Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (63 page)

In spite of myself I giggle.

“I'd better go, Mum. But I'll call you later. And . . . thanks.”

As I put down the phone, I feel a million times better. Mum's right. I've just got to be positive and go to my screen test and do as well as I possibly can. And Luke probably did overreact a little bit. He'll probably come back in a much better mood.

I ring up the hotel reception and tell them to hold all calls except from HLBC. Then I run my bath, empty a whole bottle of Uplift bath oil from Sephora into it, and wallow for half an hour in rose geranium. As I dry myself I put on MTV and dance around the room to Janet Jackson—and by the time I'm dressed in my knock-'em-dead outfit from Barneys I'm feeling pretty positive, if a little wobbly around the knees. I can do this. I
can.

They haven't called yet, so I pick up the phone and ring down to reception.

“Hi,” I say. “Just checking if HLBC have called for me this morning.”

“I don't believe so,” says the girl pleasantly.

“Are you sure? They didn't leave a message?”

“No, ma'am.”

“OK. Thanks.”

I put the phone down and think for a few moments. Well—that's all right, I'll just call them. I mean, I need to know what time the test is, don't I? And Kent told me to call her anytime, whatever I needed. She said, don't even hesitate.

I take her business card out of my bag and carefully punch in the number.

“Hello!” says a bright voice. “Kent Garland's office, this is her assistant, Megan. How can I help you?”

“Hello!” I say. “It's Rebecca Bloomwood here. Could I speak to Kent, please?”

“Kent's in a meeting right now,” says Megan pleasantly. “Could I take a message?”

“Well, I'm just phoning to see what time my screen test is today,” I say. And just saying it gives me a surge of confidence. Who cares about the crappy
Daily World,
anyway? I'm going to be on American television. I'm going to be a huge celebrity.

“I see,” says Megan. “Rebecca, if you could just hold on a moment . . .”

She puts me on hold, and I find myself listening to a tinny version of “Heard It through the Grapevine.” It comes to an end, and a voice tells me how important my call is to the HLBC Corporation . . . and then it starts again . . . when suddenly Megan is back.

“Hi, Rebecca? I'm afraid Kent's going to have to postpone the screen test. She'll give you a call if she wants to rearrange.”

“What?” I say, staring blankly at my made-up face in the mirror. “Postpone? But . . . why? Do you know when it'll be rescheduled?”

“I'm not sure,” says Megan pleasantly. “Kent's very busy right now with the new series of
Consumer Today.
”

“But . . . but that's what the screen test is for! The new series of
Consumer Today
!” I take a deep breath, trying not to sound too anxious. “Do you know when she'll rearrange it for?”

“I really couldn't say. Her diary's very full at the moment . . . and then she has a two-week vacation . . .”

“Listen,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I'd really like to talk to Kent, please. It's quite important. Couldn't you get her for me? Just for a second.”

There's a pause—then Megan sighs.

“I'll see if I can fetch her.”

The tinny song begins again—then suddenly Kent is on the line.

“Hi, Becky. How are you?”

“Hi!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “I'm fine. I just thought I'd see what was happening today. About the screen test?”

“Right,” says Kent thoughtfully. “Tell the truth, Becky, a couple of issues have come up, which we need to think about. OK? So we'll be passing on the screen test until we're a little more decided about things.”

Suddenly I feel paralyzed by fear. Oh, please, no.

She's seen
The Daily World,
hasn't she? That's what she's talking about. I clutch the receiver tightly, my heart thudding, desperately wanting to explain it all; wanting to tell her that it all sounds far worse than it really is. That half of it isn't even true; that it doesn't mean I'm not good at what I do . . .

But I just can't bring myself to. I can't bring myself even to mention it.

“So we'll be in touch,” Kent says. “Apologies for putting you out today—I was going to have Megan call you later . . .”

“That's all right!” I say, trying to sound bright and easy. “So . . . when do you think we might reschedule?”

“I'm really not sure . . . Sorry, Becky. I'm going to have to run. There's a problem on the set. But thanks for calling. And enjoy the rest of your trip!”

The phone goes silent and I slowly put it down.

I'm not having my screen test. They don't want me, after all.

And I bought a new outfit and everything.

I can feel my breath coming quicker and quicker—and for an awful moment I think I might cry.

But then I think of Mum—and force myself to lift my chin. I'm not going to let myself collapse. I'm going to be strong and positive. HLBC aren't the only fish in the sea. There are plenty of other people who want to snap me up. Plenty! I mean, look at . . . look at Greg Walters. He said he wanted me to meet his head of development, didn't he? Well, maybe we can fix something up for today. Yes! Perhaps by the end of today, I'll have my own show!

Quickly I find the number and dial it with trembling hands—and to my joy, I get straight through. This is more like it. Straight to the top.

“Hi, Greg? It's Becky Bloomwood here.”

“Becky! Great to hear from you!” says Greg, sounding a little distracted. “How're you doing?”

“Erm . . . fine! It was really nice to meet you yesterday,” I say, aware that my voice is shrill with nerves. “And I was very interested in all your ideas.”

“Well, that's great! So—are you enjoying your trip?”

“Yes! Yes, I am.” I take a deep breath. “Greg, you were saying yesterday that I should meet up with your head of development—”

“Absolutely!” says Greg. “I know Dave would adore to meet you. We both think you have huge potential. Huge.”

Relief floods over me. Thank God. Thank—

“So next time you're in town,” Greg is saying, “you give me a call, and we'll set something up.”

I stare at the phone, prickly with shock. Next time I'm in town? But that could be months. It could be never. Doesn't he want to—

“Promise you'll do that?”

“Erm . . . OK,” I say, trying to keep the thickening dismay out of my voice. “That would be great!”

“And maybe we'll meet up when I next come over to London.”

“OK!” I say brightly. “I hope so. Well . . . see you soon. And good to meet you!”

“Great to meet you too, Becky!”

I'm still smiling my bright fake smile as the phone goes dead. And this time I just can't stop the tears from gathering in my eyes and dripping slowly down my face, taking my makeup with them.

I sit alone in the hotel room for hours. Lunchtime comes and goes, but I can't face any food. The only positive thing I do is listen to the messages on the phone and delete them all except one from Mum, which I listen to over and over again. It's the one she must have left as soon as she got
The Daily World.

“Now,” she's saying. “There's a bit of fuss here over a silly article in the paper. Don't take any notice of it, Becky. Just remember, that picture will be going in a million dog baskets tomorrow.”

For some reason that makes me laugh each time I hear it. So I sit there, half-crying, half-laughing, letting a pool of wet tears gather on my skirt and not even bothering to wipe it away.

I want to go home. For what seems like an eternity I sit on the floor, rocking backward and forward, letting my thoughts circle round and round. Going over the same ground over and over again. How could I have been so stupid? What am I going to do now? How can I face anyone, ever again?

I feel as though I've been on a crazy roller coaster ever since I got to New York. Like some sort of magical Disney ride—except instead of whizzing through space, I've been whizzing through shops and hotels and interviews and lunches, surrounded by light and glitter and voices telling me I'm the next big thing.

And I believed every moment of it. I had no idea it wasn't real.

When, at long last, I hear the door opening, I feel almost sick with relief. I have a desperate urge to go and throw myself into Luke's arms, burst into tears, and listen to him tell me it's all right. But as he comes in, I feel my whole body contract in fear. His expression is taut and set; he looks as though his face is carved out of stone.

“Hi,” I say at last. “I . . . I wondered where you were.”

“I had lunch with Michael,” says Luke shortly. “After the meeting.” He takes off his coat and puts it carefully onto a hanger while I watch fearfully.

“So . . .” I hardly dare ask the question. “Did it go well?”

“Not particularly well, no.”

My stomach gives a nervous flip. What does that mean? Surely . . . surely it can't be . . .

“Is it . . . off?” I manage at last.

“Good question,” says Luke. “The people from JD Slade say they need more time.”

“Why do they need time?” I say, licking my dry lips.

“They have a few reservations,” says Luke evenly. “They didn't specify exactly what those reservations were.”

He pulls off his tie roughly and starts to unbutton his shirt. He's not even looking at me. It's as though he can't bring himself to see my face.

“Do you . . .” I swallow. “Do you think they'd seen the piece?”

“Oh, I think so,” says Luke. There's an edge to his voice which makes me flinch. “Yes, I'm pretty sure they'd seen it.”

He's fumbling over the last shirt button. Suddenly, in irritation, he rips it off.

“Luke,” I say helplessly. “I'm . . . I'm so sorry. I . . . I don't know what I can do.” I take a deep breath. “I'll do anything I can.”

“There's nothing,” says Luke flatly.

He heads into the bathroom and after a few moments I hear the sound of the shower. I don't move. I can't even think. I feel paralyzed, as though I'm crouching on a ledge, trying not to slip.

Eventually Luke comes out and, without even acknowledging me, pulls on a pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck. He pours himself a drink and there's silence. Outside the window I can see right across Manhattan. The air is turning dusky and lights are coming on in windows everywhere, right into the distance. But I feel as though the world has shrunk to this room, these four walls. I haven't been out all day, I abruptly realize.

“I didn't have my screen test, either,” I say at last.

“Really.” Luke's voice is flat and uninterested, and in spite of myself, I feel a faint spark of resentment.

“Don't you even want to know why?” I say, tugging at the fringe of a cushion.

There's a pause—then Luke says, as though with tremendous effort, “Why?”

“Because no one's interested in me anymore.” I push my hair back off my head. “You're not the only one who's had a bad day, Luke. I've wrecked all my chances. No one wants to know me anymore.”

Humiliation creeps over me as I remember all the telephone messages I had to listen to this morning, politely canceling meetings and calling off lunches.

“And I know it's all my own fault,” I continue. “I
know
that. But even so . . .” My voice starts to wobble treacherously, and I take a deep breath. “Things really aren't great for me either.” I look up—but Luke hasn't moved an inch. “You could . . . you could show a little sympathy.”

“Show a little sympathy,” echoes Luke evenly.

“I know I brought it on myself . . .”

“That's right! You did!” Luke's voice explodes in pent-up frustration, and at last he turns to face me. “Becky, no one forced you to go and spend that money! I mean, I know you like shopping. But for Christ's sake. To spend like this . . . It's bloody irresponsible. Couldn't you have stopped yourself?”

“I don't know!” I retort shakily. “Probably. But I didn't know it was going to become such a . . . a bloody life-and-death issue, did I? I didn't
know
I was being followed, Luke. I didn't do this on purpose.” To my horror, I feel a tear making its way down my cheek. “You know, I didn't hurt anybody. I didn't kill anybody. Maybe I was a bit naive . . .”

“A bit naive. That's the understatement of the year.”

“OK, so I was naive! But I didn't commit any crime—”

“You don't think throwing away opportunity is a crime?” says Luke furiously. “Because as far as I'm concerned . . .” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Becky! We both had it all. We
had
New York.” His hand clenches into a fist. “And now, look at us both. All because you're so bloody
obsessed
by shopping—”

“Obsessed?” I cry. Suddenly I can't stand his accusing gaze anymore. “
I'm
obsessed? What about you?”

“What do you mean?” he says dismissively.

“You're obsessed by work! By making it in New York! The first thing you thought of when you saw that piece wasn't me or . . . or how I was feeling, was it? It was how it affected you and your deal.” My voice rises tremulously. “All you care about is your own success, and I always come second. I mean, you didn't even bother to
tell
me about New York until it was all decided! You just expected me to . . . to fall in line and do exactly what you wanted. No wonder Alicia said I was tagging along!”

“You're not tagging along,” he says impatiently.

“Yes, I am! That's the way you see me, isn't it? As some little nobody, who has to be . . . to be slotted into your grand magnificent plan. And I was so stupid, I just went along with it . . .”

“I haven't got time for this,” says Luke, standing up.

“You've never got time!” I say tearfully. “Suze has got more time for me than you have! You didn't have time to come to Tom's wedding; our holiday turned into a meeting; you didn't have time to visit my parents . . .”

“So I don't have a lot of time!” yells Luke suddenly, shocking me into silence. “So I can't sit around making mindless tittle-tattle with you and Suze.” He shakes his head in frustration. “Do you realize how fucking
hard
I work? Do you have any idea how important this deal is?”

“
Why
is it important?” I hear myself shrieking. “Why is it so bloody important to make it in America? So you can impress your complete cow of a mother? Because if you're trying to impress her, Luke, then I'd give up now! She'll never be impressed. Never! I mean, she hasn't even bothered to
see
you! God, you buy her an Herm'es scarf—and she can't even rearrange her schedule to find five minutes for you!”