Read an extract from Becky’s newest adventure . . .

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THE SHOPAHOLIC SERIES

Starring the unforgettable Becky Bloomwood

THE SECRET DREAMWORLD OF A SHOPAHOLIC (also published as Confessions of a Shopaholic)
Meet Becky – a journalist who spends all her time telling people how to manage money, and all her leisure time spending it. But the letters from her bank manager are getting harder to ignore. Can she ever escape this dream world, find true love . . . and regain the use of her credit card?

SHOPAHOLIC ABROAD
Becky’s life is peachy. Her balance is in the black – well, nearly – and now her boyfriend has asked her to move to New York with him. Can Becky keep the man and the clothes, when there’s so much temptation around every corner?

SHOPAHOLIC TIES THE KNOT
Becky finally has the perfect job, the perfect man and, at last, the perfect wedding. Or rather, weddings . . . How has Becky ended up with not one, but two big days?

SHOPAHOLIC & SISTER
Becky has received some incredible news. She has a long-lost sister! But how will she cope when she realises her sister is not a shopper . . . but a skinflint?

SHOPAHOLIC & BABY
Becky is pregnant! But being Becky, she decides to shop around – for a new, more expensive obstetrician, and unwittingly ends up employing Luke’s ex-girlfriend! How will Becky make it through the longest nine months of her life?

MINI SHOPAHOLIC
Times are hard, so Becky’s Cutting Back. She has the perfect idea: throw a budget-busting birthday party. But her daughter Minnie can turn the simplest event into chaos. Whose turn will it be to sit on the naughty step?

SHOPAHOLIC TO THE STARS
Becky is in Hollywood! And she has her heart set on a new career – she’s going to be a celebrity stylist. With her best friend Suze, she embarks on the Hollywood insider trail. But somehow, things aren’t quite working out as they hoped . . .

SHOPAHOLIC TO THE RESCUE
Becky is on a major rescue mission! On a road trip to Las Vegas to help her friends and family, she comes up with her biggest, boldest, most brilliant plan yet! So can she save the day just when they need her most?

OTHER BOOKS

Sophie Kinsella’s hilarious, heart-warming standalone novels

 

CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?
Certain she’s going to die in a plane crash, Emma blurts out her deepest, darkest secrets to the sexy stranger next to her. But it’s OK, because she’ll never have to see him again . . . will she?

THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS
Samantha works all hours, has no home life and thrives on adrenalin. Then one day it all falls apart. She finds herself a new life as housekeeper in a country house. Will her old life ever catch up with her? And if it does, will she want it back?

REMEMBER ME?
What if you woke up and your life was perfect? Somehow Lexi’s life has fast-forwarded three years, and she has everything she’s ever wanted – the job, the house, the man. Or does she? What went on in those missing years, and can she cope when she finds out the truth?

TWENTIES GIRL
Lara has always had an overactive imagination. But even she finds it hard to believe when the ghost of her great aunt Sadie shows up, asking for her help. Is Lara losing her mind? Or could two girls from different times end up helping each other?

I’VE GOT YOUR NUMBER
First Poppy loses her engagement ring – a priceless heirloom – and then she misplaces her phone. The only alternative seems to be to take a mobile she finds in a bin. Little knowing that she’s picked up another man in the process …

WEDDING NIGHT
Lottie is determined to get married. And Ben seems perfect – they have history, he’s gorgeous and he’s willing to do it now. They’ll iron out their little differences later. All that’s left to do is seal the deal. But their families have different plans . . .

AVAILABLE AS A DIGITAL SHORT ONLY

SIX GEESE A-LAYING
Christmas is approaching, and Ginny is looking forward to the birth of her first baby. It’s a pity her partner Dan is so useless, and she has to keep reminding him where he’s going wrong. She’s enrolled into the most exclusive antenatal class going – and like the other five women in the class, Ginny already knows exactly how she’s going to handle motherhood. Or does she?

BREITLING SHIPPING COMPANY

TOWER HOUSE

CANARY WHARF

LONDON E14 5HG

Fax for:	Mrs Rebecca Brandon
	c/o Four Seasons Hotel
	Sydney
	Australia
From:	Denise O’Connor
	Customer Service Coordinator

Dear Mrs Brandon

We are sorry to inform you that your Bondi Beach ‘carved sand mermaid’ has disintegrated during shipping.

We would remind you that we made no guarantees as to its safety and advised you against the shipping process.

Yours sincerely

Denise O’Connor

Customer Service Coordinator

ONE

OK. I can do this. No problem.

It’s simply a matter of letting my higher self take over, achieving enlightenment, and becoming a radiant being of white light.

Easy-peasy.

Surreptitiously I adjust myself on my yoga mat so I’m facing the sun directly, and push down the spaghetti straps of my top. I don’t see why you can’t reach ultimate bliss consciousness and get an even tan at the same time.

I’m sitting on a hillside in the middle of Sri Lanka at the Blue Hills Resort and Spiritual Retreat, and the view is spectacular. Hills and tea plantations stretch ahead, then merge into a deep-blue sky. I can see the bright colours of tea-pickers in the fields, and, if I swivel my head a little, glimpse a distant elephant padding slowly along between the bushes.

And when I swivel my head even further, I can see Luke. My husband. He’s the one on the blue yoga mat, in the cut-off linen trousers and tatty old top, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed.

I know. It’s just unbelievable. After ten months of honeymoon, Luke has turned into a totally different person from the man I married. The old corporate Luke has vanished. The suits have disappeared. He’s tanned and lean, his hair is long and sun-bleached and he’s still got a few of the little plaits he had put in on Bondi Beach. Round his wrist is a friendship bracelet he bought in the Masai Mara, and in his ear is a tiny silver hoop.

Luke Brandon with an earring! Luke Brandon sitting cross-legged!

As though he can feel my gaze, he opens his eyes and smiles, and I beam back happily. Ten months married. And not a single row.

Well. You know. Only the odd little one.

‘Siddhasana,’ says our yoga teacher, Chandra, and obediently I place my right foot on my left thigh. ‘Clear your minds of all extraneous thought.’

OK. Clear my mind. Concentrate.

I don’t want to boast, but I find clearing my mind pretty easy. I don’t quite get why anyone would find it difficult! I mean, not-thinking has to be a lot easier than thinking, doesn’t it?

In fact, the truth is I’m a bit of a natural at yoga. We’ve only been on this retreat for five days but already I can do the lotus and everything! I was even thinking I might set up as a yoga teacher when we go back home.

Maybe I could set up in partnership with Trudie Styler. God, yes! And we could launch a range of yoga-wear too, all soft greys and whites, with a little logo . . .

‘Focus on your breathing,’ Chandra is saying.

Oh, right, yes. Breathing.

Breathe in . . . breathe out. Breathe in . . . breathe out. Breathe . . .

God, my nails look fab. I had them done at the spa – little pink butterflies on a white background. And the antennae are little sparkly diamonds. They are so sweet. Except one seems to have fallen off. I must get that fixed—

‘Becky.’ Chandra’s voice makes me jump. He’s standing right in front of me, gazing at me with this look he has. Kind of gentle and all-knowing, like he can see right inside your mind.

‘You do very well, Becky,’ he says. ‘You have a beautiful spirit.’

I feel a sparkle of delight all over. I, Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, have a beautiful spirit! I knew it!

‘You have an unworldly soul,’ he adds in his soft voice, and I stare back, totally mesmerized.

‘Material possessions aren’t important to me,’ I say breathlessly. ‘All that matters to me is yoga.’

‘You have found your path.’ Chandra smiles.

There’s an odd kind of snorting sound from Luke’s direction, and I look round to see him glancing over at us in amusement.

I knew Luke wasn’t taking this seriously.

‘This is a private conversation between me and my guru, thank you very much,’ I say crossly.

Although actually I shouldn’t be surprised. We were warned about this on the first day of the yoga course. Apparently when one partner finds higher spiritual enlightenment, the other partner can react with scepticism and even jealousy.

‘Soon you will be walking on the hot coals.’ Chandra gestures with a smile to the nearby pit of smouldering, ashy coals, and a nervous laugh goes round the group. This evening Chandra and some of his top yoga students are going to demonstrate walking on the coals for the rest of us. This is what we’re all supposed to be aiming for. Apparently you attain a state of bliss so great you can’t actually feel the coals burning your feet. You’re totally pain-free!

What I’m secretly hoping is, it’ll work when I wear six-inch stilettos, too.

Chandra adjusts my arms and moves on, and I close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face. Sitting here on this hillside in the middle of nowhere, I feel so pure and calm. It’s not just Luke who’s changed over the last ten months. I have, too. I’ve grown up. My priorities have altered. In fact, I’m a different person. I mean, look at me now, doing yoga at a spiritual retreat. My old friends probably wouldn’t even recognize me!

At Chandra’s instruction, we all move into the Vajrasana pose. From where I am, I can just see an old Sri Lankan man carrying two old carpet bags approaching Chandra. They have a brief conversation, during which Chandra keeps shaking his head, then the old man trudges away again over the scrubby hillside. When he’s out of earshot, Chandra turns to face the group, rolling his eyes.

‘This man is a merchant. He asks if any of you are interested in gems. Necklaces, cheap bracelets. I tell him your minds are on higher things.’

A few people near me shake their heads as though in disbelief. One woman, with long red hair, looks affronted.

‘Couldn’t he see we were in the middle of meditation?’ she says.

‘He has no understanding of your spiritual devotion.’ Chandra looks seriously around the group. ‘It will be the same with many others in the world. They will not understand that meditation is food for your soul. You have no need for . . . sapphire bracelet!’

A few people nod in appreciation.

‘Aquamarine pendant with platinum chain,’ Chandra continues dismissively. ‘How does this compare to the radiance of inner enlightenment?’

Aquamarine?

Wow. I wonder how much –

I mean, not that I’m interested. Obviously not. It’s just that I happened to be looking at aquamarines in a shop window the other day. Just out of academic interest.

My eye drifts towards the retreating figure of the old man.

‘Three-carat setting, five-carat setting, he keep saying. All half-price.’ Chandra shakes his head. ‘I tell him, these people are not interested.’

Half-price? Five-carat aquamarines at half-price?

Stop it. Stop it. Chandra’s right. Of course I’m not interested in stupid aquamarines. I’m absorbed in spiritual enlightenment.

Anyway, the old man’s nearly gone now. He’s just a tiny figure on top of the hill. In a minute he’ll have disappeared.

‘And now,’ Chandra smiles, ‘the Halasana pose. Becky, will you demonstrate?’

‘Absolutely.’ I smile back at Chandra and prepare to get into position on my mat.

But something’s wrong. I don’t feel contentment. I don’t feel tranquillity. The oddest feeling is welling up inside me, driving everything else out. It’s getting stronger and stronger . . .

And suddenly I can’t contain it any more. Before I know what’s happening, I’m running in my bare feet as fast as I can up the hill towards the tiny figure. My lungs are burning, my feet are smarting and the sun’s beating down on my bare head, but I don’t stop until I’ve reached the crest of the hill. I come to a halt and look around, panting.

I don’t believe it. He’s gone. Where did he vanish to?

I stand for a few moments, regaining my breath, peering in all directions. But I can’t see him anywhere.

At last, feeling a little dejected, I turn and make my way back down the hillside to the group. As I get near I realize they’re all shouting and waving at me. Oh God. Am I in trouble?

‘You did it!’ the red-haired woman’s yelling. ‘You did it!’

‘Did what?’

‘You ran over the hot coals! You did it, Becky!’

What?

I look down at my feet . . . and I don’t believe it. They’re covered in grey ash! In a daze, I look at the pit of coals – and there’s a set of clear footprints running through it.

Oh my God. Oh my God! I ran over the coals! I ran over the burning hot smouldering coals! I did it!

‘But . . . but I didn’t even notice!’ I say, bewildered. ‘My feet aren’t even burned!’

‘How did you do it?’ demands the red-haired woman. ‘What was in your mind?’

‘I can answer.’ Chandra comes forward, smiling. ‘Becky has achieved the highest form of karmic bliss. She was concentrating on one goal, one pure image, and this has driven her body to achieve a supernatural state.’

Everyone is goggling at me like I’m suddenly the Dalai Lama.

‘It was nothing really,’ I say with a modest smile. ‘Just . . . you know. Spiritual enlightenment.’

‘Can you describe the image?’ says the red-haired woman in excitement.

‘Was it white?’ asks someone else.

‘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 back, totally straight-faced.

‘I don’t remember,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘The colour 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 smouldering 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 will be waiting on a tray. But I stay meditating on my mat, 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 spirit,’ I retort, and casually smooth back my hair so the red painted dot 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 passionfruit juice and we both look out over the hills towards the distant haze.

‘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,’ points out Luke. ‘And Australia,’ he adds as I open my mouth. ‘And Amsterdam.’

God, Amsterdam. I’d completely forgotten we went there. That was after Paris. Or do I mean 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. Snorkelling 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 give a happy sigh, 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 beautiful winged angel hand-painted on the front, and the name ‘Gabriel’ underneath in diamante. There are six different angels, and all the celebrities have been fighting over them. Harrods is permanently sold out. ‘Holy phenomenon,’ says the strapline 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.

‘I said 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.

The envelope is all thick and creamy white and has a crest on the back with a Latin motto. I always forget how totally grand Suze is. When she sent us a Christmas card, it was a picture of her husband Tarquin’s castle in Scotland, with ‘From the Cleath-Stuart Estate’ printed inside. (Except you could hardly read it because her one-year-old, Ernie, had covered it with red and blue fingerpaints.)

I tear it open and a stiff card falls out.

‘It’s an invitation!’ I exclaim. ‘To the christening of the twins.’

I gaze at the formal, swirly writing, feeling a slight pang. Wilfrid and Clementine Cleath-Stuart. Suze has had two more babies and I haven’t even seen them. They’ll be about two months old by now. I wonder what they look like. I wonder how Suze is doing. So much has been going on without us.

I turn over the card, where Suze has written a scrawled message.

‘I know you won’t be able to come, but thought you’d like it anyway . . . hope you’re still having a wonderful time! All our love, Suze xxx. PS Ernie loves his Chinese outfit, thank you so much!!’

‘It’s in two weeks,’ I say, showing Luke the card. ‘Shame, really. We won’t be able to go.’

‘No,’ agrees Luke. ‘We won’t.’

There’s a short silence. Then Luke meets my eye. ‘I mean . . . you’re not ready to go back yet, are you?’ he says casually.

‘No!’ I say at once. ‘Of course not!’

We’ve only been travelling for ten months, and we planned to be away for at least a year. Plus we’ve got the spirit of the road in our feet now. We’ve become wandering nomads who gather no moss. Maybe we’ll never be able to go back to normal life, like sailors who can’t go and live on the land.

I put the invitation back in its envelope and take a sip of my drink. I wonder how Mum and Dad are. I haven’t heard much from them recently, either. I wonder how Dad did in the golf tournament.

And little Ernie will be walking by now. I’m his godmother and I’ve never even seen him walk.

Anyway. Never mind. I’m having amazing world experiences instead.

‘We need to decide where to go next,’ says Luke, leaning back on his elbows. ‘After we finish the yoga course. We were talking about Malaysia.’

‘Yes,’ I say, after a pause. It must be the heat or something, but I can’t actually get up much enthusiasm for Malaysia.

‘Or back to Indonesia? Up to the northern bits?’

‘Mmm,’ I say noncommittally. ‘Oh look, a monkey.’

I cannot believe I’ve got so blasé about the sight of monkeys. The first time I saw those baboons in Kenya I was so excited I took about six rolls of film. Now it’s just, ‘Oh look, a monkey.’

‘Or Nepal . . . or back to Thailand . . .’

‘Or we could go back,’ I hear myself saying out of nowhere.

There’s silence.

How weird. I didn’t intend to say that. I mean, obviously we’re not going to go back yet. It hasn’t even been a year!

Luke sits up straight and looks at me.

‘Back, back?’

‘No!’ I say with a little laugh. ‘I’m just joking!’ I hesitate. ‘Although . . .’

There’s a still silence between us.

‘Maybe . . . we don’t have to travel for a year,’ I say tentatively. ‘If we don’t want to.’

Luke passes a hand through his hair, and the little beads on his plaits all click together.

‘Are we ready to go back?’

‘I don’t know.’ I feel a little thrill of trepidation. ‘Are we?’

I can hardly believe we’re even talking about going home. I mean, look at us! My hair’s all dry and bleached, I’ve got henna on my feet and I haven’t worn a proper pair of shoes for months.

An image comes to my mind of myself walking down a London street in a coat and boots. Shiny high-heeled boots by L K Bennett. And a matching handbag.

Suddenly I feel a wave of longing so strong I almost want to cry.

‘I think I’ve had enough of the world.’ I look at Luke. ‘I’m ready for real life.’

‘Me too.’ Luke takes my hand and weaves his fingers between mine. ‘I’ve been ready for a while, actually.’

‘You never said!’ I stare at him.

‘I didn’t want to break up the party. But I’m certainly ready.’

‘You would have kept travelling . . . just for me?’ I say, touched.

‘Well, it’s not exactly hardship.’ Luke looks at me wryly. ‘We’re hardly roughing it, are we?’

I feel a slight flush come to my cheeks. When we set off on this trip, I told Luke I was determined we were going to be real travellers, like in The Beach, and only sleep in little huts.

That was before I’d spent a night in a little hut.

‘So when we say “back” –’ Luke pauses, ‘we are talking London?’

He looks at me questioningly.

Oh God. Finally, it’s decision time.

We’ve been talking for ten months about where we should live after the honeymoon. Before we got married, Luke and I were living in New York. And I loved it. But I kind of missed home, too. And now Luke’s UK business is expanding into Europe, and that’s where all the excitement is. So he’d like to go back to London, at least for a while.

Which is fine . . . except I won’t have a job. My old job was as a personal shopper at Barneys, in New York. And I adored it.

But never mind. I’m bound to find a new job. An even better one!

‘London,’ I say decisively, and look up. ‘So . . . can we be back in time for the christening?’

‘If you like.’ Luke smiles, and I feel a sudden leap of exhilaration. We’re going to the christening! I’m going to see Suze again! And my mum and dad! After nearly a year! They’ll all be so excited to see us. We’ll have so many stories to tell them!

I have a sudden vision of myself presiding over candlelit supper parties with all my friends gathered round, listening avidly to tales of faraway lands and exotic adventures. I’ll be just like Marco Polo or someone! Then I’ll open my trunk to reveal rare and precious treasures . . . everyone will gasp in admiration . . .

‘We’d better let them know,’ says Luke, getting up.

‘No, wait,’ I say, grabbing his trousers. ‘I’ve had an idea. Let’s surprise them! Let’s surprise everybody!’

‘Surprise everybody?’ Luke looks doubtful. ‘Becky, are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘It’s a brilliant idea! Everyone loves a surprise!’

‘But—’

‘Everyone loves a surprise,’ I repeat confidently. ‘Trust me.’

We walk back through the gardens to the main hotel – and I do feel a slight twinge at the thought of leaving. It’s so beautiful here. All teak bungalows and amazing birds everywhere, and if you follow the stream through the grounds, there’s a real waterfall! We pass the wood-carving centre, where you can watch craftsmen at work, and I pause for a moment, inhaling the delicious scent of wood.

‘Mrs Brandon!’ The head craftsman, Vijay, has appeared at the entrance.

Damn. I didn’t know he’d be around.

‘Sorry, Vijay!’ I say quickly. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ll see you later . . . come on, Luke!’

‘No problem!’ Vijay beams and wipes his hands on his apron. ‘I just wanted to tell you that your table is ready.’

Shit.

Slowly Luke turns to look at me.

‘Table?’ he says.

‘Your dining table,’ says Vijay in happy tones. ‘And ten chairs. I show you! We display the work!’ He snaps his fingers and barks some orders and suddenly, to my dismay, about eight men troop out, carrying a huge carved teak table on their shoulders.

Wow. It’s a tad bigger than I remembered.

Luke looks absolutely stunned.

‘Bring the chairs!’ Vijay is bossing. ‘Set it up properly!’

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ I say in super-bright tones.

‘You ordered a dining table and ten chairs . . . without telling me?’ says Luke, goggling as the chairs start arriving.

OK. I don’t have many options here.

‘It’s . . . my wedding present to you!’ I say in sudden inspiration. ‘It’s a surprise! Happy wedding, darling!’ I plant a kiss on his cheek and smile hopefully up at him.

‘Becky, you already gave me a wedding present,’ says Luke, folding his arms. ‘And our wedding was a fairly long time ago now.’

‘I’ve been . . . saving it up!’ I lower my voice so Vijay can’t hear. ‘And honestly, it isn’t that expensive—’

‘Becky, it’s not the money. It’s the space! This thing’s a monstrosity!’

‘It’s not that big. And anyway,’ I quickly add before he can reply, ‘we need a good table! Every marriage needs a good table.’ I spread my arms widely. ‘After all, what is marriage about if not sitting down at the table at the end of the day and sharing all our problems? What is marriage if not sitting together at a solid wooden table and . . . and eating a bowl of hearty stew?’

‘Hearty stew?’ echoes Luke. ‘Who’s going to make hearty stew?’

‘We can buy it at Waitrose,’ I explain.

I come round the table and look up at him earnestly. ‘Luke, think about it. We’ll never again be in Sri Lanka with authentic wood-carvers right in front of us. This is a unique opportunity. And I’ve had it personalized!’

I point to the panel of wood running down the side of the table. There, beautifully carved in amongst the flowers, are the words ‘Luke and Rebecca, Sri Lanka.’

Luke runs a hand over the table. He feels the weight of one of the chairs. I can see him relenting. Then suddenly he looks up with a slight frown.

‘Becky, is there anything else you’ve bought that you haven’t told me about?’

I feel a tiny lollop inside, which I disguise by pretending to examine one of the carved flowers.

‘Of course not!’ I say at last. ‘Or . . . you know – maybe just the odd little souvenir along the way. Just here and there.’

‘Like what?’

‘I can’t remember!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s been ten months, for goodness’ sake!’ I turn to the table again. ‘Come on, Luke, you must love it. We can have fantastic dinner parties . . . and it’ll be an heirloom! We can hand it down to our children . . .’

I break off a bit awkwardly. For a moment, I can’t quite look at Luke.

A few months ago we had this huge big discussion, and decided that we’d like to try for a baby. But so far . . . nothing’s happened.

I mean, not that it’s a big deal or anything. It will happen. Of course it will.

‘All right,’ says Luke, his voice a little gentler. ‘You’ve won me over.’ He gives the table a pat, then looks at his watch. ‘I’m going to email the office. Tell them about our change of plan.’ He gives me a wry look. ‘Presumably you weren’t expecting me to burst open the door of the boardroom and yell, “Surprise, I’m back!”?’

‘Of course not!’ I retort, barely missing a beat.

That is actually kind of what I’d pictured. Except I’d be there too, with a bottle of champagne, and maybe some party poppers.

‘I’m not quite that stupid,’ I add witheringly.

‘Good.’ Luke grins at me. ‘Why don’t you order a drink and I’ll be out in a moment?’

As I sit down at a table on the shady terrace, I’m just a tad preoccupied. I’m trying to remember all the things I’ve bought and had shipped home without telling Luke.

I mean, I’m not worried or anything. It can’t be that much stuff. Can it?

Oh God. I close my eyes, trying to remember.

There were the wooden giraffes in Malawi. The ones Luke said were too big. Which is just ridiculous. They’ll look amazing! Everyone will admire them!

And there was all that gorgeous batik art in Bali. Which I did intend to tell him about . . . but then kind of never got round to it.

And there were the twenty Chinese silk dressing gowns.

Which, OK – I know twenty sounds quite a lot. But they were such a bargain! Luke just didn’t seem to understand my point that if we bought twenty now, they would last us a lifetime and be a real investment. For someone who works in financial PR, he can be a bit slow off the mark sometimes.

So I sneaked back to the shop and bought them anyway, and had them shipped home.

The thing is, shipping just makes everything so easy. You don’t have to lug anything about – you just point and ship. ‘I’d like that shipped, please. And that. And that.’ And you give them your card and off it goes, and Luke never even sees it . . .

Maybe I should have kept a list.

Anyway, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine.

And I mean, we want a few souvenirs, don’t we? What’s the point of going round the world and coming back empty-handed? Exactly.

I see Chandra walking past the terrace, and give him a friendly wave.

‘You did very well in class today, Becky!’ he says, and comes over to the table. ‘And now I would like to ask you something. In two weeks’ time I am leading an advanced meditation retreat. The others are mainly monks and long-term yoga practitioners . . . but I feel you have the commitment to join us. Would you be interested?’

‘I’d love to!’ I pull a regretful face. ‘But I can’t. Luke and I are going home!’

‘Home?’ Chandra looks shocked. ‘But . . . you are doing so well. You are not going to abandon the path of yoga?’

‘Oh no,’ I say reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll buy a video.’

As Chandra walks off, he looks a little shell-shocked. Which actually isn’t surprising. He probably didn’t even realize you could get yoga videos. He certainly didn’t seem to have heard of Geri Halliwell.

A waiter appears and I order a mango and papaya cocktail, which in the menu is called Happy Juice. Well, that just about suits me. Here I am in the sunshine, on my honeymoon, about to have a surprise reunion with all the people I love. Everything’s perfect!

I look up to see Luke approaching the table, holding his Palm Pilot in his hand. Is it my imagination, or is he walking faster and looking more animated than he has for months?

‘OK,’ he says, ‘I’ve spoken to the office.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘It certainly is.’ He seems full of a suppressed energy. ‘It’s going very well. In fact, I want to set up a couple of meetings for the end of this week.’

‘That was quick!’ I say in astonishment.

Blimey. I’d thought it would take about a week just to get ourselves organized.

‘But I know how much you’re getting out of this yoga retreat,’ he adds. ‘So what I propose is I go on ahead, and you join me later . . . and then we return to Britain together.’

‘So where are your meetings?’ I say, confused.

‘Italy.’

The waiter appears with my Happy Juice, and Luke orders himself a beer.

‘But I don’t want to be separated from you!’ I say, as the waiter retreats. ‘This is our honeymoon!’

‘We’ve had ten solid months together . . .’ Luke points out gently.

‘I know. But still . . .’ I take a disconsolate sip of Happy Juice. ‘Where are you going in Italy?’

‘Nowhere exciting,’ says Luke after a pause. ‘Just a . . . northern Italian city. Very dull. I recommend you stay here. Enjoy the sunshine.’

‘Well . . .’ I look around, feeling torn. It is pretty nice here. ‘Which city?’

There’s silence.

‘Milan,’ says Luke reluctantly.

‘Milan?’ I nearly fall off my chair in excitement. ‘You’re going to Milan? I’ve never been to Milan! I’d love to go to Milan!’

‘No,’ says Luke. ‘Really?’

‘Yes! Definitely! I want to come!’

How could he think I don’t want to go to Milan? I have always wanted to go to Milan!

‘OK.’ Luke shakes his head ruefully. ‘I must be mad, but OK.’

Elated, I lean back in my chair and take a big slurp of Happy Juice. This honeymoon just gets better and better!

TWO

OK, I cannot believe Luke was planning to come to Milan without me. How could he come here without me? I was made for Milan.

No. Not Milan, Milano.

I haven’t actually seen much of the city yet except a taxi and our hotel room – but for a world traveller like me, that doesn’t actually matter. You can pick up the vibe of a place in an instant, like bushmen in the wild. And as soon as I looked round the hotel foyer at all those chic women in Prada and D&G, kissing each other whilst simultaneously downing espressos, lighting cigarettes and flinging their shiny hair about, I just kind of knew, with a kind of natural instinct: this is my kind of city.

I take a gulp of room-service cappuccino and glance across at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Honestly, I look Italian! All I need is some capri pants and dark eyeliner. And maybe a Vespa.

‘Ciao,’ I say casually, and flick my hair back. ‘Si. Ciao.’

I could so be Italian. Except I might need to learn a few more words.

‘Si,’ I nod at myself. ‘Si. Milano.’

Maybe I’ll practise by reading the paper. I open the free copy of Corriere della Sera which arrived with our breakfast, and start perusing the lines of text. And I’m not doing too badly! The first story is all about the president washing his piano. At least . . . I’m pretty sure that’s what presidente and lavoro pieno must mean.

‘You know, Luke, I could really live in Italy,’ I say as he comes out of the bathroom. ‘I mean it’s the perfect country. It has everything! Cappuccinos . . . yummy food . . . everyone’s so elegant . . . you can get Gucci cheaper than at home . . .’

‘And the art,’ says Luke, deadpan.

God, he’s annoying sometimes.

‘Well, obviously the art,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘I mean, the art goes without saying.’

I flick over a page of Corriere della Sera and briskly skim the headlines. Then my brain suddenly clicks.

I put down the paper and stare at Luke again.

What’s happened to him?

I’m looking at the Luke Brandon I used to know back when I was a financial journalist. He’s completely clean-shaven, and dressed in an immaculate suit, with a pale-green shirt and darker-green tie. He’s wearing proper shoes and proper socks. His earring has gone. His bracelet has gone. The only vestige of our travels is his hair, which is still in tiny plaits.

I can feel a bubble of dismay growing inside. I liked him the way he was, all laid-back and dishevelled.

‘You’ve . . . smartened up a bit!’ I say. ‘Where’s your bracelet?’

‘In my suitcase.’

‘But the woman in the Masai Mara said we must never take them off!’ I say in shock. ‘She said that special Masai prayer!’

‘Becky . . .’ Luke sighs. ‘I can’t go into a meeting with an old bit of rope round my wrist.’

Old bit of rope? That was a sacred bracelet, and he knows it.

‘You’ve still got your plaits!’ I retort. ‘If you can have plaits, you can have a bracelet!’

‘I’m not keeping my plaits!’ Luke gives an incredulous laugh. ‘I’ve got a haircut booked in . . .’ he consults his watch, ‘ten minutes.’

A haircut?

This is all too fast. I can’t bear the idea of Luke’s sun-bleached hair being snipped off and falling to the floor. Our honeymoon hair, all gone.

‘Luke, don’t,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘You can’t.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Luke turns and looks at me more closely. ‘Becky, are you OK?’

No. I’m not OK. But I don’t know why.

‘You can’t cut off your hair,’ I say desperately. ‘Then it will all be over!’

‘Sweetheart . . . it is over.’ Luke comes over and sits down beside me. He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. ‘You know that, don’t you? It’s over. We’re going home. We’re going back to real life.’

‘I know!’ I say after a pause. ‘It’s just . . . I really love your hair long.’

‘I can’t go into a business meeting like this.’ Luke shakes his head so the beads in his hair click together. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

‘But you don’t have to cut it off!’ I say in sudden inspiration. ‘Plenty of Italian men have long hair. We’ll just take the plaits out!’

‘Becky . . .’

‘I’ll do it! I’ll take them out! Sit down.’

I push Luke down on to the bed and carefully edge out the first few little beads, then gently start to unbraid his hair. As I lean close, I can smell the businessy smell of Luke’s expensive Armani aftershave which he always wears for work. He hasn’t used it since before we got married.

I shift round on the bed and carefully start unbraiding the plaits on the other side of his head. We’re both silent; the only sound in the room is the soft clicking of beads. As I pull out the very last one, I feel a lump in my throat. Which is ridiculous.

I mean, we couldn’t stay on honeymoon for ever, could we? And I am looking forward to seeing Mum and Dad again, and Suze, and getting back to real life . . .

But still. I’ve spent the last ten months with Luke. We haven’t spent more than a few hours out of each other’s sight. And now that’s all ending.

Anyway. It’ll be fine. I’ll be busy with my new job . . . and all my friends . . .

‘Done!’

I reach for my serum, put some on Luke’s hair, and carefully brush it out. It’s a bit wavy – but that’s OK. He just looks European.

‘You see?’ I say at last. ‘You look brilliant!’

Luke surveys his reflection doubtfully and for an awful moment I think he’s going to say he’s still getting a haircut. Then he smiles.

‘OK. Reprieved. But it will have to come off sooner or later.’

‘I know,’ I say, feeling suddenly light again. ‘But just not today.’

I watch as Luke gathers some papers together and puts them in his briefcase.

‘So . . . what exactly are you here in Milan for?’

Luke did tell me, on the flight from Colombo – but they were serving free champagne at the time, and I’m not entirely sure I took it all in.

‘We’re going after a new client. The Arcodas Group.’

‘That’s right. Now I remember.’

Luke’s company is called Brandon Communications, and it’s a PR agency for financial institutions, like banks and building societies and investment houses. That’s kind of how we met, actually, back when I was a financial journalist.

‘We want to broaden out of finance.’ Luke snaps his briefcase shut. ‘This is a very large corporation with lots of different interests. They own property developments . . . leisure centres . . . shopping malls . . .’

‘Shopping malls?’ I look up. ‘Do you get a discount?’

‘If we get the account. Maybe.’

God, this is cool. Maybe Luke’s company will move into fashion PR! Maybe he’ll start representing Dolce & Gabbana instead of boring old banks!

‘So do they have any shopping malls in Milan?’ I say in helpful tones. ‘Because I could go and visit one. For research.’

‘They haven’t got any in Milan. They’re only over here for a retail conference.’ Luke puts down his briefcase and gives me a long look.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Becky . . . I know this is Milan. But please, don’t go crazy today.’

‘Go crazy?’ I say, a little offended. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I know you’re going to go shopping . . .’

How does he know that? Honestly, Luke has such a nerve. How does he know I’m not going to go and see some famous statues or something?

‘I’m not going to go shopping!’ I say haughtily. ‘I simply mentioned the shopping malls to show an interest in your work.’

‘I see.’ Luke gives me a quizzical look, which niggles me.

‘I’m actually here for the culture.’ I lift my chin. ‘And because Milan is a city I’ve never seen.’