Free Shopaholic to the Stars by Sophie Kinsella Page A

aren’t into it.
    ‘Fine,’ I say, and put the piece of paper into my bag, too. ‘What about your other two friends?’
    ‘Corey and Raymond?’ He shakes his head. ‘They live too far away. Las Vegas, Corey is. I think Raymond’s in Arizona somewhere. I’ve stayed in touch with them … at least, I have in a way. But Brent just disappeared.’
    ‘Shame you didn’t have Facebook back then.’
    ‘Indeed.’ He nods.
    ‘Oh, thank you so much! They’re a new present from my husband.’ Mum’s voice rises above the hubbub and I turn to look. Some lady I don’t recognize is admiring her pearls, and Mum is preening in delight. ‘Yes, lovely, aren’t they?’
    I grin at Dad, who winks back. Mum was so thrilled with her pearls. They’re antique, from 1895, with a ruby clasp set in diamonds. (I helped her go shopping for them, so I know all the details.) Dad’s BB was bigger than usual this year, so we all went a bit mad.
    BB is our family shorthand for ‘Big Bonus’. Dad worked in insurance for years, and now he’s retired. But he still does consulting work, and it’s amazingly well paid. He goes off a few times a year in a suit, and then once a year he receives a bonus cheque and we always get a treat. This year it was particularly good, because Mum got her pearls, and he bought me an Alexis Bittar necklace and Minnie a new dolls’ house. Even Luke got a beautiful pair of cufflinks.
    Luke always says to me that Dad must have some sort of niche, specialist knowledge that is really valuable, because he commands such high fees. But he’s so modest about it. You’d never know.
    ‘My clever husband.’ Mum kisses Dad fondly.
    ‘You look beautiful, my love!’ Dad beams back. Dad bought himself a new tweed jacket with his share of the BB, and he looks really good in it. ‘Now, where’s this famous fountain?’
    A few feet away, Tarquin is being interviewed for the TV. Poor Tarkie. He’s not cut out to be a media star. He’s wearing a checked shirt that makes his neck look bonier than ever, and he keeps wringing his hands as he speaks.
    ‘Ahm,’ he keeps saying. ‘Ahm, we wanted to … ahm … enhance the house …’
    ‘Bloody stupid idea,’ comes a gruff voice behind me.
    Oh God, it’s Tarkie’s dad, the Earl of Whatsit, stalking up. (I can never remember where he’s earl of. Somewhere Scottish, I think.) He’s tall and lanky with thin, greying hair and an Aran jersey, just like Tarkie wears. I’ve never spoken to him properly, but he’s always seemed pretty scary. Now he’s glowering at the lake and jabbing a weather-beaten finger at it. ‘I said to the boy, that view’s been unspoiled for three hundred years. Why on earth would you want to go messing with it?’
    ‘They’re going to do fireworks on the lake in winter,’ I say, wanting to stand up for Tarkie. ‘I think it will be beautiful!’
    The earl gives me a withering look and turns his attention to a plate of canapés being offered to him. ‘What’s this?’
    ‘Sushi, sir,’ says the waitress.
    ‘Sushi?’
He peers at her with bloodshot eyes. ‘What?’
    ‘Rice and raw salmon, sir. Japanese.’
    ‘Bloody stupid idea.’
    To my relief he stalks off again, and I’m about to take a piece of sushi myself, when I hear a familiar, ear-splitting noise.
    ‘Please! Pleeeease!’
    Oh God. It’s Minnie.
    For a long time, my daughter’s favourite word was ‘mine’. Now, after intensive training, we’ve got her on to the word ‘please’. Which you’d think would be an improvement.
    I swivel around wildly, and finally spot Minnie. She’s balanced on a stone bench, tussling with Suze’s son Wilfrid over a red plastic truck.
    ‘Pleeease!’ she’s yelling crossly. ‘Pleeease!’ Now, to my horror, she starts hitting Wilfrid with the truck, yelling with each blow, ‘Please! Please! Please!’
    The trouble is, Minnie hasn’t really absorbed the
spirit
of the word ‘please’.
    ‘Minnie!’ I exclaim in horror, and run