Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) 29

Jess regards me for a few moments.

“Well, I think you need help,” she says at last.

“I do not need help!” I retort.

I shut down the computer, push back my chair, and stalk past her into the kitchen, where Luke is making a pot of coffee.

“Enjoying your breakfast, darling?” I say in loud tones.

“Fantastic!” says Luke. “Where did you get these quails’ eggs?”

“Oh… you know…” I give him an affectionate smile. “I know you like them, so I tracked some down.” I shoot a triumphant look at Jess, who rolls her eyes.

“We’re out of bacon, though,” says Luke. “And a couple of other things. I’ve written them down.”

“OK,” I say, suddenly having an idea. “In fact… I’ll go out and get them this morning. Jess, you don’t mind if I do some household chores, do you? I don’t expect you to come, of course,” I add sweetly. “I know how much you despise shopping.”

Thank goodness. Escape.

“It’s OK,” says Jess, filling a glass of water at the tap. “I’d like to come.”

My smile freezes on my face.

“To Harr— To the supermarket? But it’ll be very boring. Please don’t feel that you have to.”

“I’d like to.” She looks at me. “If you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” I say, my smile still rigid. “Why would I mind? I’ll just go and get ready.”

As I head into the hall I’m hot with indignation. Who does she think she is, saying I need help?

She needs help, more like it. Help in how to crank her miserable mouth into a smile.

And what a bloody nerve, giving me advice on my marriage. What does she know about it? Luke and I have a brilliant marriage! We’ve hardly ever even had a row!

The entry phone buzzes, and I pick up the receiver, still distracted.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” comes a man’s voice. “I have a delivery of flowers for Brandon.”

I press the button in delight. Someone’s sent me flowers?

I clap my hand over my mouth. Luke must have sent me flowers. He’s so romantic! This is probably some really cute anniversary that I’d forgotten all about, like the first time we had dinner together, or slept together, or something.

Actually… that would be the same anniversary, now that I think about it.

But anyway, the point is, this just proves it. This just proves what a fantastic relationship we have and how Jess is totally wrong. About everything.

I throw open the apartment door and stand expectantly by the lift. This’ll show her! I’ll take my flowers straight into the kitchen and give Luke a huge passionate kiss, and she’ll say something really humble like “I had no idea what a perfect relationship you two had.” And I’ll smile kindly and say “You know, Jess—”

My thoughts are interrupted as the lift doors start opening. And oh… my God. Luke must have spent an absolute fortune!

Two uniformed deliverymen are carrying the most enormous bouquet of roses — plus a huge fruit basket full of oranges, papayas, and pineapples, all wrapped up in trendy raffia.

“Wow!” I say in delight. “Those are absolutely fantastic!” I beam at the man offering me a clipboard and scribble my signature.

“And you’ll pass them on to Mr. Brandon,” says the man as he gets back into the lift.

“Of course!” I say gaily.

A moment later his words register.

Hang on a minute. These are for Luke? Who on earth is sending flowers to Luke?

I spot a card nestled among the flowers and pull it out with a pleasant thrill of curiosity.

Dear Mr Brandon

I was extremely sorry to hear of your illness. Please let me know if I can be of any help. And be assured, we can delay the hotel launch as long as is necessary to enable your full recovery.

All best wishes,

Nathan Temple

I’m paralyzed with horror. Nathan Temple wasn’t supposed to send flowers. He wasn’t supposed to delay the hotel launch. He was supposed to go away.

“What’s that?” comes Luke’s voice. I start in panic and look up to see him heading out of the kitchen toward me.

In one seamless movement I crumple Nathan Temple’s card and stuff it into the pocket of my dressing gown.

“Hi!” I say, my voice a little high-pitched. “Aren’t these great?”

“Are those for me?” Luke says incredulously, spotting the delivery label. “Who are they from?”

“They’re… um… they’re… from me!” I say brightly.