Shopaholic & Baby (Shopaholic 5)

“Darling, these are the Brandons,” says Fabia. “They’ve been looking round the house.”

“Ah. Through Hamptons?” He frowns. “I would have called if I’d known. I accepted an offer ten minutes ago. Through the other agent.”

I feel a shot of horror. He’s done what?

“We’ll make you an offer right now!” I blurt out. “We’ll offer the asking price!”

“Sorry. It’s done.” He shrugs and takes off his jacket. “Those Americans who looked round this morning,” he adds to Fabia.

No. No. We can’t be losing our dream house!

“Luke, do something.” I try to speak calmly. “Make an offer! Quick!”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Fabia looks surprised. “You didn’t seem that keen on the place.”

“We were playing cool!” I wail, all semblance of nonchalance vanishing. “Luke, I knew we should have said something earlier! We love the house! I adore the nurseries! We want it!”

“We’d very much like to offer above the asking price,” says Luke, stepping forward. “We can act with the utmost speed and have our solicitor contact yours in the morning.”

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, the house has gone,” says Fabia’s husband, rolling his eyes. “I need a drink. Good luck with your search.” He strides away, over the tiles toward the kitchen, and I hear a fridge opening.

“I’m sorry,” Fabia says with a shrug, and leads us toward the front door.

“But…” I trail off helplessly.

“That’s OK. If the deal falls through, please let us know.” Luke gives her a polite smile and slowly we walk out into the mild autumn afternoon. Leaves are drifting off the trees onto the paved path and I can smell a bonfire in the air.

I could just see myself living on this street. Pushing the baby along in a pram, waving to all the neighbors…

“I can’t believe it.” My voice is a little choked.

“It was just a house.” Luke puts his arm round my slumped shoulders. “We’ll find another one.”

“We won’t. We won’t ever find a place like that. It was the perfect house!” I stop, my hand on the wrought-iron gate. I can’t just give up. I’m not some lame giver-upper.

“Wait here,” I say to Luke, swiveling on my heel. I rush back along the path, up the steps, and plant a foot in the door before Fabia can close it.

“Listen,” I say urgently. “Please. Fabia, we really, really love your house. We’ll pay anything you want.”

“My husband’s already done the deal.” She shrinks back. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“You can talk him round! What can I do to persuade you?”

“Look.” She sighs. “It’s not up to me. Could you please move your feet?”

“I’ll do anything!” I cry in desperation. “I’ll buy you something! I work at a fashion store, I can get really cool stuff—”

I break off. Fabia is peering at my foot, jammed in the door. Then she looks at the other one.

It’s not my feet she’s interested in, it’s my Archie Swann cowboy boots in beaten-up calfskin with the leather drawstring. Archie Swann is the new kid on the shoe block, and these exact boots were in Vogue last week, under “Most Coveted.” I saw Fabia checking them out the moment we arrived.

Fabia raises her eyes to mine. “I like your boots,” she says.

I’m momentarily speechless.

Play it cool, Becky, play it cool.

“I waited a whole year for these boots,” I say at last, feeling as though I’m treading on eggshells. “You can’t get them anywhere.”

“I’m on the waiting list at Harvey Nichols,” she bats back.

“Maybe.” I force a casual tone. “But you won’t get them. They only made fifty pairs and they’ve run out. I’m a personal shopper, so I know these things.”

I am totally bluffing here. But I think it’s working. She’s practically salivating over them.

“Becky?” Luke is coming back up the path toward me. “What’s going on?”

“Luke!” I lift a hand. “Stay there!” I feel like Obi-Wan Kenobi telling Luke Skywalker not to interfere because he doesn’t understand the strength of the Force.

I wriggle out of my left boot, leaving it standing on the doormat like a totem.

“It’s yours,” I say. “If you accept our offer. And the other one when we exchange contracts.”

“Call the agent tomorrow,” says Fabia, sounding almost breathless. “I’ll talk my husband round. The house is yours.”