Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella

helplessly forward, toward Luke’s table—and at that moment, he looks up. He stares at me blankly as though he doesn’t even know who I am, and I feel my stomach give a little flip of dismay. But I’ve got to go through with it now.
    “Hi, Luke!” I say brightly. “I just thought I’d say . . . hello!”
    “Well, hello,” Luke says eventually. “Mum, Dad, this is Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca—my parents.”
    Oh God. What have I done? I’ve table-hopped an intimate family gathering. Leave, quick.
    “Hello,” I say, and give a feeble smile. “Well, I won’t keep you from . . .”
    “So how do you know Luke?” inquires Mrs. Brandon.
    “Rebecca is a leading financial journalist,” says Luke, taking a sip of wine. (Is that really what he thinks? Gosh, I must drop that into a conversation with Clare Edwards. And Philip, come to that.)
    I grin confidently at Mr. Brandon, feeling like a mover and a shaker. I’m a leading financial journalist hobnobbing with a leading entrepreneur at a leading London restaurant. How cool is that?
    “Financial journalist, eh?” grunts Mr. Brandon, and lowers his reading glasses to have a better look at me. “So what do
you
think of the chancellor’s announcement?”
    I’m never going to table-hop again. Never.
    “Well,” I begin confidently, wondering if I could suddenly pretend to spot an old friend across the room.
    “Dad, I’m sure Rebecca doesn’t want to talk shop,” says Luke, his lips twitching slightly.
    “Quite right!” says Mrs. Brandon, and smiles at me. “That’s a lovely scarf, Rebecca. Is it Denny and George?”
    “Yes, it is!” I say brightly, full of relief. “I was so pleased, I got it last week in the sale!”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke Brandon is staring at me with an odd expression. Why? Why is he looking so . . .
    Oh fuck. How can I be so
stupid
?
    “In the sale . . . for my aunt,” I continue, trying to think as quickly as I can. “I bought it for my aunt, as a present. But she . . . died.”
    There’s a shocked silence and I look down. I can’t quite believe what I’ve just said.
    “Oh dear,” says Mr. Brandon gruffly.
    “Aunt Ermintrude died?” says Luke in a strange voice.
    “Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to look up. “It was terribly sad.”
    “How awful!” says Mrs. Brandon sympathetically.
    “She was in hospital, wasn’t she?” says Luke, pouring himself a glass of water. “What was wrong with her?”
    For an instant I’m silenced.
    “It was . . . her leg,” I hear myself say.
    “Her leg?” Mrs. Brandon’s staring at me anxiously. “What was wrong with her leg?”
    “It . . . swelled up and got septic,” I say after a pause. “And they had to amputate it and then she died.”
    “Christ,” says Mr. Brandon, shaking his head. “Bloody doctors.” He gives me a suddenly fierce look. “Did she go private?”
    “Umm . . . I’m not sure,” I say, starting to back away. Why didn’t I just say she
gave
me the bloody scarf? “Anyway, lovely to see you, Luke. Must dash, my friends will be missing me!”
    I give a nonchalant kind of wave without quite looking Luke in the eye and then quickly turn round and walk back to Suze, my legs trembling and my fingers twisted tightly by my sides. God, what a fiasco.
     
     
    I’ve managed to recompose myself by the time our food arrives. The food! I’ve ordered grilled scallops and as I take my first bite, I nearly swoon. After so many torturous days of cheap, functional food, this is like going to heaven. I feel almost tearful—like a prisoner returning to the real world, or children after the war, when rationing stopped. After my scallops I have steak béarnaise and chips—and when all the others say no thanks to the pudding menu, I order chocolate mousse. Because who knows when I’m next going to be in a restaurant like this? There could be months ahead of cheese sandwiches and homemade coffee in a flask, with nothing to relieve the