Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Nine

TWO DAYS LATER, I’m feeling quite dazzled by all the sights and sounds of New York. I’ve walked so many blocks my feet ache, and I’ve really seen some awe-inspiring things. Like, in Bloomingdale’s, they have a chocolate factory! And there’s a whole district full of nothing but shoe shops!

I keep trying to get Luke along to look at all these amazing sights — but he just has meeting after meeting. He’s seeing about twenty people a day — wooing potential clients and networking with media people, and even looking round office spaces in the financial district. As he said yesterday at breakfast, he needs to hit the ground running when he arrives. I was about to make a little joke about “Break a leg!”… but then I decided against it. Luke’s taking everything a bit seriously at the moment.

As well as setting up the new company, he’s had briefings from Alicia in London every morning — and she keeps sending through faxes for him to approve, and needlessly long e-mails. I just know she’s only doing it all to show off to Luke — and the really annoying thing is, it’s working. Like, a couple of clients rang up to complain about things, but when he called Alicia she had already leapt into action and sorted it out. So then I had to hear for fifteen minutes about how marvelous she is, and what a great job she’s doing — and keep nodding my head as though I completely agreed. But I still can’t stand her. She rang up the other morning when Luke was out, and when I picked up, she said “So sorry to disturb your beauty sleep!” in this really patronizing way, and rang off before I could think of a good reply.

Still, never mind. On the positive side, Luke and I did manage to get our walk in Central Park — even if it was only for five minutes. And one afternoon, Luke took me on the Staten Island Ferry, which was fantastic — except for the moment when I lost my new baseball cap overboard.

Obviously, I didn’t mean to shriek so loudly. Nor did I mean for that old woman to mishear and think I’d lost my “cat”—and I certainly didn’t want her to insist the boat should be stopped. It caused a bit of a kerfuffle, actually, which was rather embarrassing. Still, never mind — as Luke said, at least all those tourists with their video cameras had something to film.

But now it’s Wednesday morning. The holiday is over — and I’ve got a slight dentisty feeling of dread. It’s my first appointment today with a pair of important TV people from HLBC. I’m actually quite scared.

Luke’s left early for a breakfast meeting with Michael and some top PR headhunter who’s going to supply him with staff, so I’m left alone in bed, sipping coffee and nibbling at a croissant, and telling myself not to get nervous. The key is not to panic, but to stay calm and cool. As Luke kept reassuring me, this meeting is not an interview as such, it’s simply a first-stage introduction. A “getting-to-know-you” lunch, he called it.

But in a way, lunch is even more scary than an interview. What if I knock something over? What if I don’t tip all the right people? What if I can’t think of anything to say and we sit there in an embarrassing silence?

I spend all morning in our room, trying to read the Wall Street Journal and watching CNN — but that only freaks me out even more. I mean, these American television presenters are so slick and immaculate. They never fluff their words, and they never make jokes, and they know everything. Like who’s the trade secretary of Iraq, and the implications of global warming for Peru. And here I am, thinking I can do what they do.

My other problem is, I haven’t done a proper interview for years. Morning Coffee never bothered to interview me, I just kind of fell into it. And for my old job on Successful Saving, I just had a cozy chat with Philip, the editor, who already knew me from press conferences. So the idea of having to impress a pair of complete strangers from scratch is completely terrifying.

“Just be yourself,” Luke kept saying. But frankly, that’s a ridiculous idea. Everyone knows, the point of an interview is not to demonstrate who you are, but to pretend to be whatever sort of person they want for the job. That’s why they call it “interview technique.”

My interview outfit consists of a beautiful black suit I got at Whistles, with quite a short skirt and discreet red stitching. I’ve teamed it with high-heeled court shoes and some very sheer, very expensive tights. (Or “hose” as I must now start calling them. But honestly. It sounds like Shakespeare or something.) As I arrive at the restaurant where we’re meeting, I see my reflection in a glass door — and I’m quite impressed. But at the same time, half of me wants to run away, give up on the idea, and buy myself a nice pair of shoes to commiserate.

I can’t, though. I have to go through with this. The reason my stomach feels so hollow and my hands feel so damp is that this really matters to me. I can’t tell myself I don’t care and it’s not important, like I do about most things. Because this really does matter. If I don’t manage to get a job in New York, then I won’t be able to live here. If I screw this interview up, and word gets around that I’m hopeless — then it’s all over. Oh God. Oh God…

OK, calm down, I tell myself firmly. I can do this. I can do it. And afterward, I’m going to reward myself with a little treat. The Daily Candy Web site e-mailed me this morning, and apparently this huge makeup emporium in SoHo called Sephora is running a special promotion today, until four. Every customer gets a goody bag — and if you spend fifty dollars, you get a free special engraved beauty box! I mean, how cool would that be?

About two seconds after the e-mail arrived, I got one from Jodie, the girl I met at the sample sale. I’d been telling her I was a bit nervous about meeting Luke’s mother — and she said I should get a makeover for the occasion and Sephora was definitely the place, did I want to meet up? So that will be fun, at least…

There, you see, I feel better already, just thinking about it. OK, go girl. Go get ’em.

I force myself to push open the door, and suddenly I’m in a very smart restaurant, all black lacquer and white linen and colored fish swimming in tanks.

“Good afternoon,” says a maître d’ dressed entirely in black.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m here to meet—”

Shit, I’ve completely forgotten the names of the people I’m meeting.

Oh, great start, Becky. This is really professional.

“Could you just… hang on?” I say, and turn away, flushing red. I scrabble in my bag for the piece of paper — and here we are. Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland.

Kent? Is that really a name?

“It’s Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say to the maître d’, hastily shoving the paper back in my bag, “meeting Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland of HLBC.”

He scans the list, then gives a frosty smile. “Ah yes. They’re already here.”

Taking a deep breath, I follow him to the table — and there they are. A blond woman in a beige trouser suit and a chiseled-looking man in an equally immaculate black suit and sage-green tie. I fight the urge to run away, and advance with a confident smile, holding out my hand. They both look up at me, and for a moment neither says anything — and I feel a horrible conviction that I’ve already broken some vital rule of etiquette. I mean, you do shake hands in America, don’t you? Are you supposed to kiss? Or bow?

But thankfully the blond woman is getting up and clasping my hand warmly.

“Becky!” she says. “So thrilled to meet you. I’m Kent Garland.”

“Judd Westbrook,” says the man, gazing at me with deep-set eyes. “We’re very excited to meet you.”

“Me too!” I say. “And thank you so much for your lovely flowers!”

“Not at all,” says Judd, and ushers me into a chair. “It’s a delight.”

“An enormous pleasure,” says Kent.

There’s an expectant silence.

“Well, it’s a… a fantastic pleasure for me, too,” I say hastily. “Absolutely… phenomenal.”

So far so good. If we just keep telling each other what a pleasure this is, I should do OK. Carefully I place my bag on the floor, along with my copies of the FT and the Wall Street Journal. I thought about the South China Morning Post, too, but decided that might be a bit much.

“Would you like a drink?” says a waiter, appearing at my side.

“Oh yes!” I say, and glance nervously around at the table to see what everyone else is having. Kent and Judd have both got tumblers full of what looks like G&T, so I’d better follow suit. “A gin and tonic, please.”

To be honest, I think I need it, just to relax. As I open my menu, both Judd and Kent are gazing at me with an alert interest, as though they think I might suddenly burst into blossom or something.

“We’ve seen your tapes,” says Kent, leaning forward. “And we’re very impressed.”

“Really?” I say — and then realize I shouldn’t sound quite so astonished. “Really,” I repeat, trying to sound nonchalant. “Yes, well, I’m proud of the show, obviously…”

“As you know, Rebecca, we produce a show called Consumer Today,” says Kent. “We don’t have a personal finance segment at present, but we’d love to bring in the kind of advisory slot you’re doing in Britain.” She glances at Judd, who nods in agreement.

“It’s obvious you have a passion for personal finance,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well—”

“It shines through your work,” he asserts firmly. “As does the pincerlike grip you have on your subject.”

Pincerlike grip?

“You know, you’re pretty unique, Rebecca,” Kent is saying. “A young, approachable, charming girl, with such a high level of expertise and conviction in what you’re saying…”

“You’re an inspiration for the financially challenged everywhere,” agrees Judd.

“What we admire the most is the patience you show these people.”

“The empathy you have with them…”

“… that faux-simplistic style of yours!” says Kent, and looks at me intently. “How do you keep that up?”

“Erm… you know! It just… comes, I suppose…” The waiter puts a drink in front of me and I grab it thankfully. “Well, cheers, everyone!” I say, lifting my glass.

“Cheers!” says Kent. “Are you ready to order, Rebecca?”

“Absolutely!” I reply, quickly scanning the menu. “The ahm… sea bass, please, and a green salad.” I look at the others. “And shall we share some garlic bread?”

“I’m wheat-free,” says Judd politely.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Well… Kent?”

“I don’t eat carbohydrates,” she says pleasantly. “But you go ahead. I’m sure it’s delicious!”

“No, it’s OK,” I say hastily. “I’ll just have the sea bass.”

God, how could I be so stupid? Of course Manhattanites don’t eat garlic bread.

“And to drink?” says the waiter.

“Erm…” I look around the table. “I don’t know. A sauvignon blanc, maybe? What does everyone else want?”

“Sounds good,” says Kent with a friendly smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Just some more Pellegrino for me,” she adds, and gestures to her tumbler.

“And me,” says Judd.

Pellegrino? They’re on Pellegrino?

“I’ll just have water too!” I say quickly. “I don’t need wine! It was just an idea. You know—”

“No!” says Kent. “You must have whatever you like!” She smiles at the waiter. “A bottle of the sauvignon blanc, please, for our guest.”

“Honestly—” I say, flushing red.

“Rebecca,” says Kent, lifting a hand with a smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Oh great. Now she thinks I’m a complete alcoholic. She thinks I can’t survive one getting-to-know-you lunch without hitting the booze.

Well, never mind. It’s done now. And it’ll be OK. I’ll just drink one glass. One glass, and that’s it.

And that is honestly what I mean to do. Drink one glass and leave it at that.

But the trouble is, every time I finish my glass, a waiter comes along and fills it up again, and somehow I find myself drinking it. Besides which, it would look rather ungrateful to order a whole bottle of wine and leave it undrunk.

So the upshot is, by the time we’ve finished our food, I’m feeling quite… Well. I suppose one word might be drunk. Another might be pissed. But it’s not a problem, because we’re having a really good time, and I’m actually being really witty. Probably because I’ve relaxed a little. I’ve told them lots of funny stories about behind the scenes at Morning Coffee, and they’ve listened carefully and said it all sounds “quite fascinating.”

“Of course, you British are very different from us,” says Kent thoughtfully, as I finish telling her about the time Dave the cameraman arrived so pissed he keeled over in the middle of a shot, and got Emma picking her nose. God, that was funny. In fact, I can’t stop giggling, just remembering it.

“We just love your British sense of humor,” says Judd, and stares intently at me as though expecting a joke.

OK, quick. Think of something funny. British sense of humor. Erm… Fawlty Towers? Ab Fab?

“Don’t mention the war!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Sweetie darling.” I give a snort of laughter, and Judd and Kent exchange puzzled looks.

Just then, the coffee arrives. At least, I’m having coffee, Kent’s having English breakfast tea, and Judd’s having some weird herbal thing which he gave to the waiter to make.

“I adore tea,” says Kent, giving me a smile. “So calming. Now, Rebecca. In England, the custom is that you turn the pot three times clockwise to keep away the devil. Is that right? Or is it counterclockwise?”

Turn the pot? I’ve never heard of turning the bloody pot.

“Erm… let me remember.”

I screw my face up thoughtfully, trying to remember the last time I drank tea from a teapot. But the only image that comes to me is of Suze dunking a teabag in a mug while she tears a KitKat open with her teeth.

“I think it’s counterclockwise,” I say at last. “Because of the old saying, ‘The devil he creeps around the clock… but never backward he will go.’ ”

What the hell am I talking about? Why have I suddenly put on a Scottish accent?

“Fascinating!” says Kent, taking a sip of tea. “I adore all these quaint old British customs. Do you know any others?”

“Absolutely!” I say brightly. “I know loads!”

Stop it, Becky. Just stop now.

“Like, we have a very old custom of… of… ‘turning the tea cake.’ ”

“Really?” says Kent. “I’ve never heard of that one.”

“Oh yes,” I say confidently. “What happens is, you take your tea cake…” I grab a bread roll from a passing waiter. “And you… rotate it above your head like so… and you… you say a little rhyme…”

Crumbs are starting to fall on my head, and I can’t think of anything to rhyme with tea cake, so I put my bread roll down and take a sip of coffee. “They do it in Cornwall,” I add.

“Really?” says Judd with interest. “My grandmother comes from Cornwall. I’ll have to ask her about it!”

“Only in some bits of Cornwall,” I explain. “Just in the pointy bits.”

Judd and Kent give each other puzzled looks — then both burst into laughter.

“Your British sense of humor!” says Kent. “It’s so refreshing.”

For a moment I’m not quite sure how to react — then I start laughing too. God, this is great. We’re getting on like a house on fire! Then Kent’s face lights up.

“Now, Rebecca, I was meaning to say. I have rather an exciting opportunity for you. I don’t know what your plans were for this afternoon. But I have a rather unique ticket… to…”

She pauses for effect, smiling widely, and I stare at her in sudden excitement. A Gucci invitation sample sale! It has to be!

“… the Association of Financiers Annual Conference!” she finishes proudly.

For a few moments I can’t speak.

“Really?” I say at last, my voice slightly more high-pitched than usual. “You’re… you’re joking!”

How on earth am I going to get out of this one?

“I know!” says Kent delightedly. “I thought you’d be pleased. So if you’re not doing anything else this afternoon…”

I am doing something! I want to wail. I’m going to Sephora to get made over!

“There are some very high-profile speakers,” puts in Judd. “Bert Frankel, for one.”

“Really?” I say. “Bert Frankel!”

I’ve never heard of bloody Bert Frankel.

“So… I have the pass right here…” says Kent, reaching for her bag.

Quick. I have to say something or I’ll find myself spending a precious afternoon in New York sitting in some dreary conference hall.

“What a shame!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Because actually…”

I can’t tell them I have to go and try on lipstick.

“Actually… I was planning to visit the Guggenheim this afternoon.”

Phew. No one can argue with culture.

“Really?” says Kent, looking disappointed. “Couldn’t it wait until another day?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say. “There’s a particular exhibit I’ve been absolutely longing to see since… since I was a child of six.”

“Really?” says Kent, eyes wide.

“Yes.” I lean forward earnestly. “Ever since I saw a photograph of it in my granny’s art book, it’s been my ambition since childhood to come to New York City and see this piece of art. And now that I’m here… I just can’t wait any longer. I hope you understand…”

“Of course!” says Kent. “Of course we do! What an inspiring story!” She exchanges impressed looks with Judd, and I smile modestly back. “So — which piece of art is it?”

I stare at her, still smiling. OK, quick, think. The Guggenheim. Modern paintings? Sculpture?

I’m fifty-fifty on modern paintings. If only I could phone a friend.

“Actually… I’d rather not say,” I say at last. “I consider artistic preference a very… private matter.”

“Oh,” says Kent, looking a little taken aback. “Well, of course, I didn’t mean to intrude in any way—”

“Kent,” says Judd, glancing at his watch again. “We really have to—”

“You’re right,” says Kent. She takes another sip of tea, and stands up. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, we have a meeting at two thirty. But it’s been such a pleasure.”

“Of course!” I say. “No problem!”

I struggle to my feet and follow them out of the restaurant. As I pass the wine bucket I realize with a slight lurch that I’ve more or less drunk the whole bottle. How embarrassing. But I don’t think anybody noticed.

We arrive outside the restaurant, and Judd has already hailed a taxi for me.

“Great to meet you, Rebecca,” he says. “We’ll report back to our vice-president of production, and we’ll… be in touch! Enjoy the Guggenheim.”

“Absolutely!” I say, shaking hands with each of them. “I will. And thank you so much!”

I get into the taxi and slam the door behind me.

“Hi,” I say to the taxi driver, watching as Judd and Kent walk away. “I’d like to go to—”

“The Guggenheim,” chips in the driver. “I heard.”

“No, actually, I’d like to go to SoHo. Sephora on Broadway.”

The driver swivels in his seat to look at me. He’s huge and swarthy, and his face is creased in a frown.

“What about the Guggenheim?”

“Erm… I’ll go later on.”

“Later on?” says the driver. “You can’t rush the Guggenheim. The Guggenheim is a very fine museum. Picasso. Kandinsky. You don’t want to miss it.”

“I won’t miss it! Honestly, I promise. If we could just go to Sephora now? Please?”

There’s a disapproving silence from the front.

“All right,” he says at last, and starts the engine.

As we drive off, I sink happily into my seat. I think lunch went really well, actually. Except maybe when I told them the anecdote about Rory and the guide dog. And when I tripped over on my way to the loos. But then, that could happen to anybody. The truth is, I really am settling into New York. It’s only been three days, but I’m getting the language and everything. Like, yesterday, I said “Go figure” without even thinking. And I called a skirt cute!

We pull up at a pedestrian crossing and I’m peering interestedly out, wondering which street we’re at — when suddenly I freeze in horror.

There are Judd and Kent. Right there, in front of us. They’re crossing the road, and Kent is saying something animatedly, and Judd is nodding. Oh God. I can’t let them see me heading in the wrong direction. Quick, hide.

My heart thumping, I sink down off my seat and kind of crouch on the floor, trying to hide behind my Wall Street Journal. God, why isn’t there more space in these taxis?

“You OK back there?” says the taxi driver.

“Fine,” I gulp. I raise my head cautiously — and thank goodness Judd and Kent have disappeared. As I scramble back up onto the seat, I bump my head on the window.

“Hey there!” says a disembodied voice, making me jump with fright. “You be careful! Safety counts, OK? So buckle up!”

“OK,” I say humbly. “Sorry about that. I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

I fasten my seat belt with clumsy fingers, and catch the eye of the driver in the mirror.

“It’s a recorded announcement,” he says scornfully. “You’re talking to a tape machine.”

I knew that.

We arrive at Sephora on Broadway, and I thrust wodges of dollars at the driver. As I get out of the cab, he looks closely at me.

“Have you been drinking, lady?”

“No,” I say indignantly. “I mean… yes. But it was just a bit of wine at lunch…”

The taxi driver shakes his head and drives off, and I head unsteadily into Sephora. To be honest, I am feeling a little giddy. I push open the door and… wow. Spotlights are dancing about the bright interior, landing on shiny black counters; on the deep-red carpet underfoot; on the glass packaging of a thousand nail polishes. There’s music pounding, and girls milling everywhere, and trendy guys in black polo necks and headsets handing out goody bags. As I turn dazedly around, I’ve never seen so much makeup in my life. Rows and rows of lipsticks. Rows and rows of eye shadows. In all the colors of the rainbow. And oh look, there are little chairs where you can sit and try it all on, with personal mirrors. This place is… I mean, it’s heaven.

“Hi, Becky, you made it!” I look up to see Jodie waving across a display of hairbrushes. She’s wearing a stripy red-and-white jersey dress today, and as she gets nearer I see that her nails have been revarnished stripy red-and-white to match. “Ready for your makeover?”

She ushers me to one of the little chairs and I get into it, feeling a pleasant anticipation. A girl in black comes over with a friendly smile and introduces herself as Mona, my makeup specialist for today.

“Had you thought what look you were after?” she says as she switches on a spotlight and guides it toward my face.

“Well, it’s for lunch with my boyfriend’s mother,” I explain. “I want to look kind of… groomed.”

“Polished but subtle?”

“Exactly!”

“I have you,” says Mona, nodding. “Taupes and beiges. The hardest look to pull off.”

“Taupe?” says Jodie, wrinkling her brow. “Did anyone ever look good in taupe?”

“And maybe a soft color on the lips,” says Mona, ignoring Jodie. “Let me start with a light base…”

She reaches for a cosmetic sponge and smooths color gently over my face. As she starts shading my eyes I see Jodie standing back, a critical look on her face.

“For this elegant look, less is more,” says Mona.

“Right,” I say, nodding knowledgeably. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll just fetch a mascara…”

She disappears toward the front of the shop and I close my eyes. If I’m honest, my head’s still spinning from all that wine, and I’m finding it quite hard to balance on this tiny chair.

Suddenly I feel a coldness on my cheek, and look up. Jodie is standing in front of me, dipping her fingers into a small pot.

“What are you doing?” I say feebly.

“Jazzing you up a bit!” she says, and dabs my other cheek. “All this neutral crap! Like that’s what you wanted from a makeover.”

“Well—”

“I know you’re too polite to complain. You Brits really need to get some attitude.” She stands back and gives a satisfied nod. “Now, did you ever wear false eyelashes? Because they have a great range here.”

“Jodie, I’m not sure…”

“Hey!” We both look up to see Mona approaching, an affronted expression on her face. “What the hell is going on? What’s happened to her face?”

“She looked boring,” says Jodie defiantly.

“She looked classic!” Mona sticks her hands on her hips. “Well, you’ve ruined it now.”

“What have I got on my face?” I demand, and pull the mirror toward me. My own face stares back. Smooth and beige, with softly shadowed eyes, discreetly colored lips… and silver sparkles on my cheeks.

“Looks great, doesn’t it?” says Jodie unapologetically. “Much better with the glitter.”

I glance at Mona’s annoyed face and suddenly feel a bit guilty.

“Actually, Mona,” I say quickly, “I’d really like to buy some of the products you used. In fact… all of them. Would that be possible?”

“Oh,” says Mona, unbending a little. “Well — yes, of course. They are from a rather expensive line…”

“That doesn’t matter!” I turn hastily to Jodie. “And… I’ll buy the glitter too. I’ll buy it all!”

Ten minutes later I find myself outside Sephora, clutching two carrier bags full of makeup, a whole set of new cosmetic brushes, a silver shower cap, and something called “buffing paste,” which I threw in at the last moment. I’m not sure quite what it is — but the jar is absolutely gorgeous!

“OK,” I say, looking dazedly around the busy street in front of me. “Where next?”

“Babe, I have to go,” says Jodie, looking up from her pager. “I’ve already had a five-hour lunch break. But if you want the true SoHo experience, there’s Dean and Deluca right in front of you…” She swivels me by the shoulders until I’m facing across the street. “… and just along is Scoop, which is the place to pick up the most expensive T-shirt in the universe…”

“What about that?” I say, pointing to a gorgeous, glowing shop window that has caught my eye.

“Kate’s Paperie. To die for.”

“What does it sell?” I say puzzledly. “Just paper?”

“Just paper!” She gives a raucous chuckle. “You go take a look. And listen, you want to get together again sometime?”

“I’d love to!” I say in delight. “I’ll be here for at least another week. Thanks, Jodie.”

“No problem.”

I watch as Jodie hurries off toward the subway and suddenly notice that the spiky heels of her shoes are painted in red-and-white stripes, too. That’s so cool! Where did she get them?

“Jodie!” I cry, but she can’t hear me. Never mind, I’ll ask her next time.

As she disappears down into the subway station I walk slowly toward Kate’s Paperie. I’m not really interested in paper, to be honest. In fact, I probably won’t bother going in. But it can’t hurt to have a little—

I stop in my tracks as I reach the window, and stare at the display, astounded. When Jodie said paper, I imagined piles of photocopying sheets. I had no idea she meant… I mean, just look at that display of marbled wrapping paper. And that decoupage box. And that amazing beaded ribbon! I’ve never seen anything like it!

I push the door open and walk around, marveling at the arrangements of beautiful wrapping paper adorned with dried flowers, raffia, and bows, the photograph albums, the boxes of exquisite writing paper… And oh God, just look at the greeting cards!

You see, this is it. This is why New York is so great. They don’t just have boring old cards saying Happy Birthday. They have handmade creations with twinkly flowers and witty collages, saying things like “Congratulations on adopting twins!” and “So sad to hear you broke up!”

I walk up and down, utterly dazzled by the array. I just have to have some of these cards. Like this fantastic pop-up castle, with the flag reading “I love your remodeled home!” I mean, I don’t actually know anyone who’s remodeling their home, but I can always keep it until Mum decides to repaper the hall. And this one covered in fake grass, saying “To a smashing tennis coach with thanks.” Because I’m planning to have some tennis lessons next summer, and I’ll want to thank my coach, won’t I?

I scoop up a few more, and then move on to the invitation rack. And they’re even better! Instead of just saying “Party” they say things like “We’re Meeting at the Club for Brunch!” and “Come Join Us for an Informal Pizza!”

You know, I think I should buy some of those. It would be shortsighted not to. Suze and I might easily hold a pizza party, mightn’t we? And we’ll never find invitations like this in Britain. And they’re so sweet, with glittery little pizza slices all the way down the sides! I carefully put five boxes of invitations in my basket, along with all my lovely cards, and a few sheets of candy-striped wrapping paper, which I just can’t resist, then head to the checkout. As the assistant scans everything through, I look around the shop again, wondering if I’ve missed anything — and it’s only when she announces the total that I look up in slight shock. That much? Just for a few cards?

For a moment I wonder whether I really do need them all. Like the card saying “Happy Hanukkah, Boss!”

But then — they’re bound to come in useful one day, aren’t they? And if I’m going to live in New York, I’m going to have to get used to sending expensive cards all the time, so really, this is a form of acclimatization.

As I head toward the door, I’m dimly aware of a ringing, burbling sort of sound — and all of a sudden I realize it’s my own mobile phone.

“Hi!” I say, clutching it to my ear. “Who’s this?”

“Hi. It’s me,” says Luke. “I heard your lunch went well.”

“Really?” I say, feeling a jolt of surprise. “Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve just been speaking to some people at HLBC. Apparently you were quite a hit. Very entertaining, they said.”

“Wow! Really? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. They were saying how charming you were, and how cultured… I even hear they put you in a taxi to the Guggenheim afterward.”

“That’s right,” I say, reaching to look at a paper knife. “They did.”

“Yes, I was quite intrigued to hear all about your burning childhood dream,” says Luke. “Kent was very impressed.”

“Really?” I say vaguely. “Well, that’s good.”

“Absolutely.” Luke pauses. “Slightly strange that you didn’t mention the Guggenheim this morning, though, isn’t it? Or indeed… ever. Bearing in mind you’ve been longing to go there since you were a child of six.”

Suddenly I hear the amusement in his voice, and snap to attention. He’s bloody well rung up to tease me, hasn’t he?

“Have I never mentioned the Guggenheim?” I say innocently, and put the paper knife back. “How very odd.”

“Isn’t it?” says Luke. “Most peculiar. So, are you there now?”

Bugger.

For a moment, I’m silenced. I simply can’t admit to Luke that I’ve gone shopping again. Not after all that teasing he gave me about my so-called guided tour. I mean OK, I know ten minutes out of a three-hour city tour isn’t that much — but I got as far as Saks, didn’t I?

“Yes,” I say defiantly. “Yes, I am, actually.”

Which is kind of almost true. I mean, I can easily go there after I’ve finished here.

“Great!” says Luke. “What particular exhibit are you looking at?”

Oh, shut up.

“What’s that?” I say, suddenly raising my voice. “Sorry, I didn’t realize! Luke, I have to turn my mobile off. The… um… curator is complaining. But I’ll see you later.”

“Six at the Royalton Bar,” he says. “You can meet my new associate, Michael. And I’ll look forward to hearing all about your afternoon.”

Now I feel a bit guilty. I shouldn’t have told Luke I was at the Guggenheim. I should have told the truth.

But it doesn’t matter… because what I’ll do is I’ll go there right now. Right this minute! After all, I can always come back to SoHo another day, can’t I?

I walk slowly along the crowded street, telling myself that what I’ll do is hail a cab and go straight up there. Without delay. Straight to the Guggenheim and immerse myself in some wonderful culture. Excellent. I can’t wait, actually.

I arrive at a street corner and come to a standstill. A lit-up taxi crawls past — but for some strange reason my arm doesn’t rise. Across the street is a stall selling fake designer sunglasses, and I feel a sudden pang of longing to go and rifle through them. And look there, that shop’s doing a discount on Calvin Klein jeans. And I do actually need some new jeans… And I haven’t even been into Dean and Deluca…

Oh, why couldn’t the Guggenheim be in SoHo?

Hang on a minute.

People are pushing past me but I don’t move. My eye is riveted by something fixed to the facade above an entrance. I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing.

The word GUGGENHEIM stares back at me, as large as life. It’s like God heard my prayers.

But what’s going on? Has the Guggenheim suddenly moved? Are there two Guggenheims?

As I hurry toward the doors, I realize this place looks quite small for a museum — so maybe it’s not the main Guggenheim. Maybe it’s some trendy SoHo offshoot! Yes! I mean, if London can have the Tate Gallery and Tate Modern, why can’t New York have the Guggenheim and Guggenheim SoHo? That sounds so cool!

I cautiously push the door open — and sure enough, it’s all white and spacious, with modern art on pedestals and people wandering around quietly, whispering to one another.

You know, this is what all museums should be like. Nice and small, for a start, so you don’t feel exhausted as soon as you walk in. I mean, you could probably do this lot in about half an hour. Plus, all the things look really interesting. Like, look at those amazing red cubes in that glass cabinet! And this fantastic abstract print, hanging on the wall.

As I’m gazing admiringly at the print, a couple come over and look at it too, and start murmuring to each other about how nice it is. Then the girl says casually, “How much is it?”

And I’m about to turn to her with a friendly smile and say, “That’s what I always want to know, too!”—when to my astonishment the man reaches for it and turns it over. And there’s a price label fixed onto the back!

A price label in a museum! I don’t believe it! This place is perfect! Finally, some forward-thinking person has agreed with me — that people don’t want to just look at art, they want to know how much it is. I’m going to write to the people at the Victoria and Albert about this.

And you know, now that I look around properly, all the exhibits seem to have a price on them. Those red cubes in the cabinet have got a price label, and so has that chair, and so has that… that box of pencils.

How weird, having a box of pencils in a museum. Still, maybe it’s installation art. I walk over to have a closer look — and there’s something printed on each pencil. Probably some really meaningful message about art, or life… I lean close, interested, and find myself reading the words “Guggenheim Museum Store.”

What?

Is this a—

I lift my head and look around bewilderedly.

Am I in a shop?

Suddenly I start noticing things I hadn’t seen before. Like a pair of cash registers on the other side of the room. And there’s somebody walking out with a couple of carrier bags.

How could I have not recognized a shop? But… this makes less and less sense. Is it just a shop on its own?

“Excuse me,” I say, to a fair-haired boy wearing a name badge. “Can I just check — this is a shop?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says the boy politely. “This is the Guggenheim Museum Store.”

“And where’s the actual Guggenheim Museum? With all the Picassos and things?”

“To see the Picassos you have to go to the main museum, on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-ninth Street,” says the boy.

“Right.” I look at him confusedly. “So let me just get this straight. You can come here and buy loads of stuff — and no one minds whether you’ve been to the museum or not? I mean, you don’t have to show your ticket or anything?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So you… you can just shop?” My voice rises in delight. “It’s perfect!” Suddenly I see the boy’s shocked expression and quickly add, “I mean, obviously I do want to look at the art. Very much so. I was just… you know. Checking.”

“If you’re interested in visiting the museum,” says the boy, “I can give you a location map. Did you want to pay a visit?”

“Erm…”

Now, let’s not make any hasty decisions.

“Erm… I’m not sure,” I say carefully. “Could you just give me a minute?”

“Sure,” says the boy, giving me a slightly odd look, and I sit down on a white seat, thinking hard.

OK, here’s the thing. I mean, obviously I could get in a cab, and whiz up to wherever it is, and spend all afternoon looking at the Picassos.

Or else… I could just buy a book about the Picassos. Because the thing is, do you actually need to see a piece of art in the flesh to appreciate it? Of course you don’t. And in a way, flicking through a book would be better than trekking round lots of galleries — because I’m bound to cover more ground more quickly and actually learn far more.

Besides, what they have in this shop is art, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve already taken in some pretty good culture. Exactly.

Several hours later, I arrive at the Royalton with a huge, exhilarated grin on my face. I haven’t had such a successful afternoon shopping since… well, since yesterday.

I check all my carrier bags in at the cloakroom, then head for the small circular bar where Luke has told me to meet him and his new associate, Michael Ellis.

I’ve heard quite a lot about this Michael Ellis during the last few days. Apparently he owns a huge advertising agency in Washington and is best friends with the president. Or is it the vice-president? Something like that, anyway. Basically, he’s a big shot, and crucial to Luke’s new deal. So I’d better make sure I impress him.

God, this place is trendy, I think as I walk in. All leather and chrome and people in severe black outfits with haircuts to match. I walk into the dim circular bar, and there’s Luke, sitting at a table. To my surprise, he’s on his own.

“Hi!” I say, and kiss him. “So — where’s your friend?”

“Making a call,” says Luke. He gestures to a waiter. “Another gimlet here, please.” He gives me a quizzical look as I sit down. “So, my darling. How was the Guggenheim?”

“It was good,” I say with a triumphant beam. Ha, ha-di-ha. I’ve been doing my homework in the cab. “I particularly enjoyed a fascinating series of acrylic forms based on simple Euclidean shapes.”

“Really?” says Luke, looking a bit surprised.

“Absolutely. The way they absorb and reflect pure light… Riveting. Oh and by the way, I bought you a present.” I plonk a book on his lap entitled Abstract Art and Artists, and take a sip of the drink that has been placed in front of me, trying not to look too smug.

“You really went to the Guggenheim!” says Luke, leafing through the book incredulously.

“Erm… yes,” I say. “Of course I did!”

OK, I know you shouldn’t lie to your boyfriend. But it’s kind of true, isn’t it? I did go to the Guggenheim. In the broadest sense of the word.

“This is really interesting,” Luke’s saying. “Did you see that famous sculpture by Brancusi?”

“Erm… well…” I squint over his shoulder, trying to see what he’s talking about. “Well, I was more concentrating on the… um…”

“What’s that on your cheek?” says Luke, suddenly staring at me. I put a hand up in surprise and feel a trace of silver glitter. I’d forgotten all about that.

“It was… a piece of installation art,” I hear myself saying. “Entitled Constellations. They had all this, um… glitter, and they smeared it on you…”

“Here comes Michael now,” interrupts Luke. He closes the book and I quickly put it back in its carrier bag. Thank God for that. I look up interestedly to see what this famous Michael looks like — and nearly choke on my drink.

I don’t believe it. It’s him. Michael Ellis is the balding guy from the gym. Last time he saw me, I was dying at his feet.

“Hi!” says Luke, standing up. “Becky, meet Michael Ellis, my new associate.”

“Hi again,” I say, trying to smile composedly. “How are you?”

Oh, this shouldn’t be allowed. There should be a rule which says that people you’ve met in the gym should never meet you in real life.

“We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting,” says Michael Ellis, shaking my hand with a twinkle and sitting down opposite. “Becky and I worked out together at the hotel gym. Didn’t catch you there this morning, though.”

“This morning?” says Luke, giving me a puzzled look as he sits down again. “I thought you said the gym was closed, Becky.”

Shit.

“Oh. Um, well…” I take a deep gulp of my drink and clear my throat. “When I said it was closed, what I really meant was… was…” I tail away feebly into silence.

And I so wanted to make a good impression.

“What am I thinking of?” exclaims Michael suddenly. “I must be going crazy! It wasn’t this morning. The gym was closed this morning. Due to vital repair work, I believe.” He grins broadly and I feel myself blushing.

“So, anyway,” I say, hurriedly changing the subject. “You’re… you’re doing a deal with Luke. That’s great! How’s it all going?”

I only really ask to be polite, and steer attention away from my gym activities. I’m expecting them both to start explaining it to me at great length, and I can nod my head at intervals and enjoy my drink. But to my surprise, there’s an awkward pause.

“Good question,” says Luke at last, and looks at Michael. “What did Clark say?”

“We had a long conversation,” says Michael. “Not entirely satisfactory.”

I look from face to face, feeling disconcerted.

“Is something going wrong?”

“That all depends,” says Michael.

He starts to tell Luke about his phone call with whoever Clark is, and I try to listen intelligently to their conversation. But the trouble is, I’m starting to feel quite giddy. How much have I drunk today? I don’t even want to think about it, to be honest. I loll against the leather backrest, my eyes closed, listening to their voices chatting what seems far above my head.

“… some sort of paranoia…”

“… think they can change the goalposts…”

“… overheads… cost reduction… with Alicia Billington heading up the London office…”

“Alicia?” I struggle to an upright position. “Alicia’s going to run the London office?”

“Almost definitely,” says Luke, stopping midsentence. “Why?”

“But—”

“But what?” says Michael, looking at me with interest. “Why shouldn’t she run the London office? She’s bright, ambitious…”

“Oh. Well… no reason,” I say feebly.

I can’t very well say, “Because she’s a complete cow.”

“You’ve heard she’s just got engaged, by the way?” says Luke. “To Ed Collins at Hill Hanson.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. “I thought she was having an affair with… whassisname.”

“With who?” says Michael.

“Erm… thingy.” I take a sip of gimlet to clear my head. “She was having secret lunches with him, and everything!”

What’s his name again? I really am pissed.

“Becky likes to keep abreast of the office gossip,” says Luke with an easy laugh. “Unfortunately one can’t always vouch for its accuracy.”

I stare at him crossly. What’s he trying to say? That I’m some kind of rumormonger?

“Nothing wrong with a bit of office gossip,” says Michael with a warm smile. “Keeps the wheels turning.”

“Absolutely!” I say emphatically. “I couldn’t agree more. I always say to Luke, you should be interested in the people who work for you. It’s like when I give financial advice on my TV show. You can’t just look at the numbers, you have to talk to them. Like… like Enid from Northampton!” I look at Michael expectantly, before remembering that he doesn’t know who Enid is. “On paper she was ready to retire,” I explain. “Pension and everything. But in real life…”

“She… wasn’t ready?” suggests Michael.

“Exactly! She was really enjoying work and it was only her stupid husband who wanted her to give up. She was only fifty-five!” I gesture randomly with my glass. “I mean, don’t they say life begins at fifty-five?”

“I’m not sure they do,” says Michael, smiling. “But maybe they should.” He gives me an interested look. “I’d like to catch your show one day. Is it shown in the States?”

“No, it isn’t,” I say regretfully. “But I’ll be doing the same thing on American TV soon, so you’ll be able to watch it then!”

“I look forward to that.” Michael looks at his watch and drains his glass. “I have to go, I’m afraid. We’ll speak later, Luke. And very nice to meet you, Becky. If I ever need financial advice, I’ll know where to come.”

As he leaves the bar, I lean back against my squashy seat and turn to look at Luke. His easy demeanor has vanished, and he’s staring tensely into space while his fingers methodically tear a matchbook into small pieces.

“Michael seems really nice!” I say. “Really friendly.”

“Yes,” says Luke distantly. “Yes, he is.”

I take a sip of gimlet and look at Luke more carefully. He’s got exactly the same expression he had last month, when one of his staff cocked up a press release and some confidential figures were made public by mistake. My mind spools back over the conversation I was half-listening to — and as I watch his face I start to feel a bit worried.

“Luke,” I say at last. “What’s going on? Is there some kind of hitch with your deal?”

“No,” says Luke without moving.

“So what did Michael mean when he said, ‘That all depends’? And all that stuff about them changing the goalposts?”

I lean forward and try to take his hand, but Luke doesn’t respond. As I gaze at him in anxious silence, I gradually become aware of the background chatter and music all around us in the dim bar. At the next table a woman’s opening a little box from Tiffany’s and gasping — something which would normally have me throwing my napkin onto the floor and sidling over to see what she’s got. But this time I’m too concerned.

“Luke?” I lean forward. “Come on, tell me. Is there a problem?”

“No,” says Luke shortly, and tips his glass back into his mouth. “There’s no problem. Things are fine. Come on, let’s go.”