Shopaholic and Baby

SIX

GOD, WORK’S DEPRESSING.

It’s the next day, and I’m sitting at my desk in the reception area of personal shopping. Jasmine, who works with me, is slumped on the sofa. Our appointment book is empty, the phone is silent, and as I look around, the place is as dead as ever. Not a single customer. The only sign of movement out on the shop floor is Len the security guard doing his usual rounds, and he looks as fed up as the rest of us feel.

When I think what it used to be like at Barneys in New York, all bright and full of chatter and people buying thousand-dollar dresses…And all I’ve sold this week is a pair of fishnets and an out-of-season raincoat. This place is a disaster. And we opened only ten weeks ago.

The Look is backed by this big tycoon, Giorgio Laszlo. It was supposed to be a buzzy, high-concept department store which would take over from Selfridges and Harvey Nichols. But things started going wrong from day one; in fact, the place is a national joke.

First of all, a whole warehouse of stock got burned down and the launch had to be delayed. Then a light fixture fell from the ceiling and concussed one of the beauty assistants, right in the middle of a makeup demonstration. Then there was a suspected outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease and we were all sent home for five days. It turned out to be false — but the damage was done. All the papers ran stories on how The Look was cursed, and printed cartoons showing the customers keeling over and having bits of the building fall on them. (Which were actually quite funny, but we’re not allowed to say that.)

And no one’s come back since we reopened. Everyone seems to think the place is still closed, or infectious, or something. The Daily World, who are total enemies of Giorgio Laszlo, keep sending undercover photographers to take pictures of the shop floors and run them under headings like “Still Empty!” and “How Much Longer Can This Folly Last?” The rumor is that if things don’t pick up soon, the place will fold.

With a gloomy sigh, Jasmine turns a page and starts reading the horoscopes. That’s the other problem: it’s hard to keep your staff motivated when business is down. (Jasmine is my staff.) Before I started this job I read one of Luke’s management books to get some tips on how to be a boss, and it said it was “crucial to keep giving your team compliments in bad times.”

I’ve already complimented Jasmine’s hair, shoes, and bag. To be honest, there’s not a lot left.

“I like your…eyebrows, Jasmine!” I say brightly. “Where do you get them done?”

Jasmine looks at me as though I’ve asked her to eat baby whale. “I’m not telling you!”

“Why not?”

“It’s my secret. If I tell you, you’ll go there too and then you’ll have my look.”

Jasmine is skinny, with trails of bleached-blond hair, a nose stud, and one blue eye and one green eye. She could not look less like me if she tried.

“I won’t have your look!” I retort lightly. “I’ll just have good eyebrows! Go on, tell me.”

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “No way.”

I feel a surge of frustration.

“When you asked me where I have my hair done, I told you,” I remind her. “I gave you a card and recommended the best stylist and got you ten percent off your first haircut. Remember?”

Jasmine shrugs. “That’s hair.”

“And this is eyebrows! It’s less important!”

“That’s what you think.”

Oh, for God’s sake. I’m about to tell her that I don’t care where she gets her stupid eyebrows done (which is a lie, as I’ve now become obsessed with them), when I hear footsteps. Striding, heavy, senior-management kind of footsteps.

Quickly Jasmine shoves her Heat magazine under a pile of sweaters and I pretend to be adjusting a scarf on a mannequin. A moment later, Eric Wilmot, the marketing director, appears round the corner with a couple of smartly suited guys I’ve never seen before.

“And this is the personal shopping department,” he says to the men with a fake-jovial air. “Rebecca here used to work at Barneys in New York! Rebecca, meet Clive and Andrew from First Results Consulting. Here to throw a few ideas around.” He gives a strained smile.

Eric was only promoted to marketing director last week, when the previous one resigned. He really doesn’t look like a man who’s relishing his new job.

“We haven’t had any customers for days,” says Jasmine flatly. “It’s like a morgue in here.”

“Uh-huh.” Eric’s smile tightens.

“An empty morgue without any dead people,” she clarifies. “It’s deader than a morgue. ’Cause at least in a morgue—”

“We’re all aware of the situation, thank you, Jasmine.” Eric cuts her off briskly. “What we need is solutions.”

“How do we get people in through the doors?” One of the consultants is addressing a mannequin. “That’s the question.”

“How do we maintain their loyalty?” chimes in the other one thoughtfully.

For goodness’ sake. I reckon I could be a consultant if all you do is wear a suit and ask totally obvious questions.

“What’s the unique selling point?” the first chimes in again.

“There isn’t one,” I say, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer. “We’ve got the same old stock as everyone else. Oh, and by the way, you might get ill or injured if you shop here. We need an edge!”

The three men all stare at me in surprise.

“The public perception of danger is obviously our greatest challenge,” says the first consultant, frowning. “We need to counter the negative coverage, create a positive, healthy image—”

He’s totally missing my point.

“It wouldn’t matter!” I cut him off. “If we had something unique, that people really wanted, they’d come in anyway. Like, when I lived in New York I once went to a sample sale in a condemned building. There were all these warnings outside saying Do Not Enter, Unsafe, but I’d heard they had Jimmy Choos at eighty percent off. So I went in!”

“Did they?” says Jasmine, perking up.

“No,” I say regretfully. “They’d all gone. But I found a fab Gucci trench coat, only seventy dollars!”

“You went into a condemned building?” Eric is goggling at me. “For a pair of shoes?”

Something tells me he isn’t going to last in this job.

“Of course! And there were about a hundred other girls there too. And if we had something fab and exclusive at The Look, they’d come here like a shot! Even if the roof was falling in! Like some really hot designer diffusion range.”

This idea has been brewing in my mind for a while now. I even tried talking to Brianna, the chief buyer, about it last week. But she just nodded and asked if I could bring her the Dolce diamante dress in a size 2 because she was going to a premiere that night and the red Versace was too tight around the butt, and what did I think?

God knows how Brianna got her job. Well, actually, everybody knows. It’s because she’s Giorgio Laszlo’s wife and used to be a model. In the press release when The Look opened it said this would qualify her perfectly to be chief buyer, as she has the “knowledge and savvy of a fashion insider.”

It didn’t add “unfortunately she has not one brain cell.”

“Diffusion…designer…” The first consultant is scribbling in his little book. “We should speak to Brianna about that. She’ll have the right connections.”

“I believe she’s on holiday at the moment,” says Eric. “With Mr. Laszlo.”

“Well, when she gets back. We’ll progress that idea.” The consultant snaps the book shut. “Let’s move on.”

They all stride off again, and I wait till they’ve rounded the corner before giving a harrumph of frustration.

“What’s up?” says Jasmine, who has slumped back down on the sofa and is texting something on her phone.

“They’ll never get anything off the ground! Brianna won’t be back for weeks, and anyway, she’s hopeless. They’ll just have meetings and talk…and meanwhile the shop will go bust.”

“What do you care?” Jasmine gives an indifferent shrug.

How can she just watch a business collapse and not try to do something?

“I care because…because this is where I work! It could be a success!”

“Get real, Becky. No designer’s ever going to want to do an exclusive range here.”

“Brianna could call in some favors,” I protest. “I mean, she’s modeled for Calvin Klein, Versace…Tom Ford…. She could persuade one of them, surely? God, if I had a famous designer friend—” I stop, midflow.

Hang on. Why didn’t I think of this before?

“What?” Jasmine looks up.

“I do know a designer,” I say. “I know Danny Kovitz! We could get him to do something.”

“You know Danny Kovitz?” Jasmine looks skeptical. “Or, like, you’ve bumped into him once?”

“I really know him! He used to live above me in New York. He designed my wedding dress,” I can’t help adding smugly.

It’s so cool, having a famous friend. I knew Danny when he was a nobody. In fact I helped get him his first break. And now he’s this international fashion darling! He’s been in Vogue and had his dresses worn to the Oscars and everything. He was interviewed in Women’s Wear Daily last month about his last collection, which he said was based on his interpretation of the decay of civilization.

I don’t believe a word of it. It’ll have been something he threw together at the last minute with lots of safety pins and black coffee and someone else sewed up for him.

But still. An exclusive Danny Kovitz line would be fabulous publicity. I should have thought of this before.

“If you really know Danny Kovitz, ring him up,” says Jasmine challengingly. “Right now.”

She doesn’t believe me?

“Fine, I will!” I whip out my phone, find the number for Danny’s mobile, and dial it.

The truth is, I haven’t spoken to Danny for quite a long while. But still, we went through a lot together while I was living in New York, and we’ll always have that bond. I wait for a while, but there’s no reply, just a bleeping sound. He probably lost his phone and canceled it or something.

“Problem?” Jasmine raises one immaculate eyebrow.

“His cell phone isn’t working,” I say coolly. “I’ll call his office.” I dial international directories, get a New York number for Danny Kovitz Enterprises, and dial. It’s nine thirty A.M. in New York, which means there’s not much chance of Danny being up, unless he’s had an all-nighter. But I can leave a message.

A male voice answers. “Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”

“Oh, hi there!” I say. “It’s Becky Brandon here, née Bloomwood. I’d like to speak to Danny Kovitz.”

“Please hold the line,” the voice says politely. Some kind of rap blasts my eardrum for a few moments, then a bright female voice comes on the line.

“Welcome to the Danny Kovitz fan club! For full membership information, please press one—”

Oh, for God’s sake. I switch off and dial the main number again, avoiding Jasmine’s gaze.

“Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”

“Hi, I’m an old, very close friend of Danny’s,” I say briskly. “Please put me through to his personal assistant.”

The rap booms in my ear again, then a woman is saying, “Danny Kovitz’s private office, Carol speaking. How may I help?”

“Hi, Carol!” I say in my most friendly manner. “I’m an old friend of Danny’s and I’ve been trying to contact him through his cell number but it doesn’t work. Could you possibly put me through to him? Or leave a message?”

“Your name?” says Carol, sounding skeptical.

“Becky Brandon. Née Bloomwood.”

“And will he know what this is in regard to?”

“Yes! We’re friends!”

“Well, I’ll pass your message to Mr. Kovitz….”

Suddenly I hear a familiar voice, faintly in the background, saying, “I need a Diet Coke, OK?”

That’s Danny!

“He’s there, isn’t he?” I exclaim. “I just heard him! Could you quickly put me through? Honestly, I just want a very quick—”

“Mr. Kovitz is…in a meeting,” says Carol. “I’ll be sure to pass your message on, Ms. Broom. Thanks for your call.” The line goes dead.

I switch off the phone, seething. She’s not going to pass anything on, is she? She didn’t even take my number!

“So,” says Jasmine, who’s been watching all along. “Close friends, are you?”

“We are,” I say furiously.

OK. Think. There has to be a way to get through to him. There has to be….

Wait a minute.

I scrabble for the phone again and dial international directories. “Hi,” I say to the operator. “The name is Kovitz, the address is Apple Bay House, on Fairview Road, if you could put me straight through….”

A few moments later a voice answers. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs. Kovitz,” I say in my most charming manner, “it’s Becky here. Becky Bloomwood? Do you remember me?”

I always liked Danny’s mum. We have a good old chat, and she asks all about the baby and I ask all about her award-winning gardens in Connecticut, and the conversation ends with her expressing sympathetic indignation at the way I was treated by Danny’s staff, especially after I was the one who first introduced his work to Barneys (I reminded her about that, just casually), and promising to get Danny to call me.

And literally about two minutes after we’ve finished talking, my cell phone rings.

“Hi, Becky! Mom says you called?”

“Danny!” I can’t help shooting a triumphant glance at Jasmine. “Oh my God, it’s been ages. How are you?”

“I’m great! Except my mom just gave me a total rocket. Jesus!” Danny sounds a bit shaken. “She was like, ‘Don’t you stop appreciating your friends, young man.’ And I’m like, ‘What are you talking about? ’And she’s like—”

“Your assistants wouldn’t put me through,” I explain. “They thought I was a fan. Or a stalker or something.”

“I do get stalkers.” Danny sounds quite proud of himself. “I have two at the moment, both named Joshua. Isn’t that wild?”

“Wow!” I can’t help feeling impressed, even though I know I shouldn’t be. “So…what are you up to at the moment?”

“I’m taking some time to work on my new collection,” he says with a practiced smoothness. “I’m reinterpreting the whole Far Eastern vibe. Right now I’m at the concept stage. Gathering influences, that kind of thing.”

He doesn’t fool me. “Gathering influences” means “Going on holiday and getting stoned on the beach.”

“Well, I was just wondering,” I say quickly. “Could you do me a massive favor? Could you do a little diffusion line for this shop I work for in London? Or even just one exclusive piece.”

“Oh,” he says, and I can hear him opening a can. “Sure. When?”

Ha! I knew he’d say yes.

“Well…soon?” I cross my fingers. “In the next few weeks? You could come to London for a visit. We’d have a blast!”

“Becky, I don’t know….” He pauses to slurp at his drink, and I imagine him in some trendy SoHo office, lounging on an office chair, in those ancient jeans he always used to wear. “I have this Far East trip lined up….”

“I saw Jude Law in the street the other day,” I add casually. “He lives quite close to us.”

There’s silence.

“Or I guess I could swing by,” Danny says at last. “London’s on the way to Thailand, right?”

Yes! I have total R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

For the rest of the day Jasmine barely says a word, just keeps shooting me awed looks. And Eric was totally impressed to hear that I’d made some “proactive advancement on the project,” as he put it.

If only we had some customers, this job wouldn’t be too bad after all. And on the plus side, the fact that we don’t have anything to do has given me time to read my new issue of Pregnancy magazine.

“Hey, your phone’s ringing in your bag,” says Jasmine as she comes from the reception area. “It’s been ringing all day, actually.”

“Thanks for telling me!” I say sarcastically. I hurry to my desk, grab the phone, and click it on.

“Becky!” comes Mum’s excited voice. “At last! So, darling. How was the famous celebrity obstetrician? We’re all longing to know! Janice has been in and out all day!”

“Oh right. Let me just…” I close the door and sit down on my desk chair, marshaling my thoughts. “Well…it was amazing! Guess what, I met a Bond girl in the waiting room!”

“A Bond girl!” Mum draws in breath. “Janice, did you hear that? Becky met a Bond girl in the waiting room!”

“And the place is lovely, and I’m going to have a holistic water birth, and they gave me this lovely welcome pack all full of spa vouchers….”

“How wonderful!” says Mum. “And she’s a nice lady, is she? The doctor?”

“Very nice.” I pause for a moment, then add casually, “She’s Luke’s ex-girlfriend. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

“Ex-girlfriend?” Mum’s voice sharpens a little. “What do you mean, ex-girlfriend?”

“You know! Just someone he went out with ages ago. At Cambridge.”

There’s silence down the phone.

“Is she attractive?” says Mum.

Honestly.

“She’s quite attractive. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Of course not, darling.” There’s a scuffly sort of pause, and I’m positive I can hear Mum whispering something to Janice. “Do you know why she and Luke split up?” she suddenly asks.

“No. I don’t.”

“Haven’t you asked him about it?”

“Mum,” I say, trying to keep my patience. “Luke and I have a very secure, trusting marriage. I’m not going to quiz him, OK?”

What does she think I should do, issue Luke a questionnaire? I mean, I know Dad turned out to have had a slightly more colorful past than anyone might have suspected (affair with train stewardess; secret love child; handlebar mustache). But Luke’s not like that — I know he’s not.

“And anyway, it was all ages ago,” I add, sounding more defiant than I mean to. “And she’s got a boyfriend.”

“I don’t know, Becky love.” Mum exhales sharply. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Pregnancy can be a…tricky time for a man. What about going back to that nice gentleman doctor?”

I’m starting to feel a bit insulted here. What does Mum think, that I can’t hold on to my husband?

“We’re with Venetia Carter now,” I say obstinately. “It’s all signed and sealed.”

“Oh well, darling. If you’re sure. What’s that, Janice?” There’s another scuffling at the other end. “Janice says, was it Halle Berry you met?”

“No, it was the new one. The blond Rollerblade champion. Mum, I’d better go. I’ve got a call waiting. Give my love to everyone. Bye!” I switch off the phone, and a second later it rings again.

“Bex! I’ve been trying you all day! How was it?” Suze’s excited voice peals down the line. “Tell me everything. Are you having the Thai water birth?”

“Maybe!” I can’t help beaming. “Oh, Suze, it was fab! You get massage, and reflexology, and I met a Bond girl, and there were paparazzi waiting outside and we got photographed together! We’ll be in Hello!”

“That’s so cool!” Suze’s voice rises to a squeak. “God, I’m so jealous. I want another baby now, and have it there.”

“You don’t actually have it at the center,” I explain. “You have all the appointments there, but she’s linked to the Cavendish Hospital.”

“The Cavendish? The one with all the double beds and wine lists?”

“Yes.” I can’t help a smirk.

“You’re so lucky, Bex! And what’s Venetia Carter like?”

“She’s fab! She’s really young, and cool, and she has all these really interesting ideas about childbirth, and”—I hesitate—“and she’s Luke’s ex-girlfriend. Isn’t that amazing?”

“She’s…what?” Suze sounds like she can’t believe her ears.

“She’s Luke’s ex. They went out at Cambridge together.”

“You’re having your baby delivered by Luke’s ex-girlfriend?”

First Mum, then Suze. What’s wrong with everyone?

“Yes!” I say defensively. “Why not? It was years ago and it only lasted about five minutes. And she’s attached to someone else now. What’s the problem?”

“It just seems a bit…weird, don’t you think?”

“It’s not weird! Suze, we’re all grown-ups. We’re all mature, professional people. I think we can get past some old, meaningless fling, don’t you?”

“But I mean, she’ll be…you know! Poking about.”

This thought had crossed my mind. But then, is it any worse than Dr. Braine poking about? To be honest, I’m in denial about this whole birth business happening at all. I’m half hoping they’ll invent some new labor-substitute device by the time I reach my due date.

“I’d be paranoid!” Suze is saying. “I once met this ex of Tarkie’s—”

“Tarquin has an ex?” I say in astonishment, before I realize how this sounds.

“Flissy Menkin. Of the Somerset Menkins?”

“Of course,” I say, as though I have a clue what the Somerset Menkins might be. They sound like china pots. Or some kind of galloping disease.

“I knew she was going to be at this wedding last year, and I practically spent the whole week getting ready. And that was with clothes on!”

“Well, I’ll get a really good bikini wax,” I say airily. “And maybe I’ll have a cesarean. And the point is, she’s the top baby-deliverer in the country! She should be used to it by now, don’t you think?”

“I s’pose.” Suze still sounds doubtful. “But still. Bex, if I were you, I’d steer clear. Go back to your other doctor.”

“I don’t want to steer clear.” I feel like stamping my foot. “And I totally trust Luke,” I add as an afterthought.

“Of course!” says Suze hastily. “Of course you do. So…did he chuck her, or the other way around?”

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“Hasn’t he told you?”

“I haven’t asked him! It’s irrelevant!” Suze is starting to rattle me with all her questions. “Guess what? I got Crème de la Mer in the welcome pack,” I say to distract her. “And a voucher for Champneys!”

“Ooh!” Suze perks up. “Can you take a guest?”

I’m not going to let Suze and Mum freak me out. They don’t know anything about it! Luke and I have a totally stable, trusting relationship. We’re having a baby together. I feel totally secure.

On the way home that night I pop into Hollis Franklin quickly, just to look at baby linen. Hollis Franklin is such a gorgeous shop, it’s got a Royal Warrant and apparently the Queen herself shops there! I spend a happy hour looking at different thread counts, and by the time I arrive back home, it’s seven. Luke is in the kitchen, drinking a beer and watching the news.

“Hi!” I say, putting down my bags. “I got the baby some sheets from Hollis Franklin!” I pull out a tiny crib sheet embroidered with a tiny crest in each corner. “Isn’t that adorable?”

“Very nice,” says Luke, examining it. Then he catches sight of the price tag and blanches. “Jesus. You paid that for a baby sheet?”

“They’re the best,” I explain. “They’re four hundred thread count!”

“Does the baby need four hundred thread count? You realize it’ll throw up on these sheets?”

“The baby would never throw up on a Hollis Franklin sheet!” I say, indignant. “It knows better than that.” I pat my bump. “Don’t you, darling?”

Luke rolls his eyes. “If you say so.” He puts the sheet down. “And what’s in the bigger bag?”

“Matching sheets for us. The duvet cover’s coming separately, and the pillow shams as soon as they’re in stock—” I break off at his appalled expression. “Luke, we’ll have the crib in our bedroom! We have to coordinate!”

“Coordinate?”

“Of course!”

“Becky, really—” Luke’s attention is drawn to the TV screen. “Hold on, it’s Malcolm.” He turns up the volume and I take the opportunity to shove the Hollis Franklin sheets behind the door, where Luke might forget about them.

Malcolm Lloyd is the chief executive of Arcodas, and he’s being interviewed in the business slot about why he’s planning to make a bid for some airline company. Luke watches intently, beer in hand.

“He should stop doing that jerky thing with his hand,” I say, watching the interview too. “He looks really awkward. He should go on media training.”

“He’s already been on media training,” says Luke.

“Well, it was rubbish. You should get someone new.” I take off my jacket, dump it on a chair, and massage my aching shoulders.

“Come here, sweetheart,” says Luke, noticing me. “I’ll do it.”

I pull a chair over and sit down in front of him, and he starts kneading my tight muscles.

“Luke, that reminds me,” I say, still watching Malcolm. “Does Iain always talk to you like that?”

Luke’s fingers stop moving briefly. “Like what?”

“The way he did in the car yesterday. He’s so unpleasant!”

“That’s just his business style. Arcodas has a different working culture.”

“But it’s awful!”

“Well, we’re just going to have to get used to it.” Luke sounds a bit defensive and snappy. “We’re playing with the big boys now. Everyone’s just got to—” He stops himself.

“What?” I twist my head, trying to see his expression.

“Nothing,” says Luke after a moment. “Just…thinking aloud. Let’s turn this off.” He kisses me on the top of my head. “Shoulders feel better now?”

“A million times. Thanks.”

I get up, pour myself a glass of orange-cranberry mix, and flip the TV over to The Simpsons. Meanwhile, Luke picks up the Evening Standard and starts leafing through the pages. A bowl of olives is on the counter, and we pass it back and forth between us.

There now, isn’t this nice? Just a nice quiet evening at home. Just the two of us, relaxing together in our stable relationship. Not thinking about old girlfriends or anything like that.

In fact, I’m so relaxed, maybe I will bring the subject up. Just in a casual way. To show I don’t care one way or the other.

“So…that must have been weird for you,” I say lightly. “Coming across Venetia again after all those years.”

“Uh-huh.” Luke nods absently.

“Why did you and she break up?” I say, still lightly. “Just out of interest.”

“God knows.” Luke shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

You see? It was so long ago, he can’t even remember. It’s ancient history. I really don’t care what the gory details were. In fact, let’s talk about something else. Current affairs or something.

“Did you love her?” I hear myself saying.

“Love?” Luke gives a short laugh. “We were students.”

I wait for him to expand on the subject, but he turns a page of the paper and frowns at a headline.

That is not an answer. “We were students” is not an answer.

I open my mouth to demand “What’s that supposed to mean?” Then, after a moment’s thought, I close it again. This is ridiculous. I’d never even met Venetia Carter till yesterday — and already Mum and Suze have made me all paranoid. Of course he never loved her.

I’m not going to ask him anything else about their relationship. I’m not even going to think about it. Subject officially closed.

SHORT QUIZ FOR LUKE BRANDON

1. How would you describe the relationship you had with your old girlfriend Venetia?

a) Passionate Romeo/Juliet-style romance.

b) V. boring relationship.

c) I never really liked her.

d) She stalked me.

2. In general, do you prefer girls’ names that begin with

a) R

b) B

c) V

d) Don’t know.

3. Have you ever been in love? If so, with how many people?

a) Your wife and only your wife, because she taught you what love really is.

b) Your snooty girlfriend Sacha, the bitch who stole the luggage.

c) Your student girlfriend Venetia, with whom you had a brief fling but never mentioned her, so how could you have been in love with her?

d) Other.

4. What do you think of long red hair?

a) It’s a bit obvious and show-offy.

b) It swishes too much.

(Please turn over and complete remaining three sections.)

KENNETH PRENDERGAST

Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers

Forward House 394 High Holborn

London WC1V 7EX

Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

28 August 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

I fear you have misconstrued the meaning of an “investment in gold.” I would strongly recommend you purchase gold bullion through a recommended broker, rather than, as you suggest, “get the starfish pendant out of the Tiffany catalog, and maybe a ring.”

Please do not hesitate to contact me again should you need further guidance.

Yours sincerely,

Kenneth Prendergast

Family Investment Specialist