Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (35 page)

But he’s frowning puzzledly. “I don’t know an Alicia . . . Mind you, there’s a few new faces around at the moment . . . What sort of business is she in?”

“PR,” I say after a pause.

“PR? We’re mostly graphic design, here . . .” Suddenly his face clears. “Hey, but maybe she’s with the new company. B and B? BBB? Something like that. They haven’t started trading yet, so we haven’t met them.” He takes a sip of cappuccino and I stare at him. My mind is starting to twitch.

“A new PR company? Based here?”

“As far as I know, yes. They’ve taken a big space on the second floor.”

Thoughts are sparking round my head like fireworks.

B and B. Bridges and Billington. Billington and Bridges.

“Do you . . .” I try to keep calm. “Do you know what sort of PR?”

“Ah! Now, this I
do
know. It’s financial. Apparently one of their biggest clients is Bank of London. Or will be. Which must be a nice little earner . . . But as I say, we haven’t met them yet, so . . .” He looks at me and his face changes expression. “Hey. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” I manage. “I think. I just have to . . . I have to make a phone call.”

I dial the number of the Four Seasons three times—and each time hang up before I can bring myself to ask for Luke Brandon. At last I take a deep breath, dial the number again, and ask to speak to Michael Ellis.

“Michael, it’s Becky Bloomwood here,” I say when I’m put through.

“Becky!” he says, sounding genuinely pleased to hear from me. “How are you doing?”

I close my eyes, trying to keep calm. But just the sound of his voice has taken me back to the Four Seasons with a whoosh. Back to that dim, expensive lobby. Back to that New York dreamworld.

“I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I’m fine. You know . . . back to normal life . . . busy, busy!”

I’m not going to admit I’ve lost my job. I’m not going to have everyone feeling sorry for me.

“I’m just on my way to the studio,” I say, crossing my fingers. “But I wanted a quick word. I think I know why there’s a rumor going around that Luke’s going to lose Bank of London.”

I tell him exactly what I overheard in the office, how I went to King Street, and what I’ve discovered.

“I see,” says Michael at intervals, sounding grim. “I see. You know, there’s a clause in their contracts forbidding employees to do this? If they poach a client, Luke could sue them.”

“They talked about that. They seem to think he won’t sue because he’d lose too much face.”

There’s silence—and I can almost hear Michael thinking down the line.

“They have a point,” he says at last. “Becky, I have to talk to Luke. You did a great job finding out what you did . . .”

“That’s not the only thing.” I take a deep breath. “Michael, someone’s got to talk to Luke. I went into the Brandon Communications office, and it was completely dead. No one’s making any effort, everyone’s going home early . . . it’s a whole different atmosphere. It’s not good.” I bite my lip. “He needs to come home.”

“Why don’t you tell him this yourself?” says Michael gently. “I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”

He sounds so kind and concerned, I feel a sudden prickle in my nose.

“I can’t. If I ring him up, he’ll just think . . . he’ll think I’m trying to prove some point, or it’s just some more stupid gossip . . .” I break off, and swallow hard. “To be honest, Michael, I’d rather you just kept me out of it. Pretend someone else spoke to you. But someone’s got to tell him.”

“I’m seeing him in half an hour,” Michael says. “I’ll talk to him then. And, Becky . . . well done.”

Miss Rebecca Bloomwood
c/o Four Seasons Hotel
57 East 57th Street
New York 10022

October 3, 2000

Dear Miss Bloomwood:

I was delighted to meet you at Nina Heywood’s luncheon the other day. It was a great pleasure to meet such a cultured and well-connected young lady as yourself.

I write because I am coming to England in two weeks’ time and I was very much hoping that you might be able to introduce me to Prince William and, if possible, the queen? I would be honored to take the three of you to dinner, whenever is convenient.

I look forward to hearing from you.

With kind regards,

Marion Jefferson (Mrs.)

P.S. If not the queen, then maybe Prince Philip?

AFTER A WEEK, I give up on hearing anything from Michael. Whatever he’s said to Luke, I’m never going to hear about it. I feel as though that whole part of my life is over. Luke, America, television, everything. Time to start again.

I’m trying to keep positive, and tell myself I’ve lots of avenues open to me. But what
is
the next career move for an ex– television financial expert? I rang up a television agent, and to my dismay, she sounded exactly like all those TV people in America. She said she was thrilled to hear from me, she’d have absolutely no problem finding me work—if not my own series—and that she’d ring back that day with lots of exciting news. I haven’t heard from her since.

So now I’m reduced to looking through the
Media Guardian
, looking for jobs I might just have half a chance of getting. So far, I’ve ringed a staff writer job on
Investor’s Chronicle
, an assistant editorship of
Personal Investment Periodical
, and editor of
Annuities Today
. I don’t know much about annuities, but I can always quickly read a book about it.

“How are you doing?” says Suze, coming into the room with a bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes.

“Fine,” I say, trying to raise a smile. “I’ll get there.” Suze takes a mouthful of cereal and eyes me thoughtfully.

“What have you got planned for today?”

“Nothing much,” I say morosely. “You know—just trying to get a job. Sort out my mess of a life. That kind of thing.”

“Oh right.” Suze pulls a sympathetic face. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”

I flick my fingers toward a ringed advertisement.

“I thought I’d go for editor of
Annuities Today
. The right candidate may also be considered for editorship of the annual
Tax Rebate
supplement!”

“Really?” She involuntarily pulls a face—then hastily adds, “I mean . . . that sounds good! Really interesting!”

“Tax rebates? Suze, please.”

“Well—you know. Relatively speaking.”

I rest my head on my knees and stare at the sitting-room carpet. The sound on the television has been turned down, and there’s silence in the room apart from Suze munching. I close my eyes and slump down farther on the floor, until my head’s resting on the sofa seat. I feel as though I could stay here for the rest of my life.

“Bex, I’m worried about you,” says Suze. “You haven’t been out for days. What else are you planning to do today?”

I open my eyes briefly and see her peering anxiously down at me.

“Dunno. Watch
Morning Coffee
.”

“You are
not
watching
Morning Coffee
!” says Suze firmly. “Come on.” She closes the
Media Guardian
. “I’ve had a really good idea.”

“What?” I say suspiciously as she drags me to my room. She swings open the door, leads me inside, and spreads her arms around, gesturing to the mess everywhere.

“I think you should spend the morning decluttering.”

“What?” I stare at her in horror. “I don’t want to declutter.”

“Yes, you do! Honestly, you’ll feel so great, like I did. It was brilliant! I felt so good afterward.”

“Yes, and you had no clothes! You had to borrow knickers from me for three weeks!”

“Well, OK,” she concedes. “Maybe I went a bit too far. But the point is, it completely transforms your life.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It does! It’s feng shui! You have to let things
out
of your life to allow the new good things
in
.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true! The moment I decluttered, I got Hadleys phoning me up with an offer. Come on, Bex . . . Just a little bit of decluttering would do you a world of good.”

She throws open my wardrobe and begins to leaf through my clothes.

“I mean, look at this,” she says, pulling out a blue fringed suede skirt. “When did you last wear that?”

“Erm . . . quite recently,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. I bought that skirt off a stall in the Portobello Road without trying it on—and when I got it home it was too small. But you never know, I might lose loads of weight one day.

“And these . . . and these . . .” She gives an incredulous frown. “Blimey, Bex, how many pairs of black trousers have you got?”

“Only one! Two, maybe.”

“Four . . . five . . . six . . .” She’s leafing through the hangers, sternly plucking out pairs of trousers.

“Those ones are just for when I feel fat,” I say defensively as she pulls out my comfy old Benetton boot-cuts. “And those are jeans!” I exclaim as she starts rooting around at the bottom. “Jeans don’t count as trousers!”

“Says who?”

“Says everybody! It’s common knowledge!”

“Ten . . . eleven . . .”

“Yeah . . . and those are for skiing! They’re a completely different thing! They’re
sportswear
.” Suze turns to look at me.

“Bex, you’ve never been skiing.”

“I know,” I say after a short silence. “But . . . you know. Just in case I ever get asked. And they were on sale.”

“And what’s this?” She picks up my fencing mask gingerly. “This could go straight in the bin.”

“I’m taking up fencing!” I say indignantly. “I’m going to be Catherine Zeta-Jones’s stunt double!”

“I don’t even understand how you can fit all this stuff in here. Don’t you
ever
chuck things out?” She picks up a pair of shoes decorated with shells. “I mean, these. Do you ever wear these anymore?”

“Well . . . no.” I see her expression. “But that’s not the point. If I did chuck them out, then shells would come back in the next day—and I’d have to buy a new pair. So this is like . . . insurance.”

“Shells are
never
going to come back in.”

“They might! It’s like the weather. You just can’t tell.”

Suze shakes her head, and picks her way over the piles of stuff on the floor toward the door. “I’m giving you two hours and when I come back I want to see a transformed room. Transformed room—transformed life. Now start!”

She disappears out of the room and I sit on my bed, staring disconsolately around at my room.

Well, OK, maybe she does have a point. Maybe I should have a little tidy-up. But I don’t even know where to start. I mean, if I start throwing things out just because I never wear them—where will I stop? I’ll end up with nothing.

And it’s all so hard. It’s all so much
effort
.

I pick up a jumper, look at it for a few seconds, then put it down again. Just the thought of trying to decide whether to keep it or not exhausts me.

“How are you doing?” comes Suze’s voice from outside the door.

“Fine!” I call back brightly. “Really good!”

Come on, I’ve got to do something. OK, maybe I should start in one corner, and work my way round. I pick my way to the corner of my room, where a heap of stuff is teetering on my dressing table, and try to work out what everything is. There’s all that office equipment I ordered off the Internet . . . There’s that wooden bowl I bought ages ago because it was in
Elle Decoration
(and then saw exactly the same one in Woolworth’s) . . . a tie-dye kit . . . some sea salt for doing body rubs . . . What
is
all this stuff, anyway? What’s this box which I haven’t even opened?

I open up the package and stare at a fifty-meter roll of turkey foil. Turkey foil? Why would I buy that? Was I once planning to cook a turkey? Puzzledly I reach for the letter on top, and see the words, “Welcome to the world of Country Ways. We’re so pleased your good friend, Mrs. Jane Bloomwood, recommended our catalogue to you . . .”

Oh God, of course. It’s just that stuff Mum ordered to get her free gift. A casserole dish, some turkey foil . . . some of those plastic bags she was stuffing patio cushions into . . . some weird gadget for putting in the . . .

Hang on.

Just hang on a minute. I drop the gadget and slowly reach for the plastic bags again. A woman with a dodgy blond haircut is staring proudly at me over a shrink-wrapped duvet, and a bubble from her mouth reads, “With up to 75 percent reduction, I have so much more room in my closet now!”

Cautiously I open my door, and tiptoe along to the broom cupboard. As I pass the sitting room I look in—and to my astonishment Suze is sitting on the sofa with Tarquin, talking earnestly.

“Tarquin!” I say, and both their heads jerk up guiltily. “I didn’t hear you arrive.”

“Hello, Becky,” he says, not meeting my eye.

“We just had to . . . talk about something,” says Suze, giving me an embarrassed look. “Have you finished?”

“Erm . . . nearly,” I say. “I just thought I’d hoover my room. To make it look really good!”

I shut my door behind me, and pull the bags out of their packaging. Right. This should be nice and easy. Just stuff them full, and suck out the air. Ten sweaters per bag, it says—but frankly, who’s going to count?