Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (27 page)

“Right,” says Erin, when I’ve finished. “Well, you certainly have some ideas there . . .” She taps her teeth for a moment. “I’m thinking . . . we have a very nice fitted jacket by Moschino, with roses on the collar . . .”

“Oh, I know the one!” I say in delight. “I was thinking of that, too!”

“Along with . . . there’s a new skirt in the Barneys collection . . .”

“The black one?” I say. “With the buttons just here? Yes, I thought of that, but it’s a bit short. I was thinking of the knee-length one. You know, with the ribbon round the hem . . .”

“We’ll see,” says Erin, with a pleasant smile. “Let me line up some pieces for you, and we can have a look.”

As she goes off to gather up clothes, I sit down and sip my champagne. This isn’t bad, actually. I mean, it’s much less effort than trawling round the shop myself. I can half-hear a murmured conversation going on in the dressing room next door—and suddenly a woman’s voice rises in distress, saying, “I just want to show that bastard. I just want to
show
him!”

“And we will show him, Marcia,” replies a calm, soothing voice, which I think belongs to the woman in tortoiseshell glasses. “We will. But not in a cherry-red pantsuit.”

“Okaaay!” Erin is back in the dressing room, wheeling in a rack of clothes. I run my eye quickly over them, and notice quite a few of the things I’d already picked out for myself. But what about the knee-length skirt? And what about that amazing aubergine trouser suit with the leather collar?

“So, here’s the jacket for you to try . . . and the skirt . . .”

I take the clothes from her, and look doubtfully at the skirt. I just know it’s going to be too short. But then, she’s the expert, I suppose . . . Quickly I change into the skirt and jacket—then come and stand in front of the mirror, next to Erin.

“The jacket’s fabulous!” I say. “And it fits me perfectly. I
love
the cut.”

I don’t really want to say anything about the skirt. I mean, I don’t want to hurt her feelings—but it looks all wrong.

“Now, let’s see,” says Erin. She stands with her head on one side and squints at my reflection. “I’m thinking a skirt to the knee might look better, after all.”

“Like the one I told you about!” I say in relief. “It’s on the seventh floor, right next to the—”

“Possibly,” she says, and smiles. “But I have a few other skirts in mind . . .”

“Or the Dolce & Gabbana one on the third floor,” I add. “I was looking at it earlier. Or the DKNY.”

“DKNY?” says Erin, wrinkling her brow. “I don’t believe . . .”

“The assistant there told me they’re new in.
So
nice. You should have a look at them!” I turn round and look carefully at her outfit. “You know what? The mauve DKNY would look really good with that turtleneck you’re wearing. And you could team it with a pair of those new Stephane Kelian boots with the spiky heels. You know the ones?”

“I know the ones,” says Erin tightly. “The crocodile and suede ones.” I look at her in surprise.

“No, not those ones. The
new
range. With the stitching up the back. They’re so gorgeous! In fact they’d go well with the knee-length skirt . . .”

“Thank you!” interrupts Erin sharply. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Honestly. I’m only giving her a few hints. You’d think she’d be pleased I was so interested in her shop!

Although, I have to say, she doesn’t seem to know it very well.

“Hello there!” comes a voice from the door—and the woman in tortoiseshell glasses is leaning against the door frame, looking at me interestedly. “Everything all right?”

“Great, thanks!” I say, beaming at her.

“So,” says the woman, looking at Erin. “You’re going to try the knee-length skirt for our customer. Is that right?”

“Yes,” says Erin, and gives a rather forced smile. “I’ll just go get it.”

As she disappears, I can’t resist sidling over to the rack of clothes, just to see what else she brought. The woman in glasses watches me for a moment, then comes in and holds out her hand.

“Christina Rowan,” she said. “I head up the personal shopping department.”

“Well, hello!” I say, looking at a pale blue Jill Stuart shirt. “I’m Becky Bloomwood.”

“And you’re from England, I guess, by your accent?”

“London, but I’m going to move to New York!”

“Are you, indeed.” Christina Rowan gives me a friendly smile. “Tell me, what do you do, Becky? Do you work in fashion?”

“Oh no. I’m in finance.”

“Finance! Really.” She raises her eyebrows.

“I give financial advice on the telly. You know, pensions and stuff . . .” I reach for a pair of soft cashmere trousers. “Aren’t these beautiful? Much better than the Ralph Lauren ones.
And
they’re cheaper.”

“They’re great, aren’t they?” She gives me a quizzical look. “Well, it’s nice to have such an enthusiastic customer.” She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a business card. “Do come back and visit us when you’re here again.”

“I will!” I beam at her. “And thanks very much!”

It’s four o’clock by the time I finally leave Barneys. I hail a cab and travel back to the Four Seasons. As I push open the door to our room and look at my reflection in the silent dressing table mirror, I’m still on a kind of glittery high, almost a hysterical excitement at what I’ve just done. What I’ve just bought.

I know I went out just planning to buy a single outfit for my screen test. But I ended up . . . Well, I suppose I just got a bit . . . a bit carried away. So my final list of purchases goes like this:

1. Moschino jacket

2. Knee-length Barneys skirt

3. Calvin Klein underwear

4. Pair of new tights and . . .

5. Vera Wang cocktail dress.

Just . . . before you say anything, I
know
I wasn’t supposed to be buying a cocktail dress. I
know
that when Erin said, “Are you interested in evening wear?” I should simply have said no.

But oh God. Oh
God
. That Vera Wang dress. Inky purple, with a low back and glittering straps. It just looked so completely movie-star perfect. Everyone crowded round to see me in it—and when I drew back the curtain, they all gasped.

And I just stared at myself, mesmerized. Entranced by what I could look like, by the person I could be. There was no question. I had to have it. I
had
to. As I signed the credit card slip . . . I wasn’t me anymore. I was Grace Kelly. I was Gwyneth Paltrow. I was a glittering somebody else, who can casually sign a credit card slip for thousands of dollars while smiling and laughing at the assistant, as though this were a nothing-purchase.

Thousands of dollars.

Although, for a designer like Vera Wang, that price is actually quite . . .

Well, it’s really very . . .

I feel slightly sick. I don’t even want to think about how much it cost. The point is, I’ll be able to wear it for years. Yes! Years and years. And I
need
designer clothes if I’m going to be a famous television star. I mean, I’ll have important events to go to—and I can’t just turn up in M&S, can I? Exactly.

And I’ve got a £10,000 credit card limit. That’s the real point. I mean, they wouldn’t give it to me if they didn’t think I could afford it.

Suddenly I hear a sound at the door, and quickly rise to my feet. Heart thumping, I go to the wardrobe I’ve been stashing all my shopping in, open the door, and quickly shove my Barneys bags inside—then close the door and turn round with a smile, just as Luke enters the room, talking on his mobile.

“Of course I’m in fucking control,” he’s spitting furiously into the phone. “What the fuck do they think they’re—” He breaks off and is silent for a few moments. “I don’t need to fly back to London! Alicia has it all in hand. She says there’s absolutely no problem with Provident Assurance, she spoke to them today and they’re very happy. Someone’s just shit-stirring, God knows who. Yes, I know,” he says in a calmer voice. “Yes. OK, will do. I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael. Thanks.”

He switches off his mobile, puts it away, and looks at me as though he’s almost forgotten who I am. But then his brow softens and he smiles.

“Hi!” he says, and drops his briefcase onto a chair.

“Hi!” I say brightly, moving away from the wardrobe door. “Stranger.”

“I know,” says Luke, rubbing his face wearily. “I’m sorry. Things have been . . . a bit of a nightmare, to be frank. I heard about your screen test, though. Fantastic news.”

He goes to the minibar, pours himself a scotch, and downs it. Then he pours himself another one and takes a slug while I watch anxiously. His face is pale and tense, I notice, and there are shadows under his eyes.

“Is it all . . . going OK?” I ask gingerly.

“It’s going,” he replies. “That’s about as much as I can say.” He walks over to the window and stares out over the glittering Manhattan skyline, and I bite my lip nervously.

“Luke—couldn’t someone else go to all these meetings? Couldn’t someone else fly out and take some of the load? Like . . . Alicia?”

It nearly kills me even to mention her name—but I honestly am getting a bit worried. Slightly to my relief, though, Luke shakes his head.

“I can’t bring in somebody new at this stage. I’ve been managing it all until now; I’ll just have to see it through. I just had no idea they’d be so pedantic. I had no idea they’d be so . . .” He sits down in an armchair and takes a slug of his drink. “I mean, Jesus, they ask a lot of questions. I know Americans are thorough but—” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “They have to know
everything
. About every single client, every single potential client, everybody who’s ever worked for the company, every single bloody memo I’ve ever sent . . . Is there any possibility of litigation here? Who was your receptionist in 1993? What car do you drive? What fucking . . . toothpaste do you use? And now, with these rumors . . . they’re picking everything apart all over again.”

He breaks off and drains his glass, and I stare at him in dismay.

“They sound awful!” I say, and the flicker of a smile passes across Luke’s face.

“They’re not awful. They’re just very conservative, old-school investors—and something’s rattling them. I don’t know what.” He exhales sharply. “I just need to keep them steady.”

His voice is trembling slightly—and as I glance at his hand I see that it’s clenched tightly around his glass. I’ve never seen Luke like this, to be honest. He usually looks so utterly in control, so completely smooth . . .

“Luke, I think you should have an evening off. You haven’t got a meeting tonight, have you?”

“No,” says Luke, looking up. “But I need to go through some of these forecasts again. Big meeting tomorrow, with all the investors. I need to be prepared.”

“You are prepared!” I reply. “What you need is to be
relaxed
. If you work all night, you’ll just be tired and tense and ratty.” I go over to him, take his glass out of his hand, and start to massage his shoulders. “Come on, Luke. You really need a night off. I bet Michael would agree. Wouldn’t he?”

“He’s been telling me to lighten up,” admits Luke after a long pause.

“Well, then, lighten up! Come on, a few hours of fun never did anybody any harm. Let’s both dress up and go somewhere really nice, and dance, and drink cocktails . . .” I kiss him gently on the back of his neck. “I mean, why on earth come to New York and not enjoy it?”

There’s silence—and for an awful moment I think Luke’s going to say he hasn’t got time. But then suddenly he turns round—and thank God, I can see the faint glimmer of a smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “Come on. Let’s do it.”

It turns into the most magical, glamorous, glossy evening of my life. I put on my Vera Wang dress and Luke puts on his smartest suit, and we go to a fabulous restaurant all done like an Art Deco cruise ship, where beautiful people are eating lobster and there’s an old-fashioned jazz band, just like in the movies. Luke orders Bellinis, and we toast each other, and as he relaxes, he tells me more about his deal. In fact, he confides in me more than he ever has before.

“This city,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a demanding place. Like . . . skiing down the edge of a precipice. If you make one mistake—that’s it. You fall.”

“But if you don’t make any mistakes?”

“You win,” says Luke. “You win it all.”

“You’re going to win,” I say confidently. “You’re going to wow them all tomorrow.”

“And you’re going to wow them at your screen test,” says Luke, as a waiter appears at our table with our first course—the most amazing sculptures made out of seafood, presented on hexagonal plates. He pours our wine, and Luke lifts his glass in a toast.

“To you, Becky. You’re going to be a huge success.”

“No,
you’re
going to be a huge success,” I reply, feeling a glow of pleasure all around me. “We’re both going to be huge successes!”

Maybe it’s the Bellini, going to my head—but suddenly I feel again exactly as I did in Barneys. I’m not the old Becky—I’m someone new and sparkling. Surreptitiously I glance at myself in a nearby mirror, and feel a twinge of delight. I mean, just look at me! All poised and groomed, in a New York restaurant, wearing a thousands-of-dollars dress, with my wonderful, successful boyfriend—and a screen test tomorrow for American television!

I feel completely intoxicated with happiness. This expensive, glossy world is where I’ve been heading all along. Limos and flowers; waxed eyebrows and designer clothes from Barneys; a purse stuffed with business cards of TV executives. These are my people; this is where I’m meant to be. My old life seems a million, zillion miles away, like a tiny dot on the horizon. Mum and Dad and Suze . . . my untidy room in Fulham . . .
EastEnders
with a pizza . . . I mean, let’s face it. That was never really me, was it?

We end up staying out for hours. We dance to the jazz band, eat passion fruit sorbet, and talk about everything in the world but work. Luke asks the band to play “These Foolish Things,” which is a song I completely love—and then sings along as we dance (very out of tune, but I don’t say anything). When we get back to the hotel we’re both laughing, and tripping slightly as we walk, and Luke’s hand is making its way deftly inside my dress.