Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (4 page)

“I suppose so,” says the customer, giving me an odd look.

Now she’s walking away. What can I do?

“Well, I think I’ll get one,” I say distinctly, and pick it up. “It’ll make a perfect present. For a man, or a woman . . . I mean, everyone needs photograph frames, don’t they?”

The customer doesn’t seem to be taking any notice. But never mind, when she sees
me
buying it, maybe she’ll rethink.

I hurry to the checkout, and the woman behind the till smiles at me. I think she’s the shop owner, because I’ve seen her interviewing staff and talking to suppliers. (Not that I come in here very often, it’s just coincidence or something.)

“Hello again,” she says. “You really like those frames, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say loudly. “And such
fantastic
value!” But the customer’s looking at a glass decanter, and not even listening.

“How many of them have you bought, now? It must be about . . . twenty?”

What? My attention snaps back to the shop owner. What’s she saying?

“Or even thirty?”

I stare at her in shock. Has she been monitoring me, every time I’ve been in here? Isn’t that against the law?

“Quite a collection!” she adds pleasantly, as she wraps it up in tissue paper.

I’ve got to say something, or she’ll get the idea that it’s me buying all Suze’s frames instead of the general public. Which is ridiculous. I ask you, thirty! I’ve only bought about . . . four. Five, maybe.

“I haven’t got that many!” I say hurriedly. “I should think you’ve been mixing me up with . . . other people. And I didn’t just come in to buy a frame!” I laugh gaily to show what a ludicrous idea that is. “I actually wanted some of . . . these, too.” I grab randomly at some big carved wooden letters in a nearby basket, and hand them to her. She smiles, and starts laying them out on tissue paper one by one.

“P . . . T . . . R . . . R.”

She stops, and looks at the letters puzzledly. “Were you trying to make
Peter
?”

Oh for God’s sake. Does there always have to be a
reason
to buy things?

“Erm . . . yes,” I say. “For my . . . my godson. He’s three.”

“Lovely! Here we are then. Two E’s, and take away one R . . .”

She’s looking at me kindly, as if I’m a complete halfwit. Which I suppose is fair enough, since I can’t spell
Peter
and it’s the name of my own godson.

“That’ll be . . . £48,” she says, as I reach for my purse. “You know, if you spend £50, you get a free scented candle.”

“Really?” I look up with interest. I could do with a nice scented candle. And for the sake of £2 . . .

“I’m sure I could find something . . .” I say, looking vaguely round the shop.

“Spell out the rest of your godson’s name in wooden letters!” suggests the shop owner helpfully. “What’s his surname?”

“Um, Wilson,” I say without thinking.

“Wilson!” And to my horror, she begins to root around in the basket. “W . . . L . . . here’s an O . . .”

“Actually,” I say quickly, “actually, better not. Because . . . because . . . actually, his parents are divorcing and he might be changing his surname.”

“Really?” says the shop owner, and pulls a sympathetic face as she drops the letters back in. “How awful. Is it an acrimonious split, then?”

“Yes,” I say, looking around the shop for something else to buy. “Very. His . . . his mother ran off with the gardener.”

“Are you serious?” The shop owner’s staring at me, and I suddenly notice a couple nearby listening as well. “She ran off with the
gardener
?”

“He was . . . very hunky,” I improvise, picking up a jewelry box and seeing that it costs £75. “She couldn’t keep her hands off him. The husband found them together in the toolshed. Anyway—”

“Goodness me!” says the shop owner. “That sounds incredible!”

“It’s completely true,” chimes in a voice from across the shop.

What?

My head whips round—and the woman who was looking at Suze’s frames is walking toward me. “I assume you’re talking about Jane and Tim?” she says. “Such a terrible scandal, wasn’t it? But I thought the little boy was called Toby.”

I stare at her, unable to speak.

“Maybe Peter is his baptismal name,” suggests the shop owner, and gestures to me. “This is his godmother.”

“Oh, you’re the godmother!” exclaims the woman. “Yes, I’ve heard all about you.”

This isn’t happening.

“Now, perhaps
you
can tell me.” The woman comes forward and lowers her voice confidentially. “Did Tim accept Maud’s offer?”

I look around the silent shop. Everyone is waiting for my answer.

“Erm . . . yes, he did! Actually, I think I’ll pay by cash.” I fumble in my purse, and plonk £50 on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“What about your scented candle?” says the shop owner. “You can choose from vanilla, sandalwood—”

“Never mind,” I say, hurrying toward the door.

“Wait!” calls the woman urgently. “What happened to Ivan?”

“He . . . he emigrated to Australia,” I say, and slam the door behind me.

God, that was a bit close. I think I’d better go home.

As I reach the corner of our road, I pause and do a little rearranging of my bags. Which is to say, I put them all in one LK Bennett carrier, and push them down until you can’t see them. But it’s not that I’m hiding them or anything.

I’m kind of hoping I’ll be able to scuttle into my room without Suze seeing me, but as I open the front door, she’s sitting on the floor of the hall, parceling something up.

“Hi!” she says. “Did you get the shoes?”

“Yes,” I say brightly. “Absolutely. Right size, and everything.”

“Let’s have a look then!”

“I’ll just . . . unpack them,” I say casually, and head toward my room, trying to keep relaxed. But I know I look guilty. I’m even
walking
guiltily.

“Bex,” she says suddenly. “What else is in that bag? That’s not just one pair of shoes.”

“Bag?” I turn as though in surprise. “Oh,
this
bag. Erm . . . just a few . . . bits and pieces. You know . . . odds and ends . . .”

I tail away guiltily as Suze folds her arms, looking as stern as she can.

“Show me.”

“OK, listen,” I say in a rush. “I know I said only one pair. But before you get angry, just look.” I reach into my second LK Bennett bag, slip open the box, and slowly pull out one of the clementine sandals. “Just . . . look at that.”

“Oh my God,” breathes Suze, staring at it. “That’s absolutely . . . stunning.” She takes it from me and strokes the soft leather gently—then suddenly her stern expression returns. “But did you
need
them?”

“Yes!” I say defensively. “Or at least . . . I was just stocking up for the future. You know, like a kind of . . . investment.”

“An investment?”

“Yes. And in a way, it’s
saving
money—because now I’ve got these, I won’t need to spend any money on shoes next year. None!”

“Really?” says Suze suspiciously. “None at all?”

“Absolutely! Honestly, Suze, I’m going to live in these shoes. I won’t need to buy any more for at least a year. Probably two!”

Suze is silent and I bite my lip, waiting for her to tell me to take them back to the shop. But she’s looking down at the sandal again, and touching the little clementine.

“Put them on,” she says suddenly. “Let me see!”

With a small thrill I pull out the other sandal and slip them on—and they’re just perfect. My perfect clementine slippers, just like Cinderella.

“Oh, Bex,” says Suze—and she doesn’t have to say anything else. It’s all there in her eyes.

Honestly, sometimes I wish I could marry Suze.

After I’ve paraded back and forth a few times, Suze gives a contented sigh, then reaches inside the big carrier for the Gifts and Goodies bag. “So—what did you get from here?” she says interestedly. The wooden letters spill out, and she begins to arrange them on the carpet.

“P-E-T-E-R. You got a present for Peter!”

“Erm . . . yes,” I say vaguely, grabbing for the Gifts and Goodies bag before she can spot her own frame in there. (She once caught me buying one in Fancy Free and got all cross, and said she would always make me one if I wanted it.) “Who’s Peter?”

“My machinist!” says Suze. “But you’ve never met him!”

“Well . . . you know. He sounds nice on the phone . . . anyway, I’d better go and get ready for tomorrow.”

“Ooh, that reminds me,” says Suze, reaching for a piece of paper. “Luke rang for you!”

“Really?” I say, trying to hide my delight. I always get a little thrill when Luke rings, because, to be honest, he doesn’t do it that much. I mean, he phones to arrange times of meeting and that kind of stuff—but he doesn’t often phone for a chat. Sometimes he sends me e-mails, but they’re not what you’d call chatty, more . . . Well, I don’t exactly want to give away our intimate secrets—but put it like this, the first time I got one, I was quite shocked! (But I sort of look forward to them now.)

“He said he’ll pick you up from the studio tomorrow at twelve. And the Mercedes has had to go into the garage, so you’ll be going down in the MGF.”

“Really?” I say. “That’s so cool!”

“I know,” says Suze, beaming back at me. “Isn’t it great? Oh, and he also said can you pack light, because the boot isn’t very big.”

I stare at her, my smile fading.

“What did you say?”

“Pack light,” repeats Suze. “You know: not much luggage, maybe one small bag or holdall . . .”

“I know what ‘pack light’ means!” I say, my voice shrill with alarm. “But . . . I can’t!”

“Of course you can!”

“Suze, have you
seen
how much stuff I’ve got?” I say, going to my bedroom door and flinging it open. “I mean, just look at that.”

Suze follows my gaze uncertainly, and we both stare at my bed. My big acid-green suitcase is full. Another pile of clothes is sitting beside it. And I haven’t even
got
to makeup and stuff yet.

“I can’t do it, Suze,” I wail. “What am I going to do?”

“Phone Luke and tell him?” suggests Suze, “and say he’ll have to hire a car with a bigger boot?”

For a moment I’m silent. I try to imagine Luke’s face if I tell him he has to hire a bigger car to hold my clothes.

“The thing is,” I say at last, “I’m not sure he’d
completely
understand . . .”

The doorbell rings and Suze gets up.

“That’ll be Special Express for my parcel,” she says. “Listen, Bex, it’ll be fine! Just . . . prune away a few things.” She goes to answer the door and I’m left staring at my jumbled bed.

Prune away? But prune away what, exactly? I mean, it’s not as though I’ve packed a load of stuff I don’t need. If I just start removing things at random my whole system will collapse.

Come on. Think laterally. There
must
be a solution.

Maybe I could . . . secretly fix a trailer onto the car when Luke isn’t looking?

Or maybe I could
wear
all my clothes, on top of each other, and say I’m feeling a bit chilly . . .

Oh, this is hopeless. What am I going to do?

Distractedly, I wander out of my room and into the hall, where Suze is handing a padded envelope to a man in uniform.

“That’s great,” he says. “If you could just sign there . . . Hello!” he adds cheerfully to me, and I nod back, staring blankly at his badge, which reads:
Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning
.

“Here’s your receipt,” says the man to Suze, and turns to leave. And he’s halfway out of the door, when the words suddenly start jumping about in my mind.

Anything.

Anywhere.

By tomorrow—

“Hey, wait!” I call, just as the door’s about to slam. “Could you just hold on one sec—”

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD

4 September 2000

Dear Becky:

You may remember, when we spoke two weeks ago you assured me the first draft of your book would be with me within days. I’m sure it’s on its way—or has it possibly gotten lost in the post? Maybe you could send me another copy?

As far as the author photograph goes, just wear whatever you feel comfortable with. An Agnes B top sounds fine, as do the earrings you described. And thanks for sending me a Polaroid of your orange sandals—I’m sure they will look great.

I look forward to seeing the manuscript—and again, let me say how thrilled and delighted we are that you’re writing for us.

With all best wishes,

Pippa Brady
Editor

AT FIVE TO TWELVE the next day I’m sitting under the bright lights of the
Morning Coffee
set, wondering how much longer we’ll be. Normally my financial advice slot is over by eleven forty, but they got so engrossed with the psychic who reckons she’s the reincarnated spirit of Mary Queen of Scots that everything’s overrun since then. And Luke will be here any minute, and I’ve still got to change out of this stuffy suit . . .

“Becky?” says Emma, who’s one of the presenters of
Morning Coffee
and is sitting opposite me on a blue sofa. “This sounds like quite a problem.”

“Absolutely,” I say, dragging my mind back to the present. I glance down at the sheet in front of me, then smile sympathetically at the camera. “So, to recap, Judy, you and your husband Bill have inherited some money. You’d like to invest some of it in the stock market—but he’s refusing.”

“It’s like talking to a brick wall!” comes Judy’s indignant voice. “He says I’ll lose it all, and it’s his money too, and if all I want to do is gamble it away, then I can go to . . .”

“Yes,” interrupts Emma smoothly. “Well. This does sound quite a problem, Becky. Two partners disagreeing about what to do with their money.”