Christmas Shopaholic(25)

“So this guy’s your husband?”

Drat. I should have taken a pseudonym.

“Perhaps he is,” I say, lifting my chin. “But that’s irrelevant. We’re utterly professional—”

“And you’re just trying to score some free clothes,” he continues, unmoved.

I stare at him, offended. Free clothes? What a nerve! They should be delighted that Luke would wear their clothes.

“It seems you fatally misunderstand the principles of the brand-ambassador concept,” I say loftily.

“No, I think I understand exactly.” Hamish seems amused. “Nice try.”

Hmph. He’s not going to give me the dressing gown, is he? I might as well quit while I’m ahead.

“Well, if that’s what you think,” I say with my most dignified air, “then I will leave you, always wondering what could have been. Always thinking: Was Luke Brandon our perfect brand ambassador…? You will repent at leisure for giving up this opportunity; I can only pity you.”

Tossing my hair back, I head for the exit, half-hoping he might exclaim, “Wait! You’re right! Here’s the dressing gown!”

But he doesn’t. Pah.

I close the door behind me and stomp along the street, feeling quite grumpy. What am I going to do now? I’ll go to Fortnum’s and have a cup of tea, I decide. I probably need a bit more blood sugar or something. I’ll have a scone too.

I’ve been walking without paying much attention to where I’m going, so I turn my steps back toward Piccadilly. And I’m striding along, glancing automatically into shop windows as I go—when something catches my eye. I stop dead and my heart leaps in amazement.

Yessss! I’ve found the perfect thing! First of all, it’s luggage.

Luggage.

I’ve always had a soft spot for luggage, ever since the day that Luke and I tried out suitcases together when we hardly knew each other. (They were actually for Sacha de Bonneville, it turned out, but let’s not go there, and, anyway, who married him? Exactly.)

Second of all, it’s beautiful. It’s like a suitcase that opens up into a wardrobe with all hangers and compartments and things. (I feel like it has a special name, but I can’t think of it right now.) It’s made out of amazing dark brown leather and is so elegant.

Then, as I lean closer, I feel a jab of disbelief. It’s lined with silky material with a repeat pattern of “LB.” Luke’s initials! And there’s “LB” engraved on the side. And—oh my God—a brass “LB” charm dangling from the handle.

I gaze at it in bewilderment. How can something so perfect just be waiting for me? Did the Christmas-present gods see me coming?

I raise my head to see which shop I’m at, but it’s not a shop. It’s in the window display of…what on earth is this place? I stare confusedly at the fa?ade of what seems to be a house. It’s a white stucco building with a large painted front door.

Then I spot a discreet metal sign to one side of the front door: LONDON BILLIARDS. And underneath in smaller writing: The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club, Est. 1816. Oh, right, of course. It’s a club. This entire area of London is stuffed with posh clubs. Luke is a member of one, actually, and he’s taken me along a few times, but it’s deathly. There’s no music and they don’t even do mojitos.

(To be fair, Luke finds it quite deathly, too, but he says it can be useful for business. Why it’s useful to sit in an ancient armchair and eat potted shrimp, I don’t know, but there you go.)

Anyway. Doesn’t matter what it is. The point is, I want to buy their suitcase-thingy. Without further hesitation, I press the metal doorbell and a moment later I’m buzzed in. As I push the door open, I find myself in a hall with old patterned tiles, a staircase with red carpet, and, sitting behind a desk, a man who looks about ninety-three and is talking on an old-fashioned telephone. He puts his hand over the receiver and says, “One minute, young lady,” then resumes talking.

Since he’s busy, I wander over to the other side of the hall and peep through a pair of massive wooden double doors into a large room. It has a marble mantelpiece and lots of ancient armchairs, just like at Luke’s club. But, oh my God. Luke’s club seems totally vibrant and down with it compared with this place. For one thing, it’s half-empty. And for another, everyone here looks as if they’re ninety-three. Even the young people look as if they’re ninety-three. I’ve never seen so many leather elbow patches.

As I watch, a shriveled waiter pushes along a wooden trolley covered with bottles. He pauses by an armchair and leans down to address one of the young ninety-three-year-olds.

“Sherry?” he intones funereally, and I bite my lip to stop myself giggling. The waiter looks older than anyone; in fact, I’m amazed he can lift the sherry bottle.

“Young lady?” I turn to see the man at the desk summoning me, and I hurry over.

“Hello!” I say with a friendly smile. “My name is Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood. I saw your wonderful suitcase-thingy in the window, and I would very much like to buy it. Please,” I add hastily. “Thank you.”

The man behind the desk sighs a weary sigh.

“Young lady,” he says.

“Becky,” I put in.

“?‘Becky,’?” he echoes with disdain, as though he’s never heard the name “Becky” before and doesn’t care for it. “I’m afraid the portmanteau on display—”