Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (53 page)

“Should I take it off?”

“Yes. In fact, take the waistcoat off, too.”

Obediently he peels off the jumper and the waistcoat—and it's amazing how much better he looks when he's just in a plain blue shirt. Almost . . . normal! Then I have a sudden inspiration.

“Wait here!”

I hurry to my room and seize one of the carrier bags sitting on my chair. There's a jumper inside which I bought a few days ago for Luke's birthday, but I've discovered he's already got exactly the same one, so I was planning to take it back.

“Here!” I say, arriving back in the sitting room. “Put this on. It's Paul Smith.”

Tarquin slips the plain black jumper over his head and pulls it down—and what a difference! He's actually starting to look quite distinguished.

“Your hair,” I say, staring critically at him. “We need to do something with that.”

Ten minutes later I've wetted it, blow-dried it, and smoothed it back with a bit of mousse. And . . . I can't tell you. It's a transformation.

“Tarquin, you look wonderful!” I say—and I really mean it. He's still got that thin, bony look, but suddenly he doesn't look geeky anymore, he looks kind of . . . interesting.

“Really?” says Tarquin, staring down at himself. He looks a little shell-shocked, but the point is, he'll thank me in the long run.

A car horn sounds from outside, and we both jump.

“Well—have a good time,” I say, suddenly feeling like his mother. “Tomorrow morning, just wet your hair again and push your fingers through it, and it should look OK.”

“Right,” says Tarquin, looking as though I've just given him a long mathematical formula to memorize. “I'll try to remember. And the jersey? Shall I return it by post?”

“Don't return it!” I say in horror. “It's yours to keep, and
wear.
A gift.”

“Thank you,” says Tarquin. “I'm . . . very grateful, Becky.” He comes forward and pecks me on the cheek, and I pat him awkwardly on the hand. And as he disappears out of the door, I find myself hoping that he'll get lucky at this party, and find someone. He really does deserve it.

As I hear Suze's car drive away, I wander into the kitchen and make a cup of tea, wondering what to do for the rest of the afternoon. I was half-planning to do some more work on my self-help book. But my other alternative is to watch
Manhattan,
which Suze taped last night, and would be really useful research for my trip. Because after all, I need to be well prepared.

I can always work on the book when I get back from New York. Exactly.

I'm just happily putting the video into the machine when the phone rings.

“Oh, hello,” says a girl's voice. “Sorry to disturb you. Is that Becky Bloomwood, by any chance?”

“Yes,” I say, reaching for the remote control.

“This is Sally,” says the girl. “I'm the new secretary at
Morning Coffee.
We met the other day.”

“Oh. Erm . . . yes!” I wrinkle my brow, trying to remember.

“We just wanted to check on which hotel you're staying at in New York, in case we need to contact you urgently.”

“I'll be at the Four Seasons.”

“Four . . . Seasons,” says Sally carefully. “Excellent.”

“Do you think they might want me to do a report from New York or something?” I ask excitedly. That would be so cool! A special report from New York!

“Maybe,” says Sally. “And that's with a Mr. . . . Luke Brandon?”

“That's right.”

“For how many nights?”

“Erm . . . thirteen? Fourteen? I'm not sure.” I'm squinting at the telly, wondering if I've gone too far back. Surely they don't show that Walker's crisps ad anymore?

“And are you staying in a room or a suite?”

“I think it's a suite. I could find out . . .”

“No, don't worry,” says Sally pleasantly. “Well, I won't trouble you anymore. Enjoy your trip.”

“Thanks!” I say, just as I find the start of the film. “I'm sure we will!”

The phone goes dead, and I walk over to the sofa, frowning slightly. Why did Sally need to know whether I was in a suite? Unless—maybe she was just curious.

But then I forget all about it, as Gershwin's
Rhapsody in Blue
suddenly crashes through the air, and the screen is filled with pictures of Manhattan. I stare at the television, utterly gripped. This is where we're going! In three days' time we'll be there! I just cannot, cannot wait!

21 September 2000

Dear Rebecca:

Thank you for your letter and good wishes. I am thoroughly enjoying my retirement, thank you.

I am sorry to hear that you are having such difficulties dealing with John Gavin. May I assure you that he is not a heartless android programmed to make your life miserable. If you ever were cast out on the street with nothing but a pair of shoes, I'm sure he would be concerned, rather than “laugh evilly and walk away.”

If you persevere with your good intentions, I'm certain your relationship with him will improve. You have every ability to keep your accounts in check, as long as your resolve remains steady.

I look forward to hearing how you get along.

With very best wishes,
Derek Smeath

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

23 September 2000

Dear Rebecca Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of 18 September, and I was sorry to hear that our luggage policy has been giving you anxiety attacks and frown lines.

I accept that you may well weigh considerably less than, as you put it, “a fat businessman from Antwerp, stuffing his face full of doughnuts.” Unfortunately Regal Airlines is still unable to increase your luggage allowance beyond the standard 20 kg.

You are welcome to start a petition and to write to Cherie Blair. However, our policy will remain the same.

Please enjoy your flight.

Mary Stevens
Customer Care Manager

Eight

I
WAS
made
to live in America.

We've only been here one night, but already I'm completely in love with the place. For a start, our hotel is fantastic—all limestone and marble and amazing high ceilings. We're staying in an enormous suite overlooking Central Park, with a paneled dressing room and the most incredible bath that fills up in about five seconds. Everything is so grand, and luxurious, and kind of
. . . more.
Like last night, after we arrived, Luke suggested a quick nightcap downstairs—and honestly, the martini they brought me was the hugest drink I've ever seen. In fact, I nearly couldn't finish it. (But I managed it in the end. And then I had another one, just because it would have been churlishto refuse.)

Plus, everyone is so nice all the time. The hotel staff smile whenever they see you—and when you say “thank you,” they reply, “you're welcome,” which they would
never
do in Britain, just kind of grunt. To my amazement, I've already been sent a lovely bouquet of flowers and an invitation to lunch from Luke's mother, Elinor, and another bouquet from the TV people I'm meeting on Wednesday, and a basket of fruit from someone I've never heard of but who is apparently “desperate” to meet me!

I mean, when did Zelda from
Morning Coffee
last send me a basket of fruit?

I take a sip of coffee, and smile blissfully at Luke. We're sitting in the restaurant finishing breakfast before he whizzes off for a meeting, and I'm just deciding what to do with my time. I haven't got any interviews for a couple of days—so it's completely up to me whether I take in a few museums, or stroll in Central Park . . . or . . . pop into a shop or two . . .

“Would you like a refill?” comes a voice at my ear, and I look up to see a smiling waiter offering me a coffeepot. You see what I mean? They've been offering us endless coffee since we sat down, and when I asked for an orange juice they brought me a huge glass, all garnished with frosted orange peel. And as for those scrummy pancakes I've just polished off . . . I mean, pancakes for breakfast. It's pure genius, isn't it?

“So—I guess you'll be going to the gym?” says Luke, as he folds up his copy of the
Daily Telegraph.
He reads all the papers every day, American and British. Which is quite good, because it means I can still read my
Daily World
horoscope.

“The gym?” I say puzzledly.

“I thought that was going to be your routine,” he says, reaching for the
FT.
“A workout every morning.”

And I'm about to say, “Don't be ridiculous!”—when it occurs to me that I might have rashly announced something along those lines last night. After that second martini.

Still—that's OK. I can go to the gym. In fact, it would be
good
to go to the gym. And then I could . . . well, I could always take in a few sights, I suppose. Maybe look at a few famous buildings.

You know, I'm sure I read somewhere that Bloomingdale's is quite an admired piece of architecture.

“And then what will you do?”

“I don't know,” I say vaguely, watching as a waiter puts a plate of French toast down on the table next to ours. God, that looks delicious. Why don't we have stuff like this in Europe? “Go and explore New York, I guess.”

“I was asking at reception—and there's a guided walking tour which leaves from the hotel at eleven. The concierge highly recommended it.”

“Oh right,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, I suppose I could do that . . .”

“Unless you wanted to get any shopping out of the way?” Luke adds, reaching for the
Times,
and I stare at him slightly incredulously. You don't “get shopping out of the way.” You get
other things
out of the way.

Which, in fact, makes me think. Maybe I should do this tour—and then I've got sightseeing ticked off.

“The guided tour sounds good,” I say. “In fact, it'll be a great way to get to know my new home city. The Statue of Liberty, Central Park . . .”

“Don't go to Central Park,” puts in Luke.

“Why not? Is it dangerous?”

“It can be, but that's not why.” Luke looks up with that serious, affectionate expression of his. “The truth is, I'd love to introduce it to you myself. It's one of my favorite places in the world.”

“OK.” I smile at him, feeling touched. “I won't go to Central Park.”

As he shakes open the
Times
I look at him more carefully. His jaw is set and he doesn't quite have his usual confident demeanor. In fact he looks . . . nervous, I realize in surprise.

“Feeling all right?” I say encouragingly. “All set for your meeting? Who's it with, anyway?”

“Mason Forbes Stockbrokers,” says Luke. “One of the companies I'm very much hoping to sign up as a client.”

“Excellent! Well, I'm sure it'll go brilliantly.”

“I hope so.” He's silent for a moment. “It's all been talk up to now. Talk and plans and promises. But now I need to start getting a few results. A few signatures on the line.”

“You'll get your signatures!” Confidently, I pick up
The Daily World.
“Just listen to your horoscope: ‘A day for doing deals and winning hearts. If you have faith in yourself, others will too. You are beginning a streak of success.' ” I look up. “You see? It's in your stars!”

“Let me see that,” says Luke, and plucks the paper from my hand before I can stop him.

Damn.

“You do
slightly
have to read between the lines . . .” I add quickly.

“I see,” he says, gazing down at the horoscope page with a smile. “Yes, that would explain it. So, do you want to hear yours?”

“I've already—”

“ ‘Spend today exploring new surroundings,' ” says Luke, as though reading. “ ‘Remember to hold your bag tightly to you and that over here it's called a purse. Have a nice day—but don't feel obliged to tell complete strangers to have one.' ”

He smiles at me and I laugh. As he puts away the paper I take a sip of coffee and glance around the dining room at all the smart businessmen and groomed women sitting on luxurious striped chairs. Piano music is tinkling discreetly and I feel like I'm at the hub of some cosmopolitan, civilized world. At a nearby table a woman in black is talking about the First Lady's wardrobe, and I listen eagerly until she gives me a look.

The First Lady. I mean, it sounds so much more impressive than “prime minister's wife.”

“God, just think, Luke,” I say dreamily. “In a few weeks' time, this will be our home city. We'll be real New Yorkers!”

I'll have to buy a few more black things before then, I find myself thinking. Everyone here seems to wear black . . .

“Becky—” says Luke. He puts down his paper—and suddenly he looks rather grave. “There's something I've been meaning to say to you. Everything's been such a rush, I haven't had a chance—but it's something I really think you need to hear.”

“OK,” I say apprehensively. “What is it?”

“It's a big step, moving to a new city, especially a city as extreme as New York. It's not the same as London . . .”

“I know,” I nod. “You have to have your nails done.”

Luke gives a puzzled frown before carrying on: “I've been here many times—and even I find it overwhelming at times. The sheer pressure and pace of life here is, frankly, on another level from London.”

“Right. So—what are you saying?”

“I'm saying I think you should take it slow. Don't expect to fit in straight away. You may well find it a bit of a shock to begin with.”

I stare at him, discomfited.

“Don't you think I'll be able to stand the pace?”

“I'm not saying that,” says Luke. “I'm just saying—get to know the city gradually. Get the feel of it; see if you can really see yourself living here. You may hate it! You may decide you can't possibly move here. Of course, I very much hope you don't—but it's worth keeping an open mind.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “I see.”

“So just see how today goes—and we'll talk some more this evening. OK?”

“OK,” I say, and drain my coffee thoughtfully.

I'll show Luke I can fit into this city. I'll show him I can be a true New Yorker. I'll go to the gym, and then I'll eat a bagel, and then I'll . . . shoot someone, maybe?

Or maybe just the gym will be enough.

I'm actually quite looking forward to doing a workout, because I bought this fab DKNY exercise outfit in the sales last year, and this is the first time I've had the chance to wear it! I did mean to join a gym, in fact I even went and got a registration pack from Holmes Place in Fulham. But then I read this really interesting article which said you could lose loads of weight just by fidgeting. Just by twitching your fingers and stuff! So I thought I'd go for that method instead, and spend the money I saved on a new dress.

But it's not that I don't like exercise or anything. And if I'm going to live in New York, I'll have to go to the gym every day. I mean, it's the law or something. So this is a good way to acclimatize.

As I reach the entrance to the fitness center I glance at my reflection—and I'm secretly quite impressed. They say people in New York are all pencil thin and fit, don't they? But I reckon I look much fitter than some of these characters. I mean, look at that balding guy over there in the gray T-shirt. He looks like he's never been near a gym in his life!

“Hi there,” says a voice. I look up and see a muscular guy in trendy black Lycra coming toward me. “I'm Tony. How are you today?”

“I'm fine, thanks,” I say, and casually do a little hamstring stretch. (At least, I think it's my hamstring. The one in your leg.) “Just here for a workout.”

Nonchalantly I swap legs, clasp my hands, and stretch my arms out in front of me. I can see my reflection on the other side of the room—and though I say it myself, I look pretty bloody cool.

“Do you exercise regularly?” asks Tony.

“Not in a gym,” I say, reaching down to touch my toes—then changing my mind halfway down and resting my hands on my knees. “But I walk a lot.”

“Great!” says Tony. “On a treadmill? Or cross-country?”

“Round the shops, mostly.”

“OK . . .” he says doubtfully.

“But I'm often holding quite heavy things,” I explain. “You know, carrier bags and stuff.”

“Right . . .” says Tony, not looking that convinced. “Well . . . would you like me to show you how the machines work?”

“It's all right,” I say confidently. “I'll be fine.”

Honestly, I can't be bothered listening to him explain every single machine and how many settings it has. I mean, I'm not a moron, am I? I take a towel from the pile, drape it around my neck, and head off toward a running machine, which should be fairly simple. I step up onto the treadmill and survey the buttons in front of me. A panel is flashing the word “time” and after some thought I enter “40 minutes,” which sounds about right. I mean, that's how long you'd go on a walk for, isn't it? It flashes “program” and after scrolling down the choices I select “Everest,” which sounds much more interesting than “hill walk.” Then it flashes “level.” Hmm. Level. I look around for some advice—but Tony is nowhere to be seen.

The balding guy is getting onto the treadmill next to mine, and I lean over.

“Excuse me,” I say politely. “Which level do you think I should choose?”

“That depends,” says the guy. “How fit are you?”

“Well,” I say, smiling modestly. “You know . . .”

“I'm going for level 5, if it's any help,” says the guy, briskly punching at his machine.

“OK,” I say. “Thanks!”

Well, if he's level 5, I must be at least level 7. I mean, frankly, look at him—and look at me.

I reach up to the machine and punch in “7”—then press “start.” The treadmill starts moving, and I start walking. And this is really pleasant! I really should go to the gym more often. Or, in fact, join a gym.

But it just shows, even if you don't work out, you can still have a level of natural baseline fitness. Because this is causing me absolutely no problems at all. In fact, it's far too easy. I should have chosen level—

Hang on. The machine's tilting upward. And it's speeding up. I'm running to catch up with it.

Which is OK. I mean, this is the point, isn't it? Having a nice healthy jog. Running along, panting a little, but that just means my heart is working. Which is perfect. Just as long as it doesn't get any—

It's tilting again. And it's getting faster. And faster.

I can't do this. My face is red. My chest is hurting. I'm panting frenziedly, and clutching the sides of the machine. I can't run this fast. I have to slow down a bit.

Feverishly I jab at the panel—but the treadmill keeps whirring round—and suddenly cranks up even higher. Oh no. Please, no.

“Time left: 38.00” flashes brightly on a panel in front of me.
Thirty-eight more minutes?

I glance to my right—and the balding guy is sprinting easily along as though he's running through a field of daisies. I want to ask him for help, but I can't open my mouth. I can't do anything except keep my legs moving as best I can.

But all of a sudden he glances in my direction—and his expression changes.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

He hastily punches at his machine, which grinds to a halt, then leaps down and jabs at mine.

The treadmill slows down, then comes to a rather abrupt standstill—and I collapse against one of the side bars, gasping for breath.

“Have some water,” says the man, handing me a cup.

“Th-thanks,” I say, and stagger down off the treadmill, still gasping. My lungs feel as if they're about to burst, and when I glimpse my reflection opposite, my face is beet red.

“Maybe you should leave it for today,” says the man, gazing at me anxiously.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, maybe I will.” I take a swig of water, trying to get my breath back. “I think actually the trouble is, I'm not used to American machines.”

“Could be,” says the man, nodding. “They can be tricky. Of course, this one,” he adds, slapping it cheerfully, “was made in Germany.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Yes. Well, anyway. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time,” says the man—and as he gets back onto his treadmill I can see him smiling.