The irresistible heroine of Confessions of a Shopaholic and Shopaholic Takes Manhattan is back!-in a hilarious tale of mothers and daughters, mothers and sons, and one blushing bride who just can't say no to saying "I do."
Life has been good for Becky Bloomwood: She's become the best personal shopper at Barneys, she and her successful entrepreneurial boyfriend, Luke, are living happily in Manhattan's West Village, and her new next door neighbor is a fashion designer! But with her best friend, Suze, engaged, how can Becky fail to notice that her own ring finger is bare? Not that she's been thinking of marriage (or diamonds) or anything...
Then Luke proposes! Bridal registries dance in Becky's head. Problem is, two other people are planning her wedding: Becky's overjoyed mother has been waiting forever to host a backyard wedding, with the bride resplendent in Mum's frilly old gown. While Luke's high-society mother is insisting on a glamorous, all-expenses-paid affair at the Plaza. Both weddings for the same day. And Becky can't seem to turn down either one. Can everyone's favorite shopaholic tie the knot before everything unravels?
OK. Don't panic. The answer will come to me any minute. I just have to think hard about what marriage is all about. It's about love, obviously. And companionship, and mutual support. And . . . soup?
My eye rests on a huge antique silver tureen, complete with ladle. Now, that would make a perfect wedding gift. I can just see it: Suze and Tarquin sitting by the fire, ladling soup into each other's bowls. It'll be all lovely and domestic and heartwarming, and every time they drink soup they'll think of me.
Perhaps I could even have it engraved. "To my best friends Suze and Tarquin on their wedding day with love and affection from Becky." And a little poem, maybe.
Mind you, engraving is quite expensive. I'd better check how much it would all come to.
"Excuse me, how much is this soup tureen?" I say, turning to Arthur Graham, who is the owner of Graham's Antiques. This shop has to be one of my favorites in the West Village. It's small and intimate like someone's home, and everywhere you turn, there's something you might want. Like that fantastic carved chair, and a hand-painted velvet throw, and that amazing grandfather clock over in the corner . . .
"The tureen?" Arthur comes over, dapper in his jacket and tie. "This is very special. Eighteenth-century silver. Exquisite craftsmanship. You see this detail on the rim?"
"Beautiful!" I look obediently.
"And it's priced at . . ." He consults a little book. "Four thousand dollars."
"Oh, right." My smile falters, and I carefully put the ladle back. "Thanks. I'll . . . keep looking."
So maybe marriage isn't about soup. Maybe it's about . . . chess? I run my hand over a beautiful old chess set, all set up as though a game's in progress. But I'm not sure Suze knows how to play chess.
A clock? No.
A . . . an antique barometer?
Oh God, I'm really clutching at straws here. I can't believe it's Suze's wedding in two days and I still haven't got her and Tarquin a present. Or at least, not one I can actually give them. Months ago I bought them this gorgeous picnic hamper, filled with picnicware, a champagne cooler, really cool knives and forks, and even a rug. It took me ages to choose all the stuff, and I was so pleased with it. But Suze phoned last night to check what time we'd be arriving, and told me her aunt had just given her a fantastic present--a picnic hamper filled with Conran tableware!
Well, no way am I giving Suze the same present as someone else. So here I am in the only place I can think of where I'll find something unique. Except . . . what? She hasn't registered for gifts, because she says she hates the idea of asking people for things. And anyway, I'd never just get her some boring set of plates off a list. Suze is my best friend, and I'm going to be her bridesmaid, and my present has to be something really special.
I can feel myself starting to get anxious. OK, just think laterally. What do Suze and Tarquin enjoy doing?
"Do you have any horse saddles?" I ask in sudden inspiration. "Or . . . bridles?"
"Not at the moment."
Oh well. Anyway, I'd have to get two, wouldn't I? And they probably wouldn't even fit the horses properly . . .
A carved music stand? Except how would I get it home on the plane? And anyway, neither of them plays an instrument. A marble bust of Abraham Lincoln? A picture of . . .
Hang on a minute. I push the bust of Lincoln aside and look carefully at the old trunk he's been resting on. Now that's rather nice. In fact it's very nice. I undo the straps and gently lift the lid, inhaling the smell of old leather.
Wow. This is stunning. All pale silk and leather straps, and a...
About the Author
Sophie Kinsella is the author of the bestselling Shopaholic series, as well as The Undomestic Goddess and Can You Keep a Secret? She lives in England.
