Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (55 page)

“Gina, are you going upstairs?” interrupts the woman, turning to a colleague. “Gina will show you to the seventh floor,” she says, and smiles at me.

“Right,” I say, in slight confusion. “Well . . . OK.”

Gina beckons me briskly and, after a moment's hesitation, I follow her, wondering what's on the seventh floor. Maybe some complimentary lounge for Kate Spade customers, with free champagne or something!

It's only as we're approaching a department entitled “Gift Wrapping” that I suddenly realize what's going on. When I said
gift,
she must have thought I meant it was an actual—

“Here we are,” says Gina brightly. “The Saks signature box is complimentary—or choose from a range of quality wrap.”

“Right!” I say. “Well . . . thanks very much! Although actually, I wasn't really planning to—”

But Gina has already gone—and the two ladies behind the gift wrap counter are smiling encouragingly at me.

This is a bit embarrassing.

“Have you decided which paper you'd like?” says the elder of the two ladies, beaming at me. “We also have a choice of ribbons and adornments.”

Oh, sod it. I'll get it wrapped. I mean, it only costs $7.50—and it'll be nice to have something to open when I get back to the hotel room.

“Yes!” I say, and beam back. “I'd like that silver paper, please, and some purple ribbon . . . and one of those clusters of silver berries.”

The lady reaches for the paper and deftly begins to wrap up my bag—more neatly than I've ever wrapped anything in my life. And you know, this is quite fun! Maybe I should always get my shopping gift wrapped.

“Who's it to?” says the lady, opening a card and taking out a silver pen.

“Um . . . to Becky,” I say vaguely. Three girls, all wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, have come into the gift wrap room—and I'm slightly intrigued by their conversation.

“. . . below wholesale . . .”

“. . . sample sale . . .”

“. . . Earl jeans . . .”

“And who is it from?” says the gift wrap lady pleasantly.

“Um . . . from Becky,” I say without thinking. The gift wrap lady gives me a rather strange look and I suddenly realize what I've said. “A . . . a different Becky,” I add awkwardly.

“. . . sample sale . . .”

“. . . Alexander McQueen, pale blue, 80 percent off . . .”

“. . . sample sale . . .”

“. . . sample sale . . .”

I cannot bear this any longer.

“Excuse me,” I say, turning round. “I didn't mean to eavesdrop on your conversation—but I just have to know one thing. What is a sample sale?”

The whole gift wrap area goes quiet. Everyone is staring at me, even the lady with the silver pen.

“You don't know what a sample sale is?” says a girl in a leather jacket eventually, as though I've said I don't know my alphabet.

“Erm . . . no,” I say, feeling myself flush red. “No, I . . . I don't.” The girl raises her eyebrows, reaches in her bag, rummages around, and eventually pulls out a card. “Honey,
this
is a sample sale.”

I take the card from her—and as I read, my skin starts to prickle with excitement.

SAMPLE SALE

Designer clothes, 50–70% off.

Ralph Lauren, Comme des Garçons, Gucci.

Bags, shoes, hosiery, 40–60% off.

Prada, Fendi, Lagerfeld.

“Is this for real?” I breathe at last, looking up. “I mean, could . . . could
I
go to it?”

“Oh yeah,” says the girl. “It's for real. But it'll only last a day.”

“A day?” My heart starts to thump in panic. “Just one day?”

“One day,” affirms the girl solemnly. I glance at the other girls—and they're nodding in agreement.

“Sample sales come without much warning,” explains one.

“They can be anywhere. They just appear overnight.”

“Then they're gone. Vanished.”

“And you just have to wait for the next one.”

I look from face to face, utterly mesmerized. I feel like an explorer learning about some mysterious nomadic tribe.

“So you wanna catch this one today,” says the girl in blue, tapping the card and bringing me back to life, “you'd better hurry.”

I have never moved as fast as I do out of that shop. Clutching my Saks Fifth Avenue carrier, I hail a taxi, breathlessly read out the address on the card, and sink back into my seat.

I have no idea where we're heading or what famous landmarks we're passing—but I don't care. As long as there are designer clothes on sale, then that's all I need to know.

We come to a stop, and I pay the driver, making sure I tip him about 50 percent so he doesn't think I'm some stingy English tourist—and, heart thumping, I get out. And I have to admit, on first impression, things are not promising. I'm in a street full of rather uninspiring-looking shop fronts and office blocks. On the card it said the sample sale was at 405, but when I follow the numbers along the road, 405 turns out to be just another office building. Am I in the wrong place altogether? I walk along the pavement for a little bit, peering up at the buildings—but there are no clues. I don't even know which district I'm in.

Suddenly I feel deflated and rather stupid. I was supposed to be going on a nice organized walking tour today—and what have I done instead? I've gone rushing off to some strange part of the city, where I'll probably get mugged any minute. In fact, the whole thing was probably a scam, I think morosely. I mean, honestly. Designer clothes at 70 percent discount? I should have realized it was far too good to be—

Hang on. Just . . . hang on a minute.

Another taxi is pulling up, and a girl in a Miu Miu dress is getting out. She consults a piece of paper, walks briskly along the pavement, and disappears inside the door of 405. A moment later, two more girls appear along the street—and as I watch, they go inside, too.

Maybe this
is
the right place.

I push open the glass doors, walk into a shabby foyer, and nod nervously at the concierge sitting at the desk.

“Erm . . . excuse me,” I say politely. “I was looking for the—”

“Twelfth floor,” he says in a bored voice. “Elevators are in the rear.”

I hurry toward the back of the foyer, summon one of the rather elderly lifts, and press twelve. Slowly and creakily the lift rises—and I begin to hear a kind of faint hubbub, rising in volume as I get nearer. The lift suddenly pings and the doors open and . . . Oh my God. Is this the
queue
?

A line of girls is snaking back from a door at the end of the corridor. Girls in cashmere coats, girls in black suits, girls tossing their springy ponytails around, and chattering excitedly into their mobile phones. There's not a single one who isn't wearing full makeup and smart shoes and carrying some sort of designer bag, even if it's the teeniest little Louis Vuitton coin purse—and the babble of conversation is peppered with names of fashion houses. They're all pressing forward, firmly moving their stilettos inch by inch along the floor, and all have the same urgent look in their eyes. Every so often somebody pushes their way out of the door, holding an enormous, nameless carrier bag—and about three girls push their way in. Then, just as I join the end of the line, there's a rattling sound, and a woman opens up a door, a few yards behind me.

“Another entrance this way,” she calls. “Come this way!”

In front of me, a whole line of heads whips round. There's a collective intake of breath—and then it's like a tidal wave of girls, all heading toward me. I find myself running toward the door, just to avoid being knocked down—and suddenly I'm in the middle of the room, slightly shaken, as everybody else peels off and heads for the racks.

I look around, trying to get my bearings. There are racks and racks of clothes, tables covered in bags and shoes and scarves. I can already spot Ralph Lauren knitwear . . . a rack full of fabulous coats . . . there's a stack of Prada bags . . . I mean, this is like a dream come true! Everywhere I look, girls are feverishly sorting through garments, looking for labels, trying out bags. Their manicured nails are descending on the stuff like the claws of birds of prey and I can't believe quite how fast they're working. As I see the girl who was standing in front of me in the line, I feel a surge of panic. She's got a whole armful of stuff, and I haven't even started. If I don't get in there, everything will be gone. I have to grab something now!

I fight my way through to one of the racks and start leafing through chiffon pleated dresses. Three hundred dollars, reduced to seventy dollars! I mean, even if you only wore it once . . . And oh God, here are some fantastic print trousers, some label I've never heard of, but they're reduced by 90 percent! And a leather coat . . . and those Prada bags. I
have
to get one of the Prada bags!

As I breathlessly reach for one, my hand collides with another girl's.

“Hey!” she says at once, and snatches the bag up. “I was there first!”

“Oh,” I say. “Erm . . . sorry!” I quickly grab another one which, to be honest, looks exactly the same. As the girl starts examining the interior of her bag, I can't help staring at her nails. They're filed into square shapes and carefully decorated in two different shades of pink. How long did that take to do? As she looks up, I see her hair is two-tone as well—brown with aubergine tips—while her mouth is carefully lined with purple and filled in with pale mauve.

“Got a problem?” she says, suddenly looking at me, and I jump.

“No! I was just wondering—where's the changing room?”

“Changing room?” She chuckles. “Are you kidding? No such thing.”

“Oh.” I look around again, and notice a spectacular black girl, about nine feet tall, stripping off to her bra and knickers. “I see. So we . . . change right here? Great!” I swallow. “No problem at all.”

Hesitantly I start unbuttoning my coat, telling myself that I've got no alternative—and no one's watching anyway. But Two-Tone Girl's expression is changing as she gazes at me.

“Are you British?”

“Yes! Did you recognize my accent?”

“I love the British!” Her eyes light up. “That film,
Notting Hill
? I loved that!”

“Oh right! So did I, actually.”

“That Welsh guy. He was hilarious!” She suddenly frowns as I step out of my shoes. “Hey, but wait. You shouldn't have to get changed out here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're British! Everyone knows the Brits are reserved. It's like . . . your national disease or something.”

“Honestly, it's fine . . .”

“Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it.” To my horror the girl strides over and pokes the woman in black standing by the door. “Excuse me? This girl is British. She needs privacy to try on her things. OK?”

The woman turns to stare at me as though I'm a Martian and I smile nervously back.

“Really, don't worry. I don't mind . . .”

“She needs privacy!” insists the girl. “They're different than us. It's a whole other culture. Can she go behind those racks there?”

“Please. I don't want to—”

“Whatever,” says the woman, rolling her eyes. “Just don't mess up the displays.”

“Thanks,” I say to the girl, a little awkwardly. “I'm Becky, by the way.”

“Jodie.” She gives me a wide grin. “Love your boots!”

I disappear behind the rack and begin trying on all the clothes I've gathered. With each one I feel a little frisson of delight—and when I get to the Prada bag, it's a surge of pure joy. Prada at 50 percent off! I mean, this would make the whole trip worthwhile, just on its own.

When I've eventually finished, I come out from behind the rack to see Jodie wriggling into a stretchy white dress.

“This sample sale is so great!” she exclaims. “I'm just like . . . where do I stop?”

“I know what you mean.” I give her a blissful smile. “That dress looks great, by the way.”

“Are you going to buy all that?” she says, giving my armload an impressed look.

“Not all of it.” I reach into the pile. “Not . . . these trousers. But everything else.”

“Cool! Go, girl.”

As I happily head toward the paying table, the room is reverberating with high-pitched female voices and I can hear snippets of conversation floating around.

“I have to have it,” a girl is saying, holding up a coat against herself. “I just
have
to have it.”

“OK, what I'm going to do is, I'm just going to put the $450 I spent today onto my mortgage,” another girl is saying to her friend as they walk out, laden with bags. “I mean, what's $450 over thirty years?”

“One hundred percent cashmere!” someone else is exclaiming. “Did you see this? It's only fifty dollars! I'm going to take three.”

I dump my stuff on the table and look around the bright, buzzing room at the girls milling about, grabbing at merchandise, trying on scarves, piling their arms full of glossy new gorgeous things. And I feel a sudden warmth, an overwhelming realization. These are my people. I've found my homeland.

Several hours later, I arrive back at the Four Seasons, still on a complete high. After the sample sale, I ended up going out for a “welcome to New York” coffee with Jodie. We sat at a marble table, sipping our decaf Frappuccinos and nibbling at nonfat cranberry muffins, and both worked out exactly how much money we'd saved on our bargains ($1,230 in my case!). We agreed to meet up again during my visit—and then Jodie told me all about this amazing Web site that sends you information on these kind of events every day. Every day! I mean, the possibilities are limitless. You could spend your
whole life
going to sample sales!

You know. In theory.

I go up to our room—and as I open the door I see Luke sitting at the desk, reading through some papers.

“Hi!” I say breathlessly, dumping my bags on the enormous bed. “Listen, I need to use the laptop.”

“Oh right,” says Luke. “Sure.” He picks up the laptop from the desk and hands it to me, and I go and sit on the bed. I open the laptop, consult the piece of paper Jodie gave me, and type in the address.

“So, how was your day?” asks Luke.

“It was great!” I say, tapping the keys impatiently. “I made a new friend, and I saw lots of the city . . . Ooh, and look in that blue bag! I got you some really nice shirts!”