about budgets is that you make them work for you. Exactly.

"So . . . how much is my budget for today?" I say, hovering by the study door. It's about an hour later and Luke is searching for something in his desk. He looks a bit stressed.

"I'm sorry?" he says without looking up.

"I was just wondering what my budget is for today. About twenty pounds?"

"I guess so," Luke says distractedly.

"So . . . can I have it?"

"What?"

"Can I have my twenty pounds?"

Luke stares at me for a moment as though I'm completely mad, then takes his wallet out of his pocket, gets out a twenty-pound note, and hands it to me. "OK?"

"Fine. Thanks."

I look at the note. Twenty pounds. That's my challenge. I feel like some wartime housewife being given her ration book.