Shopaholic on Honeymoon by Sophie Kinsella Page A

handed over his company, Brandon Communications, to his old friend Michael. We have no commitments. So we don’t need to be on some rigid schedule. We’re not tourists, we’re
travellers
.
    * * *
    It takes two journeys to struggle into our hotel with all the packages, and the receptionist watches us with growing concern. She’s a dark-haired girl with luscious dimples and has already become my new best friend after a slight hair-related emergency I had on the first day. (It turns out you
can
buy Frizz-Ease in Venice, if you know where to look. But the proportion is one bottle of Frizz-Ease to 55,000 Venetian carnival masks. They might want to look at that.)
    ‘You’d like to ship your purchases?’ She comes out from behind her desk and looks dubiously at the package of goblets. ‘Would you like us to arrange it?’
    ‘Yes, please.’ I beam at her. I’d already thought of this solution in the glass shop. We don’t need to struggle round the world with all our mementoes. We’ll just send them home!
    ‘Won’t it be fun when we get home and open everything we’ve bought?’ I turn to Luke. ‘It’ll be like Christmas!’
    ‘Yes.’ Luke looks a little doubtful. ‘Becky, we must keep track of everything we send back.’
    ‘Of course we will!’ I say, a bit impatiently. ‘I’ll remember everything.’
    Luke has such a way of inventing problems that don’t exist.
    ‘Come on.’ I tug at his hand. ‘Let’s go and have a cup of coffee and decide where to go next.’
    Our hotel was once a palazzo, and has a beautiful courtyard where you can sit and have cappuccinos and look at everyone’s outfits. Plus the coffee is delicious, so I’d be quite happy to sit here for a while and just chill. But Luke has already got his guidebook out and is riffling through the pages.
    This is the
only
tiny difference between Luke and me. He likes reading about buildings and exhibits and history, whereas I only have to read the words ‘Built in 1755, the church was originally …’ and I fall asleep. (Which is quite handy on planes, as it happens.)
    ‘So, I was thinking about going to the Peggy Guggenheim,’ he says cautiously. ‘It’s supposed to be spectacular. But if you’d rather not …’
    ‘Why would I rather not?’ I say, puzzled.
    ‘Well,’ he says after a pause. ‘The Guggenheim has … history for you. Doesn’t it?’
    What
? I nearly spit out my coffee, I’m so offended. How can he bring that up? OK, so I did have a slight issue over the Guggenheim museum in New York a while ago. But we’re
married
now. This is our
honeymoon
. Everyone knows that when you get married the slate is wiped clean and neither party should refer to any unfortunate incidents in the past, either Guggenheim-related or non-Guggenheim-related.
    ‘I’d love to go to the Guggenheim,’ I say haughtily. ‘I’m actually developing quite an interest in art. In fact, I got talking to some artists yesterday, while you were paying the restaurant bill.’
    Which is true. They were Americans, over here to study. They were standing at their easels in the square, sketching a church, and they all looked really cool and one of them had the cutest little dog called Beanie.
    ‘Oh.’ Luke seems taken aback. ‘I didn’t know.’
    ‘I was actually thinking I might study art in my spare time,’ I add for good measure. ‘Maybe do a fine art degree.’
    ‘I thought you were going to study pasta-making?’
    I stare at Luke blankly for a moment, before I suddenly remember saying that in Rome. I was so inspired by the scrummy ravioli.
    ‘Well, I’ll do both. Evening classes. When I’m not doing yoga.’
    Yoga is the other art I’m determined to learn on this holiday. My best friend, Suze, is really into yoga and she’s told me about this brilliant place you can go in India to learn it. Or Sri Lanka. Somewhere, anyway. It’s on my list.
    ‘I can’t wait to get to the Far East,’ I add longingly. ‘I’m going to get you into yoga,