Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (22 page)

“No,” I say indignantly. “I mean . . . yes. But it was just a bit of wine at lunch . . .”

The taxi driver shakes his head and drives off, and I head unsteadily into Sephora. To be honest, I am feeling a little giddy. I push open the door and . . . wow. Spotlights are dancing about the bright interior, landing on shiny black counters; on the deep-red carpet underfoot; on the glass packaging of a thousand nail polishes. There’s music pounding, and girls milling everywhere, and trendy guys in black polo necks and headsets handing out goody bags. As I turn dazedly around, I’ve never seen so much makeup in my life. Rows and rows of lipsticks. Rows and rows of eye shadows. In all the colors of the rainbow. And oh look, there are little chairs where you can sit and try it all on, with personal mirrors. This place is . . . I mean, it’s heaven.

“Hi, Becky, you made it!” I look up to see Jodie waving across a display of hairbrushes. She’s wearing a stripy red-and-white jersey dress today, and as she gets nearer I see that her nails have been revarnished stripy red-and-white to match. “Ready for your makeover?”

She ushers me to one of the little chairs and I get into it, feeling a pleasant anticipation. A girl in black comes over with a friendly smile and introduces herself as Mona, my makeup specialist for today.

“Had you thought what look you were after?” she says as she switches on a spotlight and guides it toward my face.

“Well, it’s for lunch with my boyfriend’s mother,” I explain. “I want to look kind of . . . groomed.”

“Polished but subtle?”

“Exactly!”

“I have you,” says Mona, nodding. “Taupes and beiges. The hardest look to pull off.”

“Taupe?” says Jodie, wrinkling her brow. “Did anyone ever look good in taupe?”

“And maybe a soft color on the lips,” says Mona, ignoring Jodie. “Let me start with a light base . . .”

She reaches for a cosmetic sponge and smooths color gently over my face. As she starts shading my eyes I see Jodie standing back, a critical look on her face.

“For this elegant look, less is more,” says Mona.

“Right,” I say, nodding knowledgeably. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll just fetch a mascara . . .”

She disappears toward the front of the shop and I close my eyes. If I’m honest, my head’s still spinning from all that wine, and I’m finding it quite hard to balance on this tiny chair.

Suddenly I feel a coldness on my cheek, and look up. Jodie is standing in front of me, dipping her fingers into a small pot.

“What are you doing?” I say feebly.

“Jazzing you up a bit!” she says, and dabs my other cheek. “All this neutral crap! Like that’s what you wanted from a makeover.”

“Well—”

“I know you’re too polite to complain. You Brits really need to get some attitude.” She stands back and gives a satisfied nod. “Now, did you ever wear false eyelashes? Because they have a great range here.”

“Jodie, I’m not sure . . .”

“Hey!” We both look up to see Mona approaching, an affronted expression on her face. “What the hell is going on? What’s happened to her face?”

“She looked boring,” says Jodie defiantly.

“She looked classic!” Mona sticks her hands on her hips. “Well, you’ve ruined it now.”

“What have I got on my face?” I demand, and pull the mirror toward me. My own face stares back. Smooth and beige, with softly shadowed eyes, discreetly colored lips . . . and silver sparkles on my cheeks.

“Looks great, doesn’t it?” says Jodie unapologetically. “Much better with the glitter.”

I glance at Mona’s annoyed face and suddenly feel a bit guilty.

“Actually, Mona,” I say quickly, “I’d really like to buy some of the products you used. In fact . . . all of them. Would that be possible?”

“Oh,” says Mona, unbending a little. “Well—yes, of course. They are from a rather expensive line . . .”

“That doesn’t matter!” I turn hastily to Jodie. “And . . . I’ll buy the glitter too. I’ll buy it all!”

Ten minutes later I find myself outside Sephora, clutching two carrier bags full of makeup, a whole set of new cosmetic brushes, a silver shower cap, and something called “buffing paste,” which I threw in at the last moment. I’m not sure quite what it is—but the jar is absolutely gorgeous!

“OK,” I say, looking dazedly around the busy street in front of me. “Where next?”

“Babe, I have to go,” says Jodie, looking up from her pager. “I’ve already had a five-hour lunch break. But if you want the true SoHo experience, there’s Dean and Deluca right in front of you . . .” She swivels me by the shoulders until I’m facing across the street. “. . . and just along is Scoop, which is
the
place to pick up the most expensive T-shirt in the universe . . .”

“What about that?” I say, pointing to a gorgeous, glowing shop window that has caught my eye.

“Kate’s Paperie. To die for.”

“What does it sell?” I say puzzledly. “Just paper?”

“Just paper!” She gives a raucous chuckle. “You go take a look. And listen, you want to get together again sometime?”

“I’d love to!” I say in delight. “I’ll be here for at least another week. Thanks, Jodie.”

“No problem.”

I watch as Jodie hurries off toward the subway and suddenly notice that the spiky heels of her shoes are painted in red-and-white stripes, too. That’s so cool! Where did she get them?

“Jodie!” I cry, but she can’t hear me. Never mind, I’ll ask her next time.

As she disappears down into the subway station I walk slowly toward Kate’s Paperie. I’m not really interested in paper, to be honest. In fact, I probably won’t bother going in. But it can’t hurt to have a little—

I stop in my tracks as I reach the window, and stare at the display, astounded. When Jodie said
paper
, I imagined piles of photocopying sheets. I had no idea she meant . . . I mean, just look at that display of marbled wrapping paper. And that decoupage box. And that amazing beaded ribbon! I’ve never seen anything like it!

I push the door open and walk around, marveling at the arrangements of beautiful wrapping paper adorned with dried flowers, raffia, and bows, the photograph albums, the boxes of exquisite writing paper . . . And oh God, just look at the greeting cards!

You see, this is it. This is why New York is so great. They don’t just have boring old cards saying Happy Birthday. They have handmade creations with twinkly flowers and witty collages, saying things like “Congratulations on adopting twins!” and “So sad to hear you broke up!”

I walk up and down, utterly dazzled by the array. I just
have
to have some of these cards. Like this fantastic pop-up castle, with the flag reading “I love your remodeled home!” I mean, I don’t actually know anyone who’s remodeling their home, but I can always keep it until Mum decides to repaper the hall. And this one covered in fake grass, saying “To a smashing tennis coach with thanks.” Because I’m planning to have some tennis lessons next summer, and I’ll want to thank my coach, won’t I?

I scoop up a few more, and then move on to the invitation rack. And they’re even better! Instead of just saying “Party” they say things like “We’re Meeting at the Club for Brunch!” and “Come Join Us for an Informal Pizza!”

You know, I think I should buy some of those. It would be shortsighted not to. Suze and I might easily hold a pizza party, mightn’t we? And we’ll never find invitations like this in Britain. And they’re so sweet, with glittery little pizza slices all the way down the sides! I carefully put five boxes of invitations in my basket, along with all my lovely cards, and a few sheets of candy-striped wrapping paper, which I just can’t resist, then head to the checkout. As the assistant scans everything through, I look around the shop again, wondering if I’ve missed anything—and it’s only when she announces the total that I look up in slight shock. That much? Just for a few cards?

For a moment I wonder whether I really do need them all. Like the card saying “Happy Hanukkah, Boss!”

But then—they’re bound to come in useful one day, aren’t they? And if I’m going to live in New York, I’m going to have to get used to sending expensive cards all the time, so really, this is a form of acclimatization.

As I head toward the door, I’m dimly aware of a ringing, burbling sort of sound—and all of a sudden I realize it’s my own mobile phone.

“Hi!” I say, clutching it to my ear. “Who’s this?”

“Hi. It’s me,” says Luke. “I heard your lunch went well.”

“Really?” I say, feeling a jolt of surprise. “Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve just been speaking to some people at HLBC. Apparently you were quite a hit. Very entertaining, they said.”

“Wow! Really? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. They were saying how charming you were, and how cultured . . . I even hear they put you in a taxi to the Guggenheim afterward.”

“That’s right,” I say, reaching to look at a paper knife. “They did.”

“Yes, I was quite intrigued to hear all about your burning childhood dream,” says Luke. “Kent was very impressed.”

“Really?” I say vaguely. “Well, that’s good.”

“Absolutely.” Luke pauses. “Slightly strange that you didn’t mention the Guggenheim this morning, though, isn’t it? Or indeed . . . ever. Bearing in mind you’ve been longing to go there since you were a child of six.”

Suddenly I hear the amusement in his voice, and snap to attention. He’s bloody well rung up to tease me, hasn’t he?

“Have I never mentioned the Guggenheim?” I say innocently, and put the paper knife back. “How very odd.”

“Isn’t it?” says Luke. “Most peculiar. So, are you there now?”

Bugger.

For a moment, I’m silenced. I simply can’t admit to Luke that I’ve gone shopping again. Not after all that teasing he gave me about my so-called guided tour. I mean OK, I know ten minutes out of a three-hour city tour isn’t that much—but I got as far as Saks, didn’t I?

“Yes,” I say defiantly. “Yes, I am, actually.”

Which is kind of almost true. I mean, I can easily go there after I’ve finished here.

“Great!” says Luke. “What particular exhibit are you looking at?”

Oh, shut up.

“What’s that?” I say, suddenly raising my voice. “Sorry, I didn’t realize! Luke, I have to turn my mobile off. The . . . um . . . curator is complaining. But I’ll see you later.”

“Six at the Royalton Bar,” he says. “You can meet my new associate, Michael. And I’ll look forward to hearing all about your afternoon.”

Now I feel a bit guilty. I shouldn’t have told Luke I was at the Guggenheim. I should have told the truth.

But it doesn’t matter . . . because what I’ll do is I’ll go there right now. Right this minute! After all, I can always come back to SoHo another day, can’t I?

I walk slowly along the crowded street, telling myself that what I’ll do is hail a cab and go straight up there. Without delay. Straight to the Guggenheim and immerse myself in some wonderful culture. Excellent. I can’t wait, actually.

I arrive at a street corner and come to a standstill. A lit-up taxi crawls past—but for some strange reason my arm doesn’t rise. Across the street is a stall selling fake designer sunglasses, and I feel a sudden pang of longing to go and rifle through them. And look there, that shop’s doing a discount on Calvin Klein jeans. And I do actually
need
some new jeans . . . And I haven’t even been into Dean and Deluca . . .

Oh, why couldn’t the Guggenheim be in SoHo?

Hang on a minute.

People are pushing past me but I don’t move. My eye is riveted by something fixed to the facade above an entrance. I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing.

The word GUGGENHEIM stares back at me, as large as life. It’s like God heard my prayers.

But what’s going on? Has the Guggenheim suddenly
moved
? Are there two Guggenheims?

As I hurry toward the doors, I realize this place looks quite small for a museum—so maybe it’s not the main Guggenheim. Maybe it’s some trendy SoHo offshoot! Yes! I mean, if London can have the Tate Gallery and Tate Modern, why can’t New York have the Guggenheim and Guggenheim SoHo? That sounds so cool!

I cautiously push the door open—and sure enough, it’s all white and spacious, with modern art on pedestals and people wandering around quietly, whispering to one another.

You know, this is what all museums should be like. Nice and small, for a start, so you don’t feel exhausted as soon as you walk in. I mean, you could probably do this lot in about half an hour. Plus, all the things look really interesting. Like, look at those amazing red cubes in that glass cabinet! And this fantastic abstract print, hanging on the wall.

As I’m gazing admiringly at the print, a couple come over and look at it too, and start murmuring to each other about how nice it is. Then the girl says casually, “How much is it?”

And I’m about to turn to her with a friendly smile and say, “That’s what I always want to know, too!”—when to my astonishment the man reaches for it and turns it over. And there’s a price label fixed onto the back!

A price label in a museum! I don’t believe it! This place is perfect!
Finally
, some forward-thinking person has agreed with me—that people don’t want to just look at art, they want to know how much it is. I’m going to write to the people at the Victoria and Albert about this.

And you know, now that I look around properly,
all
the exhibits seem to have a price on them. Those red cubes in the cabinet have got a price label, and so has that chair, and so has that . . . that box of pencils.

How weird, having a box of pencils in a museum. Still, maybe it’s installation art. I walk over to have a closer look—and there’s something printed on each pencil. Probably some really meaningful message about art, or life . . . I lean close, interested, and find myself reading the words “Guggenheim Museum Store.”

What?

Is this a—

I lift my head and look around bewilderedly.

Am I in a
shop
?

Suddenly I start noticing things I hadn’t seen before. Like a pair of cash registers on the other side of the room. And there’s somebody walking out with a couple of carrier bags.