Sophie Kinsella: Shopaholic ties the knot

“Stop it!” I can’t help giggling. “They just suddenly realized they were meant for each other.”

“Like Harry Met Sally.” He puts on a film-trailer voice. “They were friends. They came from the same gene pool.”

“Danny…”

“OK.” He relents, and snips off the thread. “So, what about you and Luke?”

“What about us?”

“D’you think you’ll get married?”

“I… I have no idea!” I say, feeling a slight color coming to my cheeks. “I can’t say it’s ever crossed my mind.”

Which is completely true.

Well, OK. It’s not completely true. Maybe it has crossed my mind on the very odd occasion. Maybe just occasionally I’ve doodled “Becky Brandon” on my notepad to see what it looked like. And I might possibly have flicked through Martha Stewart Weddings once or twice. Just out of idle curiosity.

Perhaps, also, it’s occurred to me that Suze is getting married and she’s been going out with Tarquin for less time than me and Luke.

But you know. It’s not a big deal. I’m really not into weddings. In fact, if Luke asked me, I’d probably say no.

Well… OK. I’d probably say yes.

But the point is, it’s not going to happen. Luke doesn’t want to get married “for a very long time, if at all.” He said that in an interview in the Telegraph three years ago, which I found in his file of clippings. (I wasn’t poking about. I was looking for an elastic band.) The piece was mainly about his business, but they asked him about personal stuff too — and then they captioned his picture Brandon: marriage at the bottom of agenda.

Which is absolutely fine by me. It’s at the bottom of my agenda, too.

While Danny’s finishing off the dress, I do a little housework. Which is to say I tip the dirty breakfast dishes into the sink where they can soak, dab at a spot on the counter — and then spend some time rearranging the spice jars in the spice rack, according to color. That’s such a satisfying job. Almost as good as organizing my felt-tip pens used to be.

“So do you guys find it hard living together?” says Danny, coming to the door and watching me.

“No.” I look at him in surprise. “Why?”

“My friend Kirsty just tried living with her boyfriend. Disaster. All they did was fight. She said she doesn’t know how anyone does it.”

I slot the cumin jar next to fenugreek (what is fenugreek?), feeling rather smug. The truth is, Luke and I have had hardly any problems since living together. Except maybe the incident when I repainted the bathroom and got gold glitter paint on his new suit. But that doesn’t count, because, as Luke admitted afterward, he completely overreacted, and anybody with sense would have seen that the paint was wet.

Now that I think about it, perhaps we’ve had the odd teeny little dispute about how many clothes I buy. Perhaps Luke has on occasion opened the wardrobe door and said in exasperation, “Are you ever going to wear any of these?”

Perhaps we’ve also had the odd argu-frank discussion about how many hours Luke works. He runs his own very successful financial PR company, Brandon Communications, which has branches in London and New York and is expanding all the time. He loves his work, and maybe once or twice I’ve accused him of loving work more than me.

But the point is, we’re a mature, flexible couple who are able to talk things through. We went out to lunch not long ago and had a long talk, during which I sincerely promised I would try to shop a bit less and Luke sincerely promised he would try to work a bit less. And I reckon we’re both making a pretty good effort.

“Living together has to be worked at,” I say wisely. “You have to be flexible. You have to give as well as take.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Luke and I share our finances, we share the chores… it’s all a matter of teamwork. The point is, you can’t expect everything to stay as it was before. You have to accommodate.”

“Really?” Danny looks interested. “So who do you think accommodates more? You or Luke?”

I’m thoughtful for a moment.

“It’s difficult to say, really,” I say at last. “I expect it’s about equal on both sides.”

“So, like… all this stuff.” Danny gestures around the cluttered apartment. “Is it mostly yours or mostly his?”

“Erm…” I look around, taking in all my aromatherapy candles, vintage lace cushions, and stacks of magazines. For an instant, my mind flicks back to the immaculate, minimalist apartment Luke had in London.

“You know…” I say at last. “A bit of both…”

Which is kind of true. I mean, Luke’s got his laptop in the bedroom.

“The point is, there’s no friction between us,” I continue. “We think as one. We’re like one unit.”

“That’s great,” says Danny, reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl. “You’re lucky.”

“I know we are.” I look at him confidingly. “You know, Luke and I are so in tune, sometimes there’s almost a… sixth sense between us.”

“Really?” Danny stares at me. “Are you serious?”

“Oh yes. I’ll know what he’s about to say, or I’ll kind of feel when he’s around…”

“Like The Force?”

“I suppose.” I give a nonchalant shrug. “It’s like a gift. I don’t question it too closely—”

“Greetings, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” says a deep voice behind us, and Danny and I both jump out of our skins. I swivel round — and there’s Luke, standing at the door with an amused grin. His face is flushed from the cold and there are snowflakes in his dark hair, and he’s so tall, the room suddenly seems a little smaller.

“Luke!” I exclaim. “You scared us!”

“Sorry,” he says. “I assumed you would feel my presence.”

“Yes. Well, I did kind of feel something…” I say, a little defiantly.

“Of course you did.” He gives me a kiss. “Hi, Danny.”

“Hi,” says Danny, watching as Luke takes off his navy cashmere coat, then loosens his cuffs while simultaneously unknotting his tie, with the same assured, deft movements he always makes.

Once, after a few too many cocktails, Danny asked me, “Does Luke make love the same way he opens a champagne bottle?” And although I shrieked and hit him, and said it was none of his business, I could kind of see what he meant. Luke never fumbles or hesitates or looks confused. He always seems to know exactly what he wants, and he pretty much gets it, whether it’s a champagne bottle opening smoothly or a new client for his company, or, in bed, for us to…

Well. Anyway. Let’s just say, since we’ve been living together, my horizons have been broadened.

Now he picks up the post and starts to leaf briskly through it. “So how are you, Danny?”

“Good, thanks,” says Danny, taking a bite of apple. “How’s the world of high finance? Did you see my brother today?” Danny’s brother Randall works in a financing company, and Luke’s had lunch with him a couple of times.

“Not today, no,” says Luke.

“OK, well, when you do,” says Danny, “ask him if he’s put on weight. Really casually. Just say, ‘Why, Randall, you’re looking well-covered.’ And then maybe comment on his choice of entree. He is so paranoid that he’s getting fat. It’s hilarious.”

“Brotherly love,” says Luke. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He comes to the end of the post and looks at me with a slight frown.

“Becky, has our joint account statement come yet?”

“Er… no. Not yet.” I give him a reassuring smile. “I expect it’ll come tomorrow!”

Our bank statement actually came yesterday, but I put it straight in my underwear drawer. I’m slightly concerned about some of the entries, so I’m just going to see if there’s anything I can do to rectify the situation. The truth is, despite what I said to Danny, I’ve been finding this whole joint account thing a bit tricky.