Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (67 page)

“Hello?” I say, as I get into the lift.

“Bex! It's Suze.”

“Suze!” I say, and give a shaky giggle. “You have no idea how you nearly just got me in trouble! If you'd rung like, five minutes ago, you would have completely . . .”

“Bex, listen,” says Suze urgently. “You've just had a call.”

“Oh right?” I press the ground-floor button. “From who?”

“From Zelda at
Morning Coffee
! She wants to talk to you! She said, do you want to meet for a quick lunch tomorrow?”

That night, I barely get an hour's sleep. Suze and I stay up till late, deciding on what I should wear—and when I've gone to bed, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling my mind flip around like a fish. Will they offer my old job back after all? Will they offer me a different job? Maybe they'll upgrade me! Maybe they'll give me my own show!

But by the early hours of the morning, all my wild fantasies have faded away, leaving the simple truth. The truth is, all I really want is my old job back. I want to be able to tell Mum to start watching again, and to start paying off my overdraft . . . and to start my life all over again. Another chance. That's all I want.

“You see?” says Suze the next morning as I'm getting ready. “You see? I
knew
they'd want you back. That Clare Edwards is crap! Completely and utterly—”

“Suze,” I interrupt. “How do I look?”

“Very good,” says Suze, looking me up and down approvingly. I'm wearing my black Banana Republic trousers and a pale fitted jacket over a white shirt, and a dark green scarf round my neck.

I would have worn my Denny and George scarf—in fact, I even picked it up from the dressing table. But then, almost immediately, I put it down again. I don't quite know why.

“Very kick-ass,” adds Suze. “Where are you having lunch?”

“Lorenzo's.”

“San Lorenzo?”
Her eyes widen impressively.

“No, I don't think so. Just . . . Lorenzo's. I've never been there before.”

“Well, you make sure you order champagne,” says Suze. “And tell them you're fighting off loads of other offers, so if they want you to come back, they're going to have to pay big bucks. That's the deal, take it or leave it.”

“Right,” I say, unscrewing my mascara.

“If their margins suffer, then so be it,” says Suze emphatically. “For a quality product you have to pay quality prices. You want to close the deal at
your
price, on
your
terms.”

“Suze . . .” I stop, mascara wand on my lashes. “Where are you getting all this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“All this . . . margins and close the deal stuff.”

“Oh, that! From the Hadleys conference. We had a seminar from one of the top salespeople in the U.S.! It was great! You know, a product is only as good as the person selling it.”

“If you say so.” I pick up my bag and check that I've got everything—then look up and take a deep breath. “Right, I'm going.”

“Good luck!” says Suze. “Except you know, there is no luck in business. There's only drive, determination, and more drive.”

“OK,” I say dubiously. “I'll try to remember that.”

The address I've been given for Lorenzo's is a street in Soho—and as I turn into it, I can't see anything that looks obviously like a restaurant. It's mostly just office blocks, with a few little newsagenty-type shops, and a coffee shop, and a . . .

Hang on. I stop still and stare at the sign above the coffee shop. “Lorenzo's coffee shop and sandwich bar.”

But surely . . . this can't be where we're meeting?

“Becky!” My head jerks up, and I see Zelda walking along the street toward me, in jeans and a Puffa. “You found it all right!”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to look discomfited. “Yes, I found it.”

“You don't mind just a quick sandwich, do you?” she says, sweeping me inside. “It's just that this place is quite convenient for me.”

“No! I mean . . . a sandwich would be great!”

“Good! I recommend the Italian chicken!” She eyes me up and down. “You look very smart. Off somewhere nice?”

I stare at her, feeling a pang of mortification. I can't admit I dressed up specially to see her.

“Erm . . . yes.” I clear my throat. “A . . . a meeting I've got later.”

“Oh well, I won't keep you long. Just a little proposition we wanted to put to you.” She shoots me a quick smile. “We thought it would be nicer to do it face to face.”

This isn't exactly what I imagined for our power lunch. But as I watch the sandwich guy smoothing Italian chicken onto our bread, adding salad, and slicing each sandwich into four quarters, I start to feel more positive. OK, maybe this isn't a grand place with tablecloths and champagne. Maybe they aren't pushing the boat out. But then, that's probably good! It shows they still think of me as part of the team, doesn't it? Someone to have a relaxed sandwich with, and thrash out ideas for the forthcoming season.

Maybe they want to take me on board as a features consultant. Or train me to become a producer!

“We all felt for you dreadfully, Becky,” says Zelda as we make our way to a tiny wooden table, balancing our trays of sandwiches and drinks. “How are things going? Have you got a job lined up in New York?”

“Um . . . not exactly,” I say, and take a sip of my mineral water. “That's all kind of . . . on hold.” I see her eyes watching me appraisingly, and quickly add, “But I've been considering lots of offers. You know—various projects, and . . . and ideas in development . . .”

“Oh good! I'm so glad. We all felt very bad that you had to go. And I want you to know, it wasn't my decision.” She puts her hand on mine briefly, then removes it to take a bite of her sandwich. “So now—to business.” She takes a sip of tea, and I feel my stomach flutter with nerves. “You remember our producer, Barry?”

“Of course I do!” I say, slightly taken aback. Are they expecting me to have forgotten the name of the producer already?

“Well, he's come up with quite an interesting idea.” Zelda beams at me, and I beam back. “He thinks the
Morning Coffee
viewers would be really interested to hear about your . . . little problem.”

“Right,” I say, feeling my smile freeze on my face. “Well, it's . . . it's not really a—”

“And he thought perhaps you would be ideal to take part in a discussion and/or phone-in on the subject.” She takes a sip of tea. “What do you think?”

I stare at her in confusion.

“Are you talking about going back to my regular slot?”

“Oh no! I mean, we could hardly have you giving financial advice, could we?” She gives a little laugh. “No, this would be more of a one-off, topical piece. ‘How shopping wrecked my life.' That kind of thing.” She takes a bite of sandwich. “And ideally, it would be quite a . . . how can I put this? An
emotional
piece. Maybe you could bare your soul a little. Talk about your parents, how this has ruined their lives too . . . problems in your childhood . . . relationship trouble . . . these are just ideas, obviously!” She looks up. “And you know, if you were able to cry . . .”

“To . . . to cry?” I echo disbelievingly.

“It's not compulsory. By
any
means.” Zelda leans earnestly forward. “We want this to be a good experience for you too, Becky. We want to help. So we'd have Clare Edwards in the studio too, to offer you advice . . .”

“Clare Edwards!”

“Yes! You used to work with her, didn't you? That was why we thought of approaching her. And you know, she's quite a hit! She really tells the callers off! So we've decided to rename her Scary Clare and give her a whip to crack!”

She beams at me but I can't smile back. My whole face is prickling with shock and humiliation. I've never felt so belittled in my life.

“So what do you think?” she says, slurping at her smoothie.

I put down my sandwich, unable to take another bite.

“I'm afraid my answer's no.”

“Oh! There'd be a fee, of course!” she says. “I should have mentioned that at the beginning.”

“Even so. I'm not interested.”

“Don't answer yet. Think about it!” Zelda flashes me a cheery smile, then glances at her watch. “I must dash, I'm afraid. But it's lovely to see you, Becky. And I'm
so
glad things are going well for you.”

After she's gone I sit still for a while, sipping at my mineral water. I'm outwardly calm—but inside I'm burning with mortified rage. They want me to go on and cry. That's all they want. One article in one crappy tabloid—and suddenly I'm not Becky Bloomwood, financial expert. I'm Becky Bloomwood, failure and flake. I'm Becky Bloomwood, watch her cry and pass the hankies.

Well, they can just bloody well stuff their bloody hankies. They can just take their stupid, bloody . . . stupid . . . stupid . . . bloody . . .

“Are you all right?” says the man at the next table—and to my horror I realize I'm muttering aloud.

“I'm fine,” I say. “Thanks.” I put down my glass and walk out of Lorenzo's, my head high and my chin stiff.

I walk down the road and turn a corner without even noticing where I'm going. I don't know the area and I don't have anyplace I need to get to—so I just walk, almost hypnotizing myself with the rhythm of my steps, thinking eventually I'll hit a tube station.

As I walk, my eyes start to smart and I tell myself it's the cold air. It's the wind. I shove my hands in my pockets and tighten my chin and start to walk faster, trying to keep my mind empty. But there's a blank dread inside me; a hollow panic that is getting worse and worse. I haven't got my job back. I haven't even got the prospect of a job. What am I going to say to Suze? What am I going to say to Mum?

What am I going to do with my life?

“Oy! Watch out!” yells someone behind me—and to my horror I realize I've stepped off the pavement in front of a cyclist.

“Sorry,” I say in a husky voice as the cyclist swerves off, shooting me the finger. This is ridiculous. I've got to pull myself together. I mean, where am I, for a start? I start to walk more slowly along the pavement, peering up at the glass doors of offices, looking for the name of the road I'm on. And I'm just about to ask a traffic warden—when suddenly I see a sign. King Street.

For a moment I stare at it blankly, wondering why it's chiming a bell inside my head. Then, with a jolt, I remember: 17 King Street. Alicia.

I peer at the number embossed on the glass doors nearest me—and it's 23. Which means . . . I must have just walked past number 17.

Now I'm completely consumed by curiosity. What on earth goes on at 17 King Street? Is it some secret cult, or something? God, it wouldn't surprise me if she was a witch in her spare time.

My whole body is prickling with intrigue as I retrace my steps until I'm standing outside a modest set of double doors marked 17. It's obviously a building with lots of different little companies inside, but as I run my eye down the list, none sounds familiar.

“Hi!” says a bloke in a denim jacket, holding a cup of coffee. He comes up to the doors, presses a code into the keypad, and pushes the door open. “You look lost. Who are you after?”

“Erm . . . I'm not sure actually,” I say hesitantly. “I thought I knew somebody who worked here, but I can't remember the name of the company.”

“What's her name?”

“It's . . . it's Alicia,” I say—then immediately wish I hadn't. What if this guy knows Alicia? What if she's in there somewhere and he goes and fetches her?

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.”