Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (20 page)

“Got a problem?” she says, suddenly looking at me, and I jump.

“No! I was just wondering—where’s the changing room?”

“Changing room?” She chuckles. “Are you kidding? No such thing.”

“Oh.” I look around again, and notice a spectacular black girl, about nine feet tall, stripping off to her bra and knickers. “I see. So we . . . change right here? Great!” I swallow. “No problem at all.”

Hesitantly I start unbuttoning my coat, telling myself that I’ve got no alternative—and no one’s watching anyway. But Two-Tone Girl’s expression is changing as she gazes at me.

“Are you British?”

“Yes! Did you recognize my accent?”

“I love the British!” Her eyes light up. “That film,
Notting Hill
? I loved that!”

“Oh right! So did I, actually.”

“That Welsh guy. He was hilarious!” She suddenly frowns as I step out of my shoes. “Hey, but wait. You shouldn’t have to get changed out here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re British! Everyone knows the Brits are reserved. It’s like . . . your national disease or something.”

“Honestly, it’s fine . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” To my horror the girl strides over and pokes the woman in black standing by the door. “Excuse me? This girl is British. She needs privacy to try on her things. OK?”

The woman turns to stare at me as though I’m a Martian and I smile nervously back.

“Really, don’t worry. I don’t mind . . .”

“She needs privacy!” insists the girl. “They’re different than us. It’s a whole other culture. Can she go behind those racks there?”

“Please. I don’t want to—”

“Whatever,” says the woman, rolling her eyes. “Just don’t mess up the displays.”

“Thanks,” I say to the girl, a little awkwardly. “I’m Becky, by the way.”

“Jodie.” She gives me a wide grin. “Love your boots!”

I disappear behind the rack and begin trying on all the clothes I’ve gathered. With each one I feel a little frisson of delight—and when I get to the Prada bag, it’s a surge of pure joy. Prada at 50 percent off! I mean, this would make the whole trip worthwhile, just on its own.

When I’ve eventually finished, I come out from behind the rack to see Jodie wriggling into a stretchy white dress.

“This sample sale is so great!” she exclaims. “I’m just like . . . where do I stop?”

“I know what you mean.” I give her a blissful smile. “That dress looks great, by the way.”

“Are you going to buy all that?” she says, giving my armload an impressed look.

“Not all of it.” I reach into the pile. “Not . . . these trousers. But everything else.”

“Cool! Go, girl.”

As I happily head toward the paying table, the room is reverberating with high-pitched female voices and I can hear snippets of conversation floating around.

“I have to have it,” a girl is saying, holding up a coat against herself. “I just
have
to have it.”

“OK, what I’m going to do is, I’m just going to put the $450 I spent today onto my mortgage,” another girl is saying to her friend as they walk out, laden with bags. “I mean, what’s $450 over thirty years?”

“One hundred percent cashmere!” someone else is exclaiming. “Did you see this? It’s only fifty dollars! I’m going to take three.”

I dump my stuff on the table and look around the bright, buzzing room at the girls milling about, grabbing at merchandise, trying on scarves, piling their arms full of glossy new gorgeous things. And I feel a sudden warmth, an overwhelming realization. These are my people. I’ve found my homeland.

Several hours later, I arrive back at the Four Seasons, still on a complete high. After the sample sale, I ended up going out for a “welcome to New York” coffee with Jodie. We sat at a marble table, sipping our decaf Frappuccinos and nibbling at nonfat cranberry muffins, and both worked out exactly how much money we’d saved on our bargains ($1,230 in my case!). We agreed to meet up again during my visit—and then Jodie told me all about this amazing Web site that sends you information on these kind of events every day. Every day! I mean, the possibilities are limitless. You could spend your
whole life
going to sample sales!

You know. In theory.

I go up to our room—and as I open the door I see Luke sitting at the desk, reading through some papers.

“Hi!” I say breathlessly, dumping my bags on the enormous bed. “Listen, I need to use the laptop.”

“Oh right,” says Luke. “Sure.” He picks up the laptop from the desk and hands it to me, and I go and sit on the bed. I open the laptop, consult the piece of paper Jodie gave me, and type in the address.

“So, how was your day?” asks Luke.

“It was great!” I say, tapping the keys impatiently. “I made a new friend, and I saw lots of the city . . . Ooh, and look in that blue bag! I got you some really nice shirts!”

“Did you start to get a feel for the place?”

“Oh, I think so. I mean, obviously it’s early . . .” I frown at the screen. “Come
on
, already.”

“But you weren’t too overwhelmed?”

“Mmm . . . not really,” I say absently. Aha! Suddenly the screen is filling up with images. A row of little sweeties at the top—and logos saying,
It’s fun. It’s fashion. In New York City
. The Daily Candy home page!

I click on “Subscribe” and briskly start to type in my e-mail details, as Luke gets up and comes toward me, a concerned look on his face.

“So tell me, Becky,” he says. “I know it must all seem very strange and daunting to you. I know you couldn’t possibly find your feet in just one day. But on first impressions—do you think you could get used to New York? Do you think you could ever see yourself living here?”

I type the last letter with a flourish, press “Send,” and look at him thoughtfully.

“You know what? I think I probably could.”

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
UNITED KINGDOM

September 28, 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Thank you for your completed U.S. immigration forms. As you know, the authorities will wish to evaluate the assets and unique talents which you can bring to this country.

Under section B69 referring to special abilities, you write, “I’m really good at chemistry, ask anyone at Oxford.” We did in fact contact the vice-chancellor of Oxford University, who failed to display any familiarity with your work.

As did the British Olympic long-jump coach.

We enclose fresh forms and request that you fill them out again.

With kind regards,

Edgar Forlano

TWO DAYS LATER, I’m feeling quite dazzled by all the sights and sounds of New York. I’ve walked so many blocks my feet ache, and I’ve really seen some awe-inspiring things. Like, in Bloomingdale’s, they have a chocolate factory! And there’s a whole district full of nothing but shoe shops!

I keep trying to get Luke along to look at all these amazing sights—but he just has meeting after meeting. He’s seeing about twenty people a day—wooing potential clients and networking with media people, and even looking round office spaces in the financial district. As he said yesterday at breakfast, he needs to hit the ground running when he arrives. I was about to make a little joke about “Break a leg!” . . . but then I decided against it. Luke’s taking everything a bit seriously at the moment.

As well as setting up the new company, he’s had briefings from Alicia in London every morning—and she keeps sending through faxes for him to approve, and needlessly long e-mails. I just know she’s only doing it all to show off to Luke—and the really annoying thing is, it’s working. Like, a couple of clients rang up to complain about things, but when he called Alicia she had already leapt into action and sorted it out. So then I had to hear for fifteen minutes about how marvelous she is, and what a great job she’s doing—and keep nodding my head as though I completely agreed. But I still can’t stand her. She rang up the other morning when Luke was out, and when I picked up, she said “
So
sorry to disturb your beauty sleep!” in this really patronizing way, and rang off before I could think of a good reply.

Still, never mind. On the positive side, Luke and I did manage to get our walk in Central Park—even if it was only for five minutes. And one afternoon, Luke took me on the Staten Island Ferry, which was fantastic—except for the moment when I lost my new baseball cap overboard.

Obviously, I didn’t
mean
to shriek so loudly. Nor did I mean for that old woman to mishear and think I’d lost my “cat”—and I certainly didn’t want her to insist the boat should be stopped. It caused a bit of a kerfuffle, actually, which was rather embarrassing. Still, never mind—as Luke said, at least all those tourists with their video cameras had something to film.

But now it’s Wednesday morning. The holiday is over—and I’ve got a slight dentisty feeling of dread. It’s my first appointment today with a pair of important TV people from HLBC. I’m actually quite scared.

Luke’s left early for a breakfast meeting with Michael and some top PR headhunter who’s going to supply him with staff, so I’m left alone in bed, sipping coffee and nibbling at a croissant, and telling myself not to get nervous. The key is not to panic, but to stay calm and cool. As Luke kept reassuring me, this meeting is not an interview as such, it’s simply a first-stage introduction. A “getting-to-know-you” lunch, he called it.

But in a way, lunch is even more scary than an interview. What if I knock something over? What if I don’t tip all the right people? What if I can’t think of anything to say and we sit there in an embarrassing silence?

I spend all morning in our room, trying to read the
Wall Street Journal
and watching CNN—but that only freaks me out even more. I mean, these American television presenters are so slick and immaculate. They never fluff their words, and they never make jokes, and they know everything. Like who’s the trade secretary of Iraq, and the implications of global warming for Peru. And here I am, thinking I can do what they do.

My other problem is, I haven’t done a proper interview for years.
Morning Coffee
never bothered to interview me, I just kind of fell into it. And for my old job on
Successful Saving
, I just had a cozy chat with Philip, the editor, who already knew me from press conferences. So the idea of having to impress a pair of complete strangers from scratch is completely terrifying.

“Just be yourself,” Luke kept saying. But frankly, that’s a ridiculous idea. Everyone knows, the point of an interview is not to demonstrate who you are, but to pretend to be whatever sort of person they want for the job. That’s why they call it “interview technique.”

My interview outfit consists of a beautiful black suit I got at Whistles, with quite a short skirt and discreet red stitching. I’ve teamed it with high-heeled court shoes and some very sheer, very expensive tights. (Or “hose” as I must now start calling them. But honestly. It sounds like Shakespeare or something.) As I arrive at the restaurant where we’re meeting, I see my reflection in a glass door—and I’m quite impressed. But at the same time, half of me wants to run away, give up on the idea, and buy myself a nice pair of shoes to commiserate.

I can’t, though. I have to go through with this. The reason my stomach feels so hollow and my hands feel so damp is that this really matters to me. I can’t tell myself I don’t care and it’s not important, like I do about most things. Because this really does matter. If I don’t manage to get a job in New York, then I won’t be able to live here. If I screw this interview up, and word gets around that I’m hopeless—then it’s all over. Oh God. Oh God . . .

OK, calm down, I tell myself firmly. I can do this. I can do it. And afterward, I’m going to reward myself with a little treat. The Daily Candy Web site e-mailed me this morning, and apparently this huge makeup emporium in SoHo called Sephora is running a special promotion today, until four. Every customer gets a goody bag—and if you spend fifty dollars, you get a free special engraved beauty box! I mean, how cool would that be?

About two seconds after the e-mail arrived, I got one from Jodie, the girl I met at the sample sale. I’d been telling her I was a bit nervous about meeting Luke’s mother—and she said I should get a makeover for the occasion and Sephora was definitely the place, did I want to meet up? So that will be fun, at least . . .

There, you see, I feel better already, just thinking about it. OK, go girl. Go get ’em.

I force myself to push open the door, and suddenly I’m in a very smart restaurant, all black lacquer and white linen and colored fish swimming in tanks.

“Good afternoon,” says a maître d’ dressed entirely in black.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m here to meet—”

Shit, I’ve completely forgotten the names of the people I’m meeting.

Oh, great start, Becky. This is really professional.

“Could you just . . . hang on?” I say, and turn away, flushing red. I scrabble in my bag for the piece of paper—and here we are. Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland.

Kent? Is that really a name?

“It’s Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say to the maître d’, hastily shoving the paper back in my bag, “meeting Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland of HLBC.”

He scans the list, then gives a frosty smile. “Ah yes. They’re already here.”

Taking a deep breath, I follow him to the table—and there they are. A blond woman in a beige trouser suit and a chiseled-looking man in an equally immaculate black suit and sage-green tie. I fight the urge to run away, and advance with a confident smile, holding out my hand. They both look up at me, and for a moment neither says anything—and I feel a horrible conviction that I’ve already broken some vital rule of etiquette. I mean, you do shake hands in America, don’t you? Are you supposed to kiss? Or bow?

But thankfully the blond woman is getting up and clasping my hand warmly.