Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (24 page)

Luke turns to look at me—and he’s suddenly got that blank, scary expression that used to make me want to run away from him at press conferences.

“Not an option.”

“But I mean, you’ve got a really successful business in London,” I persist. “I mean, you don’t
have
to set up one in New York, do you? You could just . . .”

I tail away at the look on his face.

“Right,” I say nervously. “Well—I’m sure it’ll all be OK. In the end.”

For a while we’re both silent—then Luke seems to come to, and looks up.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to hold a few hands today,” he says abruptly. “So I won’t be able to make this charity lunch with you and my mother.”

Oh shit. Luke’s mother. Of course, that’s today.

“Can’t she rearrange?” I suggest. “So we can both go?”

“Unfortunately not,” says Luke. He gives a quick smile, but I can see true disappointment on his face, and I feel a flash of indignation toward his mother.

“Surely she could find time—”

“She’s got a very busy schedule. And as she pointed out, I didn’t give her very much warning.” He frowns. “You know, my mother’s not just some . . . society lady of leisure. She has a lot of important commitments. She can’t just drop everything, much as she would like to.”

“Of course not,” I say hurriedly. “Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll just go along to this lunch with her on my own, shall I?” I add, trying to sound as though I’m not at all intimidated by this prospect.

“She has to go to the spa first,” says Luke, “and she suggested you accompany her.”

“Oh right!” I say cautiously. “Well, that could be fun . . .”

“And then there’s the charity lunch she’s going to take you to. It’ll be a chance for you two to get to know one another. I really hope you hit it off.”

“Of course we will,” I say firmly. “It’ll be really nice.” I get out of bed and go and put my arms around Luke’s neck. His face still looks strained, and I put up my hand to smooth away the creases in his brow. “Don’t worry, Luke. People will be queuing up to back you. Round the block.”

Luke gives a half-smile and kisses my hand.

“Let’s hope so.”

As I sit in reception, waiting for Luke’s mother to arrive, I feel a combination of nerves and intrigue. I mean, for a start, what are we going to talk about? If I were meeting his stepmum, she could tell me all about Luke when he was a little boy, and bring out all the embarrassing photographs. But Luke’s real mum barely saw him when he was a little boy. Apparently she just used to send him huge presents at school, and visit about every three years.

You’d think that would have made him a bit resentful—but he adores her. In fact, he simply can’t find one bad thing to say about her. I once asked him whether he minded that she left him—and he got all defensive and said she had no choice. And he’s got this enormous glamorous photograph of her in his study at home—much bigger than the one of his dad and stepmum on their wedding day. I do sometimes wonder what they think about that. But it’s not something I really feel I can bring up.

“Rebecca?” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up, startled. A tall, elegant woman in a pale suit, with very long legs and crocodile shoes, is staring down at me. It’s the glamorous photograph in the flesh! And she looks just the same as she does in the picture, with high cheekbones and dark, Jackie Kennedy–style hair—except her skin is kind of tighter, and her eyes are unnaturally wide. In fact, it looks as though she might have some difficulty closing them.

“Hello!” I say, getting awkwardly to my feet and holding out my hand. “How do you do?”

“Elinor Sherman,” she says in a strange half-English, half-American drawl. Her hand is cold and bony, and she’s wearing two enormous diamond rings that press into my flesh. “So pleased to meet you.”

“Luke was very sorry he couldn’t make it,” I say, and hand her the present he gave me to give. As she undoes the wrapping, I can’t help goggling. A Herm`es scarf!

“Nice,” she says dismissively, and puts it back into the box. “My car is waiting.”

“Luke was really hoping we might get to know each other a bit,” I say, with a friendly smile.

“I have until two fifteen,” says Elinor crisply.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, never m—”

“So that should be ample time. Shall we go?”

Blimey. A car with a chauffeur. And a crocodile Kelly bag—and are those earrings
real
emeralds?

As we drive away, I can’t help surreptitiously staring at Elinor. Now I’m close up I realize she’s older than I first thought, probably in her fifties. And although she looks wonderful, it’s a bit as though that glamorous photo has been left out in the sun and lost its color—and then been painted over with makeup. Her lashes are heavy with mascara and her hair is shiny with lacquer and her nails are so heavily varnished, they could be red porcelain. She’s so completely . . . done. Groomed in a way I know I could never be, however many people went to work on me.

I mean, I’m looking quite nice today, I think. In fact, I’m looking really sharp. There was a spread in American
Vogue
on how black and white is
the
look at the moment, so I’ve teamed a black pencil skirt with a white shirt I found in the sample sale the other day, and black shoes with fantastic high heels. And I’ve shaded my eyes just like Mona showed me. I was really pleased with myself this morning. But now, as Elinor surveys me, I’m suddenly aware that one of my nails is very slightly chipped, and my shoe has got a tiny smear on the side—and oh God, is that a thread hanging down from my skirt? Should I quickly try to pull it off?

Casually, I put my hand down on my lap to cover up the loose thread. Maybe she didn’t see. It’s not that obvious, is it?

But Elinor is silently reaching into her bag, and a moment later she hands me a pair of small silver tortoiseshell-handled scissors.

“Oh . . . er, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I snip the offending thread, and hand back the scissors, feeling like a schoolchild. “That always happens,” I add, and give a nervous little giggle. “I look in the mirror in the morning and I think I look fine, but then the minute I get out of the house . . .”

Great, now I’m gabbling. Slow down, Becky.

“The English are incapable of good grooming,” says Elinor. “Unless it’s a horse.”

The corners of her lips move a couple of millimeters up into a smile—although the rest of her face is static—and I burst into sycophantic laughter.

“That’s really good! My flatmate loves horses. But I mean, you’re English, aren’t you? And you look absolutely . . . immaculate!”

I’m really pleased I’ve managed to throw in a little compliment, but Elinor’s smile abruptly disappears. She gives me a blank stare and suddenly I can see where Luke gets that impassive scary expression from.

“I’m a naturalized American citizen.”

“Oh right,” I say. “Well, I suppose you’ve been here for a while. But I mean, in your heart, aren’t you still . . . wouldn’t you say you’re a . . . I mean, Luke’s very English . . .”

“I have lived in New York for the majority of my adult life,” says Elinor coldly. “Any attachment of mine to Britain has long disappeared. The place is twenty years out of date.”

“Right.” I nod fervently, trying to look as though I understand completely. God, this is hard work. I feel like I’m being observed under a microscope. Why couldn’t Luke have come? Or why couldn’t she have rescheduled? I mean, doesn’t she
want
to see him?

“Rebecca, who colors your hair?” says Elinor abruptly.

“It’s . . . it’s my own,” I say, nervously touching a strand.

“Meione,” she echoes suspiciously. “I don’t know the name. At which salon does she work?”

For a moment I’m completely silenced.

“Erm . . . well,” I flounder at last. “Actually . . . I . . . I’m not sure you’ll have heard of it. It’s very . . . tiny.”

“Well, I think you should change colorist,” says Elinor. “It’s a very unsubtle shade.”

“Right!” I say hurriedly. “Absolutely.”

“Guinevere von Landlenburg swears by Julien on Bond Street. Do you know Guinevere von Landlenburg?”

I hesitate thoughtfully, as though going through a mental address book. As though checking all the many, many Guineveres I know.

“Um . . . no,” I say at last. “I don’t think I do.”

“They have a house in South Hampton.” She takes out a compact and checks her reflection. “We spent some time there last year with the de Bonnevilles.”

I stiffen. The de Bonnevilles. As in Sacha de Bonneville. As in Luke’s old girlfriend.

Luke never told me they were friends of the family.

OK, I’m not going to stress. Just because Elinor is tactless enough to mention Sacha’s family. It’s not as though she’s actually mentioned
her—

“Sacha is such an accomplished girl,” says Elinor, snapping her compact shut. “Have you ever seen her water-ski?”

“No.”

“Or play polo?”

“No,” I say morosely. “I haven’t.”

Suddenly Elinor is rapping imperiously on the glass panel behind the driver.

“You took that corner too fast!” she says. “I won’t tell you again, I don’t wish to be rocked in my seat. So, Rebecca,” she says, sitting back in her seat and giving me a dissatisfied glance. “What are your own hobbies?”

“Uhm . . .” I open my mouth and close it again. My mind’s gone completely blank. Come on, I must have some hobbies. What do I do at the weekends? What do I do to relax?

“Well, I . . .”

This is completely ridiculous. There
must
be things in my life other than shopping.

“Well, obviously, I enjoy . . . socializing with friends,” I begin hesitantly. “And also the . . . the study of fashion through the um . . . medium of magazines . . .”

“Are you a sportswoman?” says Elinor, eyeing me coldly. “Do you hunt?”

“Erm . . . no. But . . . I’ve recently taken up fencing!” I add in sudden inspiration. I’ve got the outfit, haven’t I? “And I’ve played the piano since I was six.”

Completely true. No need to mention that I gave up when I was nine.

“Indeed,” says Elinor, and gives a wintry smile. “Sacha is also very musical. She gave a recital of Beethoven piano sonatas in London last year. Did you go to it?”

Bloody Sacha. With her bloody water-skiing and bloody sonatas.

“No,” I say defiantly. “But I . . . I gave one myself, as it happens. Of . . . of Wagner sonatas.”

“Wagner sonatas?” echoes Elinor suspiciously.

“Erm . . . yes.” I clear my throat, trying to think how to get off the subject of accomplishments. “So! You must be very proud of Luke!”

I’m hoping this comment will trigger a happy speech from her lasting ten minutes. But Elinor simply looks at me silently, as though I’m speaking nonsense.

“With his . . . his company and everything,” I press on doggedly. “He’s such a success. And he seems very determined to make it in New York. In America.” Elinor gives me a patronizing smile.

“No one is anything till they make it in America.” She looks out of the window. “We’re here.”

Thank God for that.

To give Elinor her due, the beauty spa is absolutely amazing. The reception area is exactly like a Greek grotto, with pillars and soft music and a lovely scent of essential oils in the air. We go up to the reception desk, where a smart woman in black linen calls Elinor “Mrs. Sherman” very deferentially. They talk for a while in lowered voices, and the woman occasionally gives me a glance and nods her head, and I try to pretend not to be listening, looking at the price list for bath oils. Then abruptly Elinor turns away and ushers me to a seating area where there’s a jug of mint tea and a sign asking patrons to respect the tranquility of the spa and keep their voices down.

We sit in silence for a while—then a girl in a white uniform comes to collect me and takes me to a treatment room, where a robe and slippers are waiting, all wrapped in embossed cellophane. As I get changed, she’s busying herself at her counter of goodies, and I wonder pleasurably what I’ve got in store. Elinor insisted on paying for all my treatments herself, however much I tried to chip in—and apparently she selected the “top-to-toe grooming” treatment, whatever that is. I’m hoping it’ll include a nice relaxing aromatherapy massage—but as I sit down on the couch, I see a pot full of wax heating up.

I feel an unpleasant lurch in my tummy. I’ve never been that great at having my legs waxed. Which is not because I’m afraid of pain, but because—

Well, OK. It’s because I’m afraid of pain.

“So—does my treatment include waxing?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“You’re booked in for a full waxing program,” says the beautician, looking up in surprise. “The ‘top-to-toe.’ Legs, arms, eyebrows, and Brazilian.”

Arms? Eyebrows? I can feel my throat tightening in fear. I haven’t been this scared since I had my jabs for Thailand.

“Brazilian?” I say in a scratchy voice. “What . . . what’s that?”

“It’s a form of bikini wax. A total wax.”

I stare at her, my mind working overtime. She can’t possibly mean—

“So if you’d like to lie down on the couch—”

“Wait!” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “When you say ‘total,’ do you mean . . .”

“Uh-huh.” The beautician smiles. “Then, if you wish, I can apply a small crystal tattoo to the . . . area. A love heart is quite popular. Or perhaps the initials of someone special?”

No. This can’t be real.

“So, if you could just lie back on the couch and relax—”

Relax?
Relax
?

She turns back to her pot of molten wax—and I feel a surge of pure terror.

“I’m not doing it,” I hear myself saying, and slither off the couch. “I’m not having it.”

“The tattoo?”

“Any of it.”

“
Any
of it?”

The beautician comes toward me, the wax pot in hand—and in panic I dodge behind the couch, clasping my robe defensively around me.

“But Mrs. Sherman has already prepaid for the entire treatment—”

“I don’t care what she’s paid for,” I say, backing away. “You can wax my legs. But not my arms. And definitely not . . . that other one. The crystal love heart one.”