Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (23 page)

How could I have not recognized a
shop
? But . . . this makes less and less sense. Is it just a shop on its own?

“Excuse me,” I say, to a fair-haired boy wearing a name badge. “Can I just check—this
is
a shop?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says the boy politely. “This is the Guggenheim Museum Store.”

“And where’s the actual Guggenheim Museum? With all the Picassos and things?”

“To see the Picassos you have to go to the main museum, on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-ninth Street,” says the boy.

“Right.” I look at him confusedly. “So let me just get this straight. You can come here and buy loads of stuff—and no one minds whether you’ve been to the museum or not? I mean, you don’t have to show your ticket or anything?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So you . . . you can just shop?” My voice rises in delight. “It’s perfect!” Suddenly I see the boy’s shocked expression and quickly add, “I mean, obviously I
do
want to look at the art. Very much so. I was just . . . you know. Checking.”

“If you’re interested in visiting the museum,” says the boy, “I can give you a location map. Did you want to pay a visit?”

“Erm . . .”

Now, let’s not make any hasty decisions.

“Erm . . . I’m not sure,” I say carefully. “Could you just give me a minute?”

“Sure,” says the boy, giving me a slightly odd look, and I sit down on a white seat, thinking hard.

OK, here’s the thing. I mean, obviously I could get in a cab, and whiz up to wherever it is, and spend all afternoon looking at the Picassos.

Or else . . . I could just buy a book
about
the Picassos. Because the thing is, do you actually need to see a piece of art in the flesh to appreciate it? Of course you don’t. And in a way, flicking through a book would be
better
than trekking round lots of galleries—because I’m bound to cover more ground more quickly and actually learn far more.

Besides, what they have in this shop is art, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve already taken in some pretty good culture. Exactly.

Several hours later, I arrive at the Royalton with a huge, exhilarated grin on my face. I haven’t had such a successful afternoon shopping since . . . well, since yesterday.

I check all my carrier bags in at the cloakroom, then head for the small circular bar where Luke has told me to meet him and his new associate, Michael Ellis.

I’ve heard quite a lot about this Michael Ellis during the last few days. Apparently he owns a huge advertising agency in Washington and is best friends with the president. Or is it the vice-president? Something like that, anyway. Basically, he’s a big shot, and crucial to Luke’s new deal. So I’d better make sure I impress him.

God, this place is trendy, I think as I walk in. All leather and chrome and people in severe black outfits with haircuts to match. I walk into the dim circular bar, and there’s Luke, sitting at a table. To my surprise, he’s on his own.

“Hi!” I say, and kiss him. “So—where’s your friend?”

“Making a call,” says Luke. He gestures to a waiter. “Another gimlet here, please.” He gives me a quizzical look as I sit down. “So, my darling. How was the Guggenheim?”

“It was good,” I say with a triumphant beam. Ha, ha-di-ha. I’ve been doing my homework in the cab. “I particularly enjoyed a fascinating series of acrylic forms based on simple Euclidean shapes.”

“Really?” says Luke, looking a bit surprised.

“Absolutely. The way they absorb and reflect pure light . . . Riveting. Oh and by the way, I bought you a present.” I plonk a book on his lap entitled
Abstract Art and Artists
, and take a sip of the drink that has been placed in front of me, trying not to look too smug.

“You really went to the Guggenheim!” says Luke, leafing through the book incredulously.

“Erm . . . yes,” I say. “Of course I did!”

OK, I know you shouldn’t lie to your boyfriend. But it’s kind of true, isn’t it? I
did
go to the Guggenheim. In the broadest sense of the word.

“This is really interesting,” Luke’s saying. “Did you see that famous sculpture by Brancusi?”

“Erm . . . well . . .” I squint over his shoulder, trying to see what he’s talking about. “Well, I was more concentrating on the . . . um . . .”

“What’s that on your cheek?” says Luke, suddenly staring at me. I put a hand up in surprise and feel a trace of silver glitter. I’d forgotten all about that.

“It was . . . a piece of installation art,” I hear myself saying. “Entitled
Constellations
. They had all this, um . . . glitter, and they smeared it on you . . .”

“Here comes Michael now,” interrupts Luke. He closes the book and I quickly put it back in its carrier bag. Thank God for that. I look up interestedly to see what this famous Michael looks like—and nearly choke on my drink.

I don’t believe it. It’s him. Michael Ellis is the balding guy from the gym. Last time he saw me, I was dying at his feet.

“Hi!” says Luke, standing up. “Becky, meet Michael Ellis, my new associate.”

“Hi again,” I say, trying to smile composedly. “How are you?”

Oh, this shouldn’t be allowed. There should be a rule which says that people you’ve met in the gym should
never
meet you in real life.

“We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting,” says Michael Ellis, shaking my hand with a twinkle and sitting down opposite. “Becky and I worked out together at the hotel gym. Didn’t catch you there this morning, though.”

“This morning?” says Luke, giving me a puzzled look as he sits down again. “I thought you said the gym was closed, Becky.”

Shit.

“Oh. Um, well . . .” I take a deep gulp of my drink and clear my throat. “When I said it was
closed
, what I really meant was . . . was . . .” I tail away feebly into silence.

And I so wanted to make a good impression.

“What am I thinking of?” exclaims Michael suddenly. “I must be going crazy! It wasn’t this morning. The gym
was
closed this morning. Due to vital repair work, I believe.” He grins broadly and I feel myself blushing.

“So, anyway,” I say, hurriedly changing the subject. “You’re . . . you’re doing a deal with Luke. That’s great! How’s it all going?”

I only really ask to be polite, and steer attention away from my gym activities. I’m expecting them both to start explaining it to me at great length, and I can nod my head at intervals and enjoy my drink. But to my surprise, there’s an awkward pause.

“Good question,” says Luke at last, and looks at Michael. “What did Clark say?”

“We had a long conversation,” says Michael. “Not entirely satisfactory.”

I look from face to face, feeling disconcerted.

“Is something going wrong?”

“That all depends,” says Michael.

He starts to tell Luke about his phone call with whoever Clark is, and I try to listen intelligently to their conversation. But the trouble is, I’m starting to feel quite giddy. How much have I drunk today? I don’t even want to think about it, to be honest. I loll against the leather backrest, my eyes closed, listening to their voices chatting what seems far above my head.

“. . . some sort of paranoia . . .”

“. . . think they can change the goalposts . . .”

“. . . overheads . . . cost reduction . . . with Alicia Billington heading up the London office . . .”

“Alicia?” I struggle to an upright position. “Alicia’s going to run the London office?”

“Almost definitely,” says Luke, stopping midsentence. “Why?”

“But—”

“But what?” says Michael, looking at me with interest. “Why shouldn’t she run the London office? She’s bright, ambitious . . .”

“Oh. Well . . . no reason,” I say feebly.

I can’t very well say, “Because she’s a complete cow.”

“You’ve heard she’s just got engaged, by the way?” says Luke. “To Ed Collins at Hill Hanson.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. “I thought she was having an affair with . . . whassisname.”

“With who?” says Michael.

“Erm . . . thingy.” I take a sip of gimlet to clear my head. “She was having secret lunches with him, and everything!”

What’s his name again? I really am pissed.

“Becky likes to keep abreast of the office gossip,” says Luke with an easy laugh. “Unfortunately one can’t always vouch for its accuracy.”

I stare at him crossly. What’s he trying to say? That I’m some kind of rumormonger?

“Nothing wrong with a bit of office gossip,” says Michael with a warm smile. “Keeps the wheels turning.”

“Absolutely!” I say emphatically. “I couldn’t agree more. I always say to Luke, you should be
interested
in the people who work for you. It’s like when I give financial advice on my TV show. You can’t just look at the numbers, you have to
talk
to them. Like . . . like Enid from Northampton!” I look at Michael expectantly, before remembering that he doesn’t know who Enid is. “On paper she was ready to retire,” I explain. “Pension and everything. But in real life . . .”

“She . . . wasn’t ready?” suggests Michael.

“Exactly! She was really enjoying work and it was only her stupid husband who wanted her to give up. She was only fifty-five!” I gesture randomly with my glass. “I mean, don’t they say life begins at fifty-five?”

“I’m not sure they do,” says Michael, smiling. “But maybe they should.” He gives me an interested look. “I’d like to catch your show one day. Is it shown in the States?”

“No, it isn’t,” I say regretfully. “But I’ll be doing the same thing on American TV soon, so you’ll be able to watch it then!”

“I look forward to that.” Michael looks at his watch and drains his glass. “I have to go, I’m afraid. We’ll speak later, Luke. And very nice to meet you, Becky. If I ever need financial advice, I’ll know where to come.”

As he leaves the bar, I lean back against my squashy seat and turn to look at Luke. His easy demeanor has vanished, and he’s staring tensely into space while his fingers methodically tear a matchbook into small pieces.

“Michael seems really nice!” I say. “Really friendly.”

“Yes,” says Luke distantly. “Yes, he is.”

I take a sip of gimlet and look at Luke more carefully. He’s got exactly the same expression he had last month, when one of his staff cocked up a press release and some confidential figures were made public by mistake. My mind spools back over the conversation I was half-listening to—and as I watch his face I start to feel a bit worried.

“Luke,” I say at last. “What’s going on? Is there some kind of hitch with your deal?”

“No,” says Luke without moving.

“So what did Michael mean when he said, ‘That all depends’? And all that stuff about them changing the goalposts?”

I lean forward and try to take his hand, but Luke doesn’t respond. As I gaze at him in anxious silence, I gradually become aware of the background chatter and music all around us in the dim bar. At the next table a woman’s opening a little box from Tiffany’s and gasping—something which would normally have me throwing my napkin onto the floor and sidling over to see what she’s got. But this time I’m too concerned.

“Luke?” I lean forward. “Come on, tell me. Is there a problem?”

“No,” says Luke shortly, and tips his glass back into his mouth. “There’s no problem. Things are fine. Come on, let’s go.”

I WAKE UP the next morning with a pounding headache. We went on from the Royalton to someplace for dinner, and I drank even more there—and I can’t even remember getting back to the hotel. Thank God I don’t have an interview today. To be honest, I could quite happily spend the whole day in bed with Luke.

Except that Luke is already up, sitting by the window, talking grimly into the phone.

“OK, Michael. I’ll talk to Greg today. God knows. I have no idea.” He listens for a bit. “That may be the case. But I’m not having a second deal collapse on us.” There’s a pause. “Yes, but that would put us back—what, six months? OK. I hear what you’re saying. Yes, I will. Cheers.”

He puts down the receiver and stares tensely out of the window, and I rub my sleepy face, trying to remember if I packed any aspirin.

“Luke, what’s wrong?”

“You’re awake,” says Luke, turning round, and gives me a quick smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“What’s wrong?” I repeat, ignoring him. “What’s wrong with the deal?”

“Everything’s fine,” says Luke shortly, and turns back to the window.

“Everything isn’t fine!” I retort. “Luke, I’m not blind. I’m not deaf. I can tell something’s up.”

“A minor blip,” says Luke after a pause. “You don’t need to worry about it.” He reaches for the phone again. “Shall I order you some breakfast? What would you like?”

“Stop it!” I cry frustratedly. “Luke, I’m not some . . . some stranger! We’re going to live together, for God’s sake! I’m on your side. Just tell me what’s really going on. Is your deal in trouble?”

There’s silence—and for an awful moment I think Luke’s going to tell me to mind my own business. But then he pushes his hands through his hair, exhales sharply, and looks up.

“You’re right. The truth is, one of our backers is getting nervous.”

“Oh,” I say, and pull a face. “Why?”

“Because some
fucking
rumor’s going around that we’re about to lose Bank of London.”

“Really?” I stare at him, feeling a cold dismay creep down my back. Even I know how important Bank of London is to Brandon Communications. They were one of Luke’s first clients—and they still bring in about a quarter of the money the company makes every year. “Why would people be saying that?”

“Fuck knows.” He pushes his hair back with his hands. “Bank of London denies it completely, of course. But then, they would. And of course it doesn’t help that I’m here, not there . . .”

“So are you going to fly back to London?”

“No.” He looks up. “That would give out completely the wrong signals. Things are shaky enough here already. If I suddenly disappear . . .” He shakes his head and I stare at him apprehensively.

“So—what happens if your backer pulls out?”

“We find someone else.”

“But what if you can’t? Will you have to give up on coming to New York?”