Sophie Kinsella - Shopaholic and Baby

Cool. I can play it cool.

But as we head across the road and up to the front door, my heart’s hammering. This is our house, I just know it is!

“I love the front door!” I exclaim, ringing the bell. “It’s so shiny!”

“Becky…cool, remember,” says Luke. “Try not to look so impressed.”

“Oh, right, yes.” I adopt the best unimpressed expression I can muster, just as the door swings open.

A very slim woman in her forties is standing on black-and-white marble tiles. She’s wearing white D&G jeans, a casual top which I know cost her £500, and a diamond ring so huge, I’m amazed she can lift her arm.

“Hi.” Her voice is a husky mockney drawl. “Are you here to see the house?”

“Yes!” At once I realize I sound too excited. “I mean…yeah.” I affect a similar nonchalance. “We thought we’d have a look.”

“Fabia Paschali.” Her handshake is like wet cotton wool.

“Becky Brandon. And this is my husband, Luke.”

“Well, come on through.”

We follow her in, our feet echoing on the tiles, and as I look around I have to suppress a loud intake of breath. This hall is huge. And the sweeping staircase is like something out of Hollywood! I immediately have an image of myself trailing down it in a fantastic evening dress while Luke waits admiringly at the bottom.

“We’ve had fashion shoots here,” says Fabia, gesturing at the staircase. “The marble is imported from Italy and the chandelier is antique Murano. It’s included.”

I can see she’s waiting for a reaction.

“Very nice,” says Luke. “Becky?”

Cool. I must be cool.

“It’s all right.” I give a little yawn. “Can we see the kitchen?”

The kitchen is just as amazing. It has a vast breakfast bar, a glass roof, and about every gadget known to mankind. I’m trying as hard as I can not to look overawed as Fabia runs through the appliances. “Triple oven…chef’s hob…This is a rotating multisurface chopping area….”

“Not bad.” I run a hand over the granite with a jaded air. “Do you have a built-in electric sushi maker?”

“Yes,” she says as though I’ve asked something really obvious.

It has a built-in electric sushi maker!

Oh God, it’s just spectacular. And so is the terrace with built-in summer kitchen and barbecue. And the drawing room fitted out with David Linley shelves. As we follow Fabia upstairs to the main bedroom I’m practically expiring, trying not to exclaim at everything.

“Here’s the dressing room….” Fabia shows us into a smallroom lined with paneled walnut wardrobes. “This is my customized shoe cupboard….” She opens the door and we walk in.

I feel faint. Either side of us are rows and rows of shoes, lined up immaculately on suede-lined shelves. Louboutins…Blahniks…

“It’s amazing!” I blurt out. “And look, we’re the same size and everything. This is so meant to be—” Luke casts me a warning glance. “I mean…yeah.” I give an offhand shrug. “It’s OK, I guess.”

“Have you got kids?” Fabia glances at my stomach as we move away.

“We’re expecting one in December.”

“We’ve got two at boarding school.” She rips a Nicorette patch off her arm, frowns at it, and drops it in a bin. Then she reaches in her jeans pocket and produces a packet of Marlboro Lights. “They’re on the top floor now but their nurseries are still done up if you’re interested.” She flicks a lighter and takes a puff.

“Nurseries?” echoes Luke, glancing at me. “More than one?”

“His and hers. We had one of each. Never got round to redecorating. This is my son’s….” She pushes open a white-paneled door.

I stand there, open-mouthed. It’s like fairyland. The walls are painted with a mural of green hills and blue sky and woods and teddy bears having a picnic. In one corner is a painted crib in the shape of a castle; in the other is a real little red wooden train on tracks, big enough to sit on, with a toy in each carriage.

I feel an overwhelming stab of desire. I want a boy. I so want a little boy.

“And my daughter’s is over here,” Fabia continues.

I can barely tear myself away from the boy’s nursery, but I follow her across the landing as she opens the door — and can’t help gasping.

I have never seen anything so beautiful. It’s a little girl’s dream. The walls are decorated with hand-painted fairies, the white curtains are looped back with huge lilac taffeta bows, and the little cradle is festooned with broderie anglaise frills like a princess’s bed.

Oh God. Now I want a girl.

I want both. Can’t I have both?

“So, what do you think?” Fabia turns to me.

There’s silence on the landing. I can’t speak for longing. I want these nurseries more than I have ever wanted anything, ever. I want this whole house. I want to live here and have our first Christmas here as a family, and decorate a huge pine tree in the black-and-white hall, and hang a tiny stocking above the fireplace….

“Pretty nice,” I manage at last, with a small shrug. “I suppose.”

“Well,” Fabia draws on her cigarette. “Let’s show you the rest.”

I feel like I’m floating as we progress through all the other rooms. We’ve found our house. We’ve found it.

“Make her an offer!” I whisper to Luke as we’re peering into the hot water cupboard. “Tell her we want it!”

“Becky, slow down.” He gives a little laugh. “That’s not the way to negotiate. We haven’t even seen it all yet.”

But I can tell he loves it too. His eyes are bright, and as we come down to the hall again he’s asking questions about the neighbors.

“Well…thanks,” he says at last, shaking Fabia’s hand. “We’ll be in touch through the estate agent.”

How can he restrain himself? Why isn’t he getting out his checkbook?

“Thank you very much,” I add, and am about to shake Fabia’s hand myself when there’s the sound of a key at the front door. A tanned man in his fifties comes in, wearing jeans and a leather jacket and carrying a cool art-portfolio — type thing.

“Hi, there.” He looks from face to face, clearly wondering if he’s supposed to know us. “How are you?”

“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.