Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

“She’s your mother,” I say. “Don’t speak to her like that.”

“She’s not my mother,” says Luke harshly.

“I’m not his mother,” echoes Elinor, even more harshly, and I see the surprise flash through Luke’s eyes.

They’re so similar. I mean, that’s the irony. They look like they’ve come out of the same Russian-doll set, standing rigid, their chins tight, and their eyes steely with determination.

“I forfeited the right to be your mother many years ago,” Elinor says, more quietly. “I know that, Luke. But I would like to be Minnie’s grandmother. And your … friend.” She glances at me, and I give her an encouraging nod.

I know how hard this must be for Elinor. It so doesn’t come naturally. But, honestly, with her hair loosened, holding a glass of wine, using the word “friend,” she almost sounds normal. She takes a tentative step toward Luke, and I long for him to see her the way I do. But he’s prickling all over with suspicion. He doesn’t want to see.

“I still don’t get it,” he says. “Why are you here?”

“She’s here because this is nuts!” I say, unable to stay quiet. “You’re flesh and blood. You’re connected, OK, whether you like it or not. And one day you’ll both be dead!”

OK, that just popped out. Not sure where I was going with that.

“We’ll both be dead?” says Luke disbelievingly. “Why the hell is that relevant?”

“Because …” I flounder for a moment. “Because you’ll be in heaven or floating around in the sky, or wherever, OK?”

“Floating in the sky.” Luke raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. And you’ll look back at your life, and you won’t remember any one argument or one hurtful comment, you’ll remember the relationships you had. You’ll see a great big pattern to your life. And your pattern is all wrong, Luke. Don’t let one false stitch spoil your pattern.”

Luke doesn’t react. Is he even listening?

“Do you realize that by cutting off contact with your mother, you’re spoiling Minnie’s pattern too?” I warm to my theme. “And what about my pattern? You know, life isn’t just about your own pattern, Luke. All the patterns weave together, and they make, like, a worldwide web of patterns, like an über-pattern, and—”

“Jesus Christ!” Luke expostulates. “Enough with the bloody patterns!”

I stare at him, feeling hurt. I was rather proud of my pattern theory. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Elinor retreating toward the door. She’s not trying to escape, is she?

“Where are you going?” I grab her. “Tell him about the cottage.”

“Cottage?” Luke manages to make the word “cottage” sound highly suspicious and sinister. I nudge Elinor to speak. Honestly, these two really don’t help themselves.

“Dirk Greggory has died,” says Elinor. “You were fond of his cottage, I think. It will be possible for us to visit one last time before his daughter sells it. But I will have to let the family know.”

“Oh.” Luke sounds taken aback. “I see.”

“I have a photograph of you there,” says Elinor to my surprise, and opens her bag.

She produces an ancient-looking crocodile case, and snaps open the stiff clasps. I immediately see an old black-and-white print of some gorgeous-looking man, which Elinor bundles out of view. She leafs past about five more pictures, then removes a photo and hands it to Luke.

“You remember this?”

I peer at the photograph with curiosity and see a younger-looking Luke standing on a wide, sandy beach, dressed in a polo shirt and rolled-up cotton trousers, with bare feet. He’s holding a wooden spade and laughing. His hair is longer than it is today, and it’s rumpled in the wind. I feel a tiny stab of jealousy. I wish I’d known him then.

Luke gives the photo the barest glance. “That was a long time ago.”

“You were twenty-three. It feels like only a year or two ago.” Elinor places a different photo on top, without saying anything. This time, Elinor is in the shot too. She’s wearing such a hideous-looking mustard-colored halter-neck and slacks combo, I nearly gasp. But her sunglasses are quite cool, and the setting is amazing. The pair of them are standing on a boat, with nothing but ocean in the background.

“You carry photographs around with you?” I can’t help saying incredulously. Elinor immediately looks as though I’ve tapped into her secret source of weakness.

“A few,” she says, her face closing up. “On occasion.”