Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (21 page)

“Becky!” she says. “
So
thrilled to meet you. I’m Kent Garland.”

“Judd Westbrook,” says the man, gazing at me with deep-set eyes. “We’re very excited to meet you.”

“Me too!” I say. “And thank you so much for your lovely flowers!”

“Not at all,” says Judd, and ushers me into a chair. “It’s a delight.”

“An enormous pleasure,” says Kent.

There’s an expectant silence.

“Well, it’s a . . . a fantastic pleasure for me, too,” I say hastily. “Absolutely . . . phenomenal.”

So far so good. If we just keep telling each other what a pleasure this is, I should do OK. Carefully I place my bag on the floor, along with my copies of the
FT
and the
Wall Street Journal
. I thought about the
South China Morning Post
, too, but decided that might be a bit much.

“Would you like a drink?” says a waiter, appearing at my side.

“Oh yes!” I say, and glance nervously around at the table to see what everyone else is having. Kent and Judd have both got tumblers full of what looks like G&T, so I’d better follow suit. “A gin and tonic, please.”

To be honest, I think I need it, just to relax. As I open my menu, both Judd and Kent are gazing at me with an alert interest, as though they think I might suddenly burst into blossom or something.

“We’ve seen your tapes,” says Kent, leaning forward. “And we’re very impressed.”

“Really?” I say—and then realize I shouldn’t sound quite so astonished. “Really,” I repeat, trying to sound nonchalant. “Yes, well, I’m proud of the show, obviously . . .”

“As you know, Rebecca, we produce a show called
Consumer Today
,” says Kent. “We don’t have a personal finance segment at present, but we’d love to bring in the kind of advisory slot you’re doing in Britain.” She glances at Judd, who nods in agreement.

“It’s obvious you have a passion for personal finance,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well—”

“It shines through your work,” he asserts firmly. “As does the pincerlike grip you have on your subject.”

Pincerlike grip?

“You know, you’re pretty unique, Rebecca,” Kent is saying. “A young, approachable, charming girl, with such a high level of expertise and conviction in what you’re saying . . .”

“You’re an inspiration for the financially challenged everywhere,” agrees Judd.

“What we admire the most is the patience you show these people.”

“The empathy you have with them . . .”

“. . . that faux-simplistic style of yours!” says Kent, and looks at me intently. “How do you keep that up?”

“Erm . . . you know! It just . . . comes, I suppose . . .” The waiter puts a drink in front of me and I grab it thankfully. “Well, cheers, everyone!” I say, lifting my glass.

“Cheers!” says Kent. “Are you ready to order, Rebecca?”

“Absolutely!” I reply, quickly scanning the menu. “The ahm . . . sea bass, please, and a green salad.” I look at the others. “And shall we share some garlic bread?”

“I’m wheat-free,” says Judd politely.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Well . . . Kent?”

“I don’t eat carbohydrates,” she says pleasantly. “But you go ahead. I’m sure it’s delicious!”

“No, it’s OK,” I say hastily. “I’ll just have the sea bass.”

God, how could I be so stupid? Of course Manhattanites don’t eat garlic bread.

“And to drink?” says the waiter.

“Erm . . .” I look around the table. “I don’t know. A sauvignon blanc, maybe? What does everyone else want?”

“Sounds good,” says Kent with a friendly smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Just some more Pellegrino for me,” she adds, and gestures to her tumbler.

“And me,” says Judd.

Pellegrino? They’re on
Pellegrino
?

“I’ll just have water too!” I say quickly. “I don’t need wine! It was just an idea. You know—”

“No!” says Kent. “You must have whatever you like!” She smiles at the waiter. “A bottle of the sauvignon blanc, please, for our guest.”

“Honestly—” I say, flushing red.

“Rebecca,” says Kent, lifting a hand with a smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Oh great. Now she thinks I’m a complete alcoholic. She thinks I can’t survive one getting-to-know-you lunch without hitting the booze.

Well, never mind. It’s done now. And it’ll be OK. I’ll just drink one glass. One glass, and that’s it.

And that is honestly what I mean to do. Drink one glass and leave it at that.

But the trouble is, every time I finish my glass, a waiter comes along and fills it up again, and somehow I find myself drinking it. Besides which, it would look rather ungrateful to order a whole bottle of wine and leave it undrunk.

So the upshot is, by the time we’ve finished our food, I’m feeling quite . . . Well. I suppose one word might be
drunk
. Another might be
pissed
. But it’s not a problem, because we’re having a really good time, and I’m actually being really witty. Probably because I’ve relaxed a little. I’ve told them lots of funny stories about behind the scenes at
Morning Coffee
, and they’ve listened carefully and said it all sounds “quite fascinating.”

“Of course, you British are very different from us,” says Kent thoughtfully, as I finish telling her about the time Dave the cameraman arrived so pissed he keeled over in the middle of a shot, and got Emma picking her nose. God, that was funny. In fact, I can’t stop giggling, just remembering it.

“We just love your British sense of humor,” says Judd, and stares intently at me as though expecting a joke.

OK, quick. Think of something funny. British sense of humor. Erm
. . . Fawlty Towers? Ab Fab
?

“Don’t mention the war!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Sweetie darling.” I give a snort of laughter, and Judd and Kent exchange puzzled looks.

Just then, the coffee arrives. At least, I’m having coffee, Kent’s having English breakfast tea, and Judd’s having some weird herbal thing which he gave to the waiter to make.

“I adore tea,” says Kent, giving me a smile. “So calming. Now, Rebecca. In England, the custom is that you turn the pot three times clockwise to keep away the devil. Is that right? Or is it counterclockwise?”

Turn the pot? I’ve never heard of turning the bloody pot.

“Erm . . . let me remember.”

I screw my face up thoughtfully, trying to remember the last time I drank tea from a teapot. But the only image that comes to me is of Suze dunking a teabag in a mug while she tears a KitKat open with her teeth.

“I think it’s counterclockwise,” I say at last. “Because of the old saying, ‘The devil he creeps around the clock . . . but never backward he will go.’ ”

What the hell am I talking about? Why have I suddenly put on a Scottish accent?

“Fascinating!” says Kent, taking a sip of tea. “I adore all these quaint old British customs. Do you know any others?”

“Absolutely!” I say brightly. “I know loads!”

Stop it, Becky. Just stop now.

“Like, we have a very old custom of . . . of . . . ‘turning the tea cake.’ ”

“Really?” says Kent. “I’ve never heard of that one.”

“Oh yes,” I say confidently. “What happens is, you take your tea cake . . .” I grab a bread roll from a passing waiter. “And you . . . rotate it above your head like so . . . and you . . . you say a little rhyme . . .”

Crumbs are starting to fall on my head, and I can’t think of anything to rhyme with
tea cake
, so I put my bread roll down and take a sip of coffee. “They do it in Cornwall,” I add.

“Really?” says Judd with interest. “My grandmother comes from Cornwall. I’ll have to ask her about it!”

“Only in some bits of Cornwall,” I explain. “Just in the pointy bits.”

Judd and Kent give each other puzzled looks—then both burst into laughter.

“Your British sense of humor!” says Kent. “It’s so refreshing.”

For a moment I’m not quite sure how to react—then I start laughing too. God, this is great. We’re getting on like a house on fire! Then Kent’s face lights up.

“Now, Rebecca, I was meaning to say. I have rather an exciting opportunity for you. I don’t know what your plans were for this afternoon. But I have a rather unique ticket . . . to . . .”

She pauses for effect, smiling widely, and I stare at her in sudden excitement. A Gucci invitation sample sale! It has to be!

“. . . the Association of Financiers Annual Conference!” she finishes proudly.

For a few moments I can’t speak.

“Really?” I say at last, my voice slightly more high-pitched than usual. “You’re . . . you’re joking!”

How on earth am I going to get out of this one?

“I know!” says Kent delightedly. “I thought you’d be pleased. So if you’re not doing anything else this afternoon . . .”

I
am
doing something! I want to wail. I’m going to Sephora to get made over!

“There are some very high-profile speakers,” puts in Judd. “Bert Frankel, for one.”

“Really?” I say. “Bert Frankel!”

I’ve never heard of bloody Bert Frankel.

“So . . . I have the pass right here . . .” says Kent, reaching for her bag.

Quick. I have to say something or I’ll find myself spending a precious afternoon in New York sitting in some dreary conference hall.

“What a shame!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Because actually . . .”

I
can’t
tell them I have to go and try on lipstick.

“Actually . . . I was planning to visit the Guggenheim this afternoon.”

Phew. No one can argue with culture.

“Really?” says Kent, looking disappointed. “Couldn’t it wait until another day?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say. “There’s a particular exhibit I’ve been absolutely longing to see since . . . since I was a child of six.”

“Really?” says Kent, eyes wide.

“Yes.” I lean forward earnestly. “Ever since I saw a photograph of it in my granny’s art book, it’s been my ambition since childhood to come to New York City and see this piece of art. And now that I’m here . . . I just can’t wait any longer. I hope you understand . . .”

“Of course!” says Kent. “Of course we do! What an inspiring story!” She exchanges impressed looks with Judd, and I smile modestly back. “So—which piece of art is it?”

I stare at her, still smiling. OK, quick, think. The Guggenheim. Modern paintings? Sculpture?

I’m fifty-fifty on modern paintings. If only I could phone a friend.

“Actually . . . I’d rather not say,” I say at last. “I consider artistic preference a very . . . private matter.”

“Oh,” says Kent, looking a little taken aback. “Well, of course, I didn’t mean to intrude in any way—”

“Kent,” says Judd, glancing at his watch again. “We really have to—”

“You’re right,” says Kent. She takes another sip of tea, and stands up. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, we have a meeting at two thirty. But it’s been such a pleasure.”

“Of course!” I say. “No problem!”

I struggle to my feet and follow them out of the restaurant. As I pass the wine bucket I realize with a slight lurch that I’ve more or less drunk the whole bottle. How embarrassing. But I don’t think anybody noticed.

We arrive outside the restaurant, and Judd has already hailed a taxi for me.

“Great to meet you, Rebecca,” he says. “We’ll report back to our vice-president of production, and we’ll . . . be in touch! Enjoy the Guggenheim.”

“Absolutely!” I say, shaking hands with each of them. “I will. And thank you so much!”

I get into the taxi and slam the door behind me.

“Hi,” I say to the taxi driver, watching as Judd and Kent walk away. “I’d like to go to—”

“The Guggenheim,” chips in the driver. “I heard.”

“No, actually, I’d like to go to SoHo. Sephora on Broadway.”

The driver swivels in his seat to look at me. He’s huge and swarthy, and his face is creased in a frown.

“What about the Guggenheim?”

“Erm . . . I’ll go later on.”

“Later on?” says the driver. “You can’t rush the Guggenheim. The Guggenheim is a very fine museum. Picasso. Kandinsky. You don’t want to miss it.”

“I won’t miss it! Honestly, I promise. If we could just go to Sephora now? Please?”

There’s a disapproving silence from the front.

“All right,” he says at last, and starts the engine.

As we drive off, I sink happily into my seat. I think lunch went really well, actually. Except maybe when I told them the anecdote about Rory and the guide dog. And when I tripped over on my way to the loos. But then, that could happen to anybody. The truth is, I really am settling into New York. It’s only been three days, but I’m getting the language and everything. Like, yesterday, I said “Go figure” without even thinking. And I called a skirt
cute
!

We pull up at a pedestrian crossing and I’m peering interestedly out, wondering which street we’re at—when suddenly I freeze in horror.

There are Judd and Kent. Right there, in front of us. They’re crossing the road, and Kent is saying something animatedly, and Judd is nodding. Oh God. I can’t let them see me heading in the wrong direction. Quick, hide.

My heart thumping, I sink down off my seat and kind of crouch on the floor, trying to hide behind my
Wall Street Journal
. God, why isn’t there more
space
in these taxis?

“You OK back there?” says the taxi driver.

“Fine,” I gulp. I raise my head cautiously—and thank goodness Judd and Kent have disappeared. As I scramble back up onto the seat, I bump my head on the window.

“Hey there!” says a disembodied voice, making me jump with fright. “You be careful! Safety counts, OK? So buckle up!”

“OK,” I say humbly. “Sorry about that. I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

I fasten my seat belt with clumsy fingers, and catch the eye of the driver in the mirror.

“It’s a recorded announcement,” he says scornfully. “You’re talking to a tape machine.”

I knew that.

We arrive at Sephora on Broadway, and I thrust wodges of dollars at the driver. As I get out of the cab, he looks closely at me.

“Have you been drinking, lady?”