Mini Shopaholic (Shopaholic #6)(79)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

This is the other reason why my star is so high at work at the moment: my idea about linking Danny’s new collection with Shetland Shortbread totally worked! The whole collection is centred around tartan, so it’s perfect. They’re doing a special offer and joint publicity, and it’s all in association with the British Wool Marketing Board, and the promotional shoot took place on Tarkie’s farm with super-thin models standing amid herds of Tarkie’s sheep. And the best bit is, it was all my idea, and now everyone’s really impressed.

Jasmine said the other day that maybe they’d even make me a director! Of course, I instantly gave a modest little laugh and said, ‘Oh, rubbish.’ But I’ve already worked out what I could wear for my first board meeting – this amazing pale-yellow jacket from the new Burberry Prorsum collection, over dark pinstriped trousers. (I mean, you’re allowed to buy new clothes if you get on the board of something. Even Luke must know that.)

On my way to St Cuthbert’s two emails arrive on my BlackBerry which make me want to whoop. The first is from Bonnie, which she obviously sent last night. It says we’ve had forty-three acceptances already. Forty-three! I can’t believe Luke is so popular!

No. That came out wrong. Obviously I can.

But still, forty-three in two days! And that’s not even counting all the Brandon Communications staff, who still don’t know there’s a party but think they’re going to a conference.

And the other is from Kentish English Sparkling Wine. They want to provide drinks for the party! They’re sending me fifty bottles! All they ask is that they can issue a press release and publish photos of Luke and his guests enjoying their high-quality product. I mean, I’ve never tasted Kentish English Sparkling Wine, but I’m sure it’s delicious.

I can’t help feeling proud as I stride along. I am doing so well. I’ve got the marquee, the drinks, the canapés, the pompoms, and I’ve booked a professional fire-eater called Alonzo, who doubles as a Country and Western singer, if we want it. (He doesn’t sing Country and Western songs while he’s fire-eating. He gets changed and calls himself Alvin.)

St Cuthbert’s is in one of those posh white squares with lots of railings and stucco, and I’m nearly at the school gate when my mobile rings and shows Suze’s ID.

‘Suze!’ I greet her. ‘I’m just outside. Where shall I meet you?’

‘I’m not there! I’m at the doctor’s.’ Suze sounds despairing. ‘Ernie has a terrible earache. We’ve been up all night. I won’t be able to come to The Look, either.’

‘Oh, poor you! Well … should I just leave?’

‘No, don’t be silly! Go to the exhibition and grab yourself a cake. They’ll be delicious. Half the mothers have done a cordon-bleu course. And you could always look at Ernie’s painting,’ she adds, as though it’s an afterthought.

‘Of course I’ll look at Ernie’s painting!’ I say firmly. ‘And we must meet up as soon as Ernie’s better.’

‘Definitely.’ Suze pauses. ‘So … how are you?’ she adds. ‘How are the party preparations going?’

‘Great, thanks,’ I say ebulliently. ‘All under control.’

‘Because Tarkie and I had this great idea, if you’re serving coffee …’

I feel a flash of annoyance. No one will believe I can do this, will they? Everyone assumes I’m totally incompetent and can’t even serve coffee properly.

‘Suze, for the last time, I don’t need your help!’ The words shoot out before I can stop them. ‘I can do it on my own! So leave me alone!’

Instantly I regret sounding so harsh. There’s silence at the other end and I can feel my cheeks turning pink.

‘Suze …’ I swallow. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘You know, Bex, sometimes people want to help.’ Suze cuts me off, her voice suddenly trembling. ‘And it’s not always about you, OK? It’s not because we think you can’t do it. It’s because Luke isn’t just your husband, he’s our friend too, and we wanted to do something nice for him. Tarkie suggested getting the Shetland Shortbread guys to come up with a special shortbread recipe just for Luke. And we thought we could serve it at the party with the coffee. But fine, if you’re that prickly we won’t. Forget it. I have to go.’

‘Suze—’

It’s too late. She’s gone. I try redialling but get the busy signal.

Oh God. She sounded really hurt. Maybe I was a bit defensive. But how was I supposed to know she had special shortbread?