Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) 29

“Was it white?” someone else chimes in.

“Not really white…” I say.

“Was it a kind of shiny blue green?” comes Luke’s voice from the back. I look up sharply. He’s gazing at me, totally straight-faced.

“I don’t remember,” I say with dignity. “The color wasn’t important.”

“Did it feel like…” Luke appears to think hard. “Like the links of a chain were pulling you along?”

“That’s a very good image, Luke,” chimes in Chandra, pleased.

“No,” I say shortly. “It didn’t. Actually, I think you probably have to have a higher appreciation of spiritual matters to understand.”

“I see.” Luke nods gravely.

“Luke, you must be very proud.” Chandra beams at Luke. “Is this not the most extraordinary thing you have ever seen your wife do?”

There’s a beat of silence. Luke looks from me to the smoldering coals to the silent group and back to Chandra’s beaming face.

“Chandra,” he says. “Take it from me. This is nothing.”

After the class is finished everyone heads to the terrace, where cool drinks are waiting on a tray. But I stay on my mat, meditating, to show how dedicated I am to higher things. I’m half concentrating on the white light of my being and half imagining running over hot coals in front of Trudie and Sting while they applaud admiringly, when a shadow falls across my face.

“Greetings, O Spiritual One,” says Luke, and I open my eyes to see him standing in front of me, holding out a glass of juice.

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a beautiful inner being,” I retort, and casually smooth back my hair so the red dot painted on my forehead shows.

“Insanely,” agrees Luke. “Have a drink.”

He sits down beside me on the ground and hands me the glass. I take a sip of delicious, ice-cold passion-fruit juice and we both look out over the hills toward the distant horizon.

“You know, I could really live in Sri Lanka,” I say with a sigh. “It’s perfect. The weather… the scenery… all the people are so friendly…”

“You said the same in India,” Luke points out. “And Australia,” he adds as I open my mouth. “And Amsterdam.”

Oh.

God, Amsterdam. I’d completely forgotten we went there. That was after Paris. Or was it before?

Oh, yes. It was where I ate all those weird cakes and nearly fell in the canal.

I take another sip of juice and let my mind range back over the last ten months. We’ve visited so many countries, it’s kind of difficult to remember everything at once. It’s almost like a blur of film, with sharp, bright images here and there. Snorkeling with all those blue fish in the Great Barrier Reef… the pyramids in Egypt… the elephant safari in Tanzania… buying all that silk in Hong Kong… the gold souk in Morocco… finding that amazing Ralph Lauren outlet in Utah…

God, we’ve had some experiences. I sigh happily and take another sip of juice.

“I forgot to tell you.” Luke produces a pile of envelopes. “Some post came from England.”

I sit up in excitement and start leafing through the envelopes.

“Vogue!” I exclaim as I get to my special subscriber edition in its shiny plastic cover. “Ooh, look! They’ve got an Angel bag on the front cover!”

I wait for a reaction — but Luke looks blank. I feel a tiny flicker of frustration. How can he look blank? I read him out that whole piece about Angel bags last month, and showed him the pictures and everything.

I know this is our honeymoon. But just sometimes, I wish Luke was a girl.

“You know!” I say. “Angel bags! The most amazing, hip bags since… since…”

Oh, I’m not even going to bother explaining. Instead I gaze lustfully at the photograph of the bag. It’s made of soft, creamy tan calfskin, with a transparent resin handle and discreet zipper. But what makes it unique is the beautiful winged angel handpainted on the front, with the name Gabriel underneath in diamanté. There are six different angels: Gabriel, Michael, Dante, Raphael, Uriel, and Ariel. All the celebrities have been fighting over them, and Harrods is permanently sold out. HOLY PHENOMENON says the headline beside the picture.

I’m so engrossed, I barely hear Luke’s voice as he holds out another envelope.

“Ooze,” he seems to be saying.

“Sorry?” I look up in a daze.

“Here’s another letter,” he says patiently. “From Suze.”

“Suze?” I drop Vogue and grab it out of his hand. Suze is my best friend in the world. I have so missed her.