Read Shopaholic Takes Manhattan for Free Online Page B

Luke’s waiting for you at reception.”
    “Already?” I look at my watch. “Oh God . . . OK—can you tell him I won’t be long?”
     
     
    I honestly don’t intend to spend that long on the phone. But once I get talking to Enid, it all comes out—about how she’s dreading retirement, and how her husband just wants her at home to cook for him. How she really loves her job and she was thinking about taking a computer course but her husband says it’s a waste of money . . . By the end I’m completely outraged. I’ve said exactly what I think, several times over, and am in the middle of asking Enid if she considers herself a feminist, when Zelda taps me on the shoulder and suddenly I remember where I am.
    It takes me about another five minutes to apologize to Enid and say I’ve got to go, then for her to apologize to
me—
and for us both to say good-bye and thank you and don’t mention it, about twenty times. Then, as quickly as possible, I head to my dressing room and change out of my
Morning Coffee
outfit into my driving outfit.
    I’m quite pleased with my appearance as I look at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing: a Pucci-esque multicolored top, frayed denim cutoffs, my new sandals, Gucci shades (Harvey Nichols sale—half price!), and my treasured pale blue Denny and George scarf.
    Luke’s got a real thing about my Denny and George scarf. When people ask us how we met, he always says, “Our eyes met across a Denny and George scarf,” which is actually kind of true. He lent me some of the money I needed to buy it, and he still maintains I never paid him back so it’s partly his. (Which is
so
not true. I paid him back straight away.)
    Anyway, I tend to wear it quite a lot when we go out together. Also when we stay in together. In fact, I’ll tell you a small secret—sometimes we even . . .
    Actually, no. You don’t need to know that. Forget I mentioned it.
    As I eventually hurry into reception I glance at my watch—and oh God, I’m forty minutes late. And there’s Luke sitting on a squashy chair, wearing the gorgeous polo shirt I bought him in the Ralph Lauren sale. He’s talking intently on his mobile phone and sipping a cup of coffee and frowning at something in the paper. But then he looks up and his dark eyes meet mine, and his whole face breaks into a smile. A true, affectionate smile, which makes him seem like a different person.
    When I first knew Luke, I only ever saw him businesslike and polite, or scarily angry, or—very occasionally—amused. Even after we started seeing each other, it was a long time before he really let his guard down. In fact, the first time he really, really laughed, I was so surprised, I snorted lemonade through my nose.
    Even now, whenever I see his face creasing into a real smile, I feel a bit of a lift inside. Because I know he’s not like that with everyone. He’s smiling like that because it’s me. For me.
    “I’m really sorry I took so long,” I say. “I was just . . .”
    “I know,” says Luke, closing his paper and standing up. “You were talking to Enid.” He gives me a kiss and squeezes my arm. “I saw the last couple of calls. Good for you.”
    “You just won’t believe what her husband’s like!” I say as we go through the swing doors and out into the car park. “No wonder she wants to keep working!”
    “I can imagine.”
    “He just thinks she’s there to give him an easy life.” I shake my head fiercely. “You know, I’m never going to just . . . stay at home and cook your supper. Never in a million years.”
    There’s a short silence, and I look up to see Luke’s amused expression.
    “Or . . . you know,” I add hastily. “Anyone’s supper.”
    “I’m glad to hear it,” says Luke mildly. “I’m especially glad if you’re never going to cook me Moroccan couscous surprise.”
    “You know what I mean,” I say, flushing slightly. “And you promised you weren’t going to talk about that anymore.”
    My famous Moroccan