Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Eleven

“SHE DID?” There’s a long pause. Luke frowns and glances at me. “Well, I’m sure she didn’t…” He breaks off into silence and I feel a flutter of apprehension.

It’s a couple of days later, and on the other end of the phone, speaking to Luke, is Elinor. God only knows what she’s saying about me. I wish we had a speaker phone.

On second thought, no, I don’t.

“Really?” Luke looks surprised. “I see. Interesting.” He clears his throat. “And on that matter — what about the two of us trying to meet up?”

Thank goodness. They’ve stopped talking about me.

“Oh, I see.” The deflation in Luke’s voice is unmistakable. “No, of course I understand. Yes, I will. Bye, then.” He puts down the phone and gazes down at it for a few seconds.

“So!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “What did your mother think of me?”

“Oh! Well…” Luke screws up his face puzzledly. “She said you were… overzealous. What did she mean by that?”

“I’ve no idea!” I give a shrill laugh. “Probably just… you know… hardworking! So, erm… did she mention your gift?” I add, changing the subject.

“No,” says Luke after a pause. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a pang of indignation toward Elinor. “Well, you know, she did absolutely love it.”

“Do you think?”

“Absolutely!” I say emphatically. “She… she almost cried, she was so pleased. And she said you were the best son in the whole world.”

“Really?” Luke’s face glows with pleasure. “She said that?”

I smile vaguely and reach down for my shoes. Maybe that wasn’t quite true. But I mean, I can’t tell him she just shoved it back into the box as though it were a pair of socks from Woolworth’s, can I?

“See you later.” Luke picks up his briefcase and gives me a kiss. “And good luck this morning.”

“Thanks!” I beam back, and feel a small trickle of excitement.

All of a sudden, things have started to happen over here. I keep getting phone calls from people who want to meet me, which Luke says is the “snowball effect” and he expected it all along. Yesterday I had three meetings with different sets of TV executives — today I’ve got a breakfast meeting with a Greg Walters from Blue River Productions. He’s the one who sent me the basket of fruit and was “desperate” to see me. I’ve never had anyone desperate to see me before in my entire life!

An hour later, I’m sitting in the Four Seasons restaurant, feeling like a movie star. Greg Walters is tall and tanned and has already dropped the name of every TV network I’ve ever heard of.

“You’re hot,” he now keeps saying, in between bites of croissant. “You realize that?”

“Erm… well…”

“No.” He lifts a hand. “Don’t be coy. You’re all over town. Folks are fighting over you.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks me in the eye. “I’ll be frank — I want to give you your own show.”

I stare at him, almost unable to breathe for excitement.

“Really? My own show? Doing what?”

“Whatever. We’ll find you a winning format.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “You’re a political commentator, right?”

“Um… not really,” I say awkwardly. “I do personal finance. You know, mortgages and stuff?”

“Right.” Greg nods. “Finance. So I’m thinking… off the top of my head… Wall Street. Wall Street meets Ab Fab meets Oprah. You could do that, right?”

“Erm… absolutely!”

I beam confidently at him and take a bite of croissant.

“I have to go,” he says as he finishes his coffee. “But I’m going to call you tomorrow and set up a meeting with our head of development. Is that OK?”

“Fine!” I say, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That would be good.”

As he walks off, a huge grin of delight spreads across my face. My own show! Things are just going better and better. Everyone I speak to seems to want to offer me a job, and they all keep buying me nice meals, and yesterday, someone said I could have a career in Hollywood, no question. Hollywood!

I mean, just imagine if I get my own show in Hollywood! I’ll be able to live in some amazing house in Beverly Hills, and go to parties with all the film stars. Maybe Luke will start a Los Angeles branch of his company. I mean, people out there need PR — and he could easily switch from finance to movies. And… yes! We could set up a film production company together!

“What a pleasant surprise,” says a cheerful voice, and I look up dazedly to see Michael Ellis pulling out a chair at another table.

“Oh,” I say, wrenching my mind away from the Oscars. “Oh, hello. Do join me!” And I gesture politely to the chair opposite.

“I’m not disturbing you?” he says, sitting down.

“No. I was having a meeting but it’s over.” I look around vaguely. “Is Luke with you?”

Michael shakes his head.

“He’s talking to some people at JD Slade this morning. The big guns.”

A waiter comes and clears away Greg’s plate, and Michael orders a cappuccino.

“So — how are things going?” I ask, lowering my voice slightly. “Luke told me about one of the backers getting nervous.”

“Right.” Michael nods gravely. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on there.”

“But why do you need backers?” I ask. “I mean, Luke’s got loads of money…”

“Never invest your own money,” says Michael. “First rule of business. Besides which, Luke has very grand plans, and grand plans tend to need a lot of capital.” He looks up. “You know, he’s very driven, that man of yours. Very determined to succeed over here.”

“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “All he ever does is work.”

“Work is good,” says Michael, frowning into his coffee. “Obsession is… not so good.” He’s silent for a moment, then looks up with a smile. “But I gather things are going well for you?”

“They are, actually,” I say, unable to maintain my calm. “In fact, they’re going brilliantly! I’ve had all these fantastic meetings, and everybody says they want to give me a job! I just had a meeting with Greg Walters from Blue River Productions — and he said he was going to give me my own show. And yesterday, someone was talking about Hollywood!”

“That’s great,” says Michael. “Really great.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks at me thoughtfully. “If I could just say a word?”

“What?”

“These TV people. You don’t necessarily want to believe every single word they say.”

I look at him, a little discomfited.

“What do you mean?”

“These guys like talking big,” says Michael, slowly stirring his coffee. “It makes them feel good. And they believe everything they say at the time when they’re saying it. But when it comes to the cold hard dollar…” He stops, and looks up at me. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I won’t be disappointed!” I retort indignantly. “Greg Walters said the whole town was fighting over me!”

“I’m sure he did,” says Michael. “And I very much hope they are. All I’m saying is—”

He stops as a uniformed concierge stops by our table.

“Miss Bloomwood,” he says. “I have a message for you.”

“Thanks!” I say in surprise.

I open the envelope he gives me, and pull out the sheets of paper — and it’s a message from Kent Garland at HLBC.

“Well!” I say, unable to stop a smile of triumph. “It looks like HLBC wasn’t just talking big. It looks like they mean business.” I give the piece of paper to Michael Ellis, wanting to add, “So there!”

“ ‘Please call Kent’s assistant to arrange a screen test,’ ” reads Michael aloud. “Well, looks like I’m wrong,” he says, smiling. “And I’m very glad about it.” He lifts his coffee cup toward me. “So here’s to a successful screen test.”

OK. What am I going to wear tomorrow? What am I going to wear? I mean, this is the most important moment of my life, a screen test for American television. My outfit has to be sharp, flattering, photogenic, immaculate… I mean, I’ve got nothing. Nothing.

I leaf through all my clothes for the millionth time, and flop back down on the bed, exhausted. I can’t believe I’ve come all this way without one single screen-test outfit.

Well, there’s nothing for it. I’ve got no choice.

I pick up my bag and check that I’ve got my wallet — and I’m just reaching for my coat when the phone rings.

“Hello?” I say into the receiver, hoping it might be Luke.

“Bex!” comes Suze’s voice, all tinny and distant.

“Suze!” I say in delight. “Hi!”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going really well!” I say. “I’ve had loads of meetings, and everyone’s being really positive! It’s just brilliant!”

“Bex! That’s great.”

“How about you?” I frown slightly at her voice. “Is everything OK?”

“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Everything’s fine. Except…” She hesitates. “I just thought you should know, a man phoned up this morning about some money you owe a shop. La Rosa, in Hampstead.”

“Really?” I pull a face. “Them again?”

“Yes. He asked me when you were going to be out of the artificial limb unit.”

“Oh,” I say after a pause. “Right. So — what did you say?”

“Bex, why did he think you were in the artificial limb unit?”

“I don’t know,” I say evasively. “Maybe he heard something. Or… or I may possibly have written him the odd little letter…”

“Bex,” interrupts Suze, and her voice is quivering slightly. “You told me you’d taken care of all those bills. You promised!”

“I have taken care of them!” I reach for my hairbrush and begin to brush my hair.

“By telling them your parachute didn’t open in time?” cries Suze. “I mean, honestly, Bex—”

“Look, don’t stress. I’ll sort it all out as soon as I come home.”

“He said he was going to have to take extreme action! He said he was very sorry, but enough allowances had been made, and—”

“They always say that,” I say soothingly. “Suze, you really don’t have to worry. I’m going to earn loads over here. I’ll be loaded! And I’ll be able to pay everything off, and everything will be fine.”

There’s silence, and I imagine Suze sitting on the floor of the sitting room, winding her hair tightly round her fingers.

“Really?” she says at last. “Is it all going well, then?”

“Yes! I’ve got a screen test tomorrow, and this guy wants to give me my own show, and they’re even talking about Hollywood!”

“Hollywood?” breathes Suze. “That’s amazing.”

“I know!” I beam at my own reflection. “Isn’t it great? I’m hot! That’s what the guy from Blue River Productions said.”

“So — what are you going to wear for your screen test?”

“I’m just off to Barneys,” I say happily. “Choose a new outfit!”

“Barneys?” exclaims Suze in horror. “Bex, you promised me you weren’t going to go overboard! You completely promised me you were going to stick to a budget.”

“I have! I’ve completely stuck to it! It’s all written out and everything! And anyway, this is a business expense. I’m investing in my career.”

“But—”

“Suze, you can’t make money unless you spend it first. Everyone knows that! I mean, you have to spend money on your materials, don’t you?”

There’s a pause.

“I suppose so,” says Suze doubtfully.

“And anyway, what are credit cards for?”

“Oh Bex…” Suze sighs. “Actually, that’s funny — that’s just what the council tax girl said yesterday.”

“What council tax girl?” I frown at my reflection and reach for an eyeliner.

“The girl who came round this morning,” says Suze vaguely. “She had a clipboard. And she asked loads of questions about me, and the flat, and how much rent you paid me… we had a really nice chat. And I was telling her all about you being in America, and Luke… and your TV job…”

“Great,” I say, not really listening. “That sounds really good. Listen, Suze, I’ve got to run. But honestly, don’t worry. If anyone else phones for me, just don’t take the call. OK?”

“Well… OK,” says Suze. “And good luck tomorrow!”

“Thanks!” I say, and put down the phone. Ha-ha-ha! Off to Barneys!

Barneys. I’ve kind of been saving it for last, like an extra-special chocolate. Now, as I push through the distinctive black revolving doors and walk slowly across the pale mosaic floor, looking at all the beautiful people peering into cabinets full of contemporary jewelry… I feel like Goldilocks picking the right chair. The music is buzzy and the atmosphere is great, and everyone looks like they’re having a great time…

For a while I linger at a cabinet with a stunning aquamarine crystal necklace in it. I’d look just like a mermaid in that. I wonder how much it is? I’m just peering to see the price tag when an assistant approaches — and I come to with a jolt. I’m not here to buy a necklace. I’m going to buy what I need.

Feeling virtuous, I force myself to move away from the cabinet. Down to business. I study the store guide, then I take the escalator up to the top floor of the store, glimpsing tanks of fish, cages of brightly colored birds… and everywhere I look, gorgeous clothes.

Oh God, the clothes. They are just the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen! Everywhere I look, I see shapes and colors and designs I just want to grab and touch and stroke. But I can’t just spend all day marveling at candy-colored knitwear and beaded mules. I have to be focused. An outfit for tomorrow, nothing else.

Right. So what exactly do I want? Maybe a jacket, so I look authoritative — but it has to be the right jacket. Not too boxy, not too stiff… just nice clean lines. And maybe a skirt. Or just look at those trousers. They would look fantastic, if I had the right shoes…

I wander slowly round each floor, making mental notes. Then at last, when I’m sure I haven’t left anything out, I start collecting all my possibilities. A Calvin Klein jacket… and a skirt…

“Excuse me?”

A voice interrupts me just as I’m reaching for a sleeveless top, and I turn in surprise. A woman in a black trouser suit is smiling at me.

“Would you like any help with your shopping today?”

“Erm… oh, thanks!” I say. “If you could hold these…” I hand her the garments I’ve already picked out and her smile flickers slightly.

“When I said help… we’re running a unique promotion of our personal shopping department today. We’d like to introduce the concept to a wider audience. So if you’d like to take up the offer of an introductory session, there are some slots still available.”

“Oh right,” I say interestedly. “What exactly would that—”

“Our trained, experienced personal shoppers can help you find exactly what you’re searching for,” says the woman pleasantly. “They can help you find your own style, focus on designs that suit you, and guide you through the daunting fashion maze.” She gives a tight little laugh, and I get the feeling she’s said this little spiel quite a few times today.

“I see,” I say thoughtfully. “The thing is… I’m not sure I really need guiding. So thanks very much, but—”

“The service is complimentary,” says the woman. “Today we’re also offering tea, coffee, or a glass of champagne.”

Champagne? Free champagne?

“Ooh!” I say. “Well, actually — that sounds really good. Yes, please!”

And actually, I think as I follow her to the third floor, these trained shoppers must really know their stuff — and they’ll probably have a completely different eye. They’ll probably show me a whole side of myself that I’ve never even seen before!

We arrive at a suite of large dressing rooms, and the woman shows me in with a smile.

“Your personal shopper today will be Erin,” she says. “Erin has only recently joined us, so she will be receiving some occasional guidance from a senior Barneys shopper. Will that be all right?”

“Absolutely!” I say, taking off my coat.

“Would you prefer tea, coffee, or champagne?”

“Champagne,” I say quickly. “Thanks.”

“Very well,” she says with a smile. “Ah, and here’s Erin.”

I look up with interest, to see a tall thin girl coming into the dressing room. She’s got straight blond hair and a small, kind of squashed-looking mouth. In fact her whole face looks as though she were once squeezed between a pair of lift doors and never quite recovered.

“Hello,” she says, and I watch her mouth in fascination as she smiles. “I’m Erin — and I’ll be helping you find the outfit to best suit your needs.”

“Great!” I say. “Can’t wait!”

I wonder how this Erin got her job. Not by her taste in shoes, certainly.

“So…” Erin looks at me thoughtfully. “What were you looking for today?”

“I have a screen test tomorrow,” I explain. “I want to look kind of… smart and sassy, but approachable, too. Maybe with a little witty twist somewhere.”

“A witty twist,” echoes Erin, scribbling on her pad. “Right. And were you thinking… a suit? A jacket?”

“Well,” I say, and launch into an exact explanation of what I’m looking for. Erin listens carefully, and I notice a dark-haired woman in tortoiseshell glasses occasionally coming to the door of our dressing room and listening too.

“Right,” says Erin, when I’ve finished. “Well, you certainly have some ideas there…” She taps her teeth for a moment. “I’m thinking… we have a very nice fitted jacket by Moschino, with roses on the collar…”

“Oh, I know the one!” I say in delight. “I was thinking of that, too!”

“Along with… there’s a new skirt in the Barneys collection…”

“The black one?” I say. “With the buttons just here? Yes, I thought of that, but it’s a bit short. I was thinking of the knee-length one. You know, with the ribbon round the hem…”

“We’ll see,” says Erin, with a pleasant smile. “Let me line up some pieces for you, and we can have a look.”

As she goes off to gather up clothes, I sit down and sip my champagne. This isn’t bad, actually. I mean, it’s much less effort than trawling round the shop myself. I can half-hear a murmured conversation going on in the dressing room next door — and suddenly a woman’s voice rises in distress, saying, “I just want to show that bastard. I just want to show him!”

“And we will show him, Marcia,” replies a calm, soothing voice, which I think belongs to the woman in tortoiseshell glasses. “We will. But not in a cherry-red pantsuit.”

“Okaaay!” Erin is back in the dressing room, wheeling in a rack of clothes. I run my eye quickly over them, and notice quite a few of the things I’d already picked out for myself. But what about the knee-length skirt? And what about that amazing aubergine trouser suit with the leather collar?

“So, here’s the jacket for you to try… and the skirt…”

I take the clothes from her, and look doubtfully at the skirt. I just know it’s going to be too short. But then, she’s the expert, I suppose… Quickly I change into the skirt and jacket — then come and stand in front of the mirror, next to Erin.

“The jacket’s fabulous!” I say. “And it fits me perfectly. I love the cut.”

I don’t really want to say anything about the skirt. I mean, I don’t want to hurt her feelings — but it looks all wrong.

“Now, let’s see,” says Erin. She stands with her head on one side and squints at my reflection. “I’m thinking a skirt to the knee might look better, after all.”

“Like the one I told you about!” I say in relief. “It’s on the seventh floor, right next to the—”

“Possibly,” she says, and smiles. “But I have a few other skirts in mind…”

“Or the Dolce & Gabbana one on the third floor,” I add. “I was looking at it earlier. Or the DKNY.”

“DKNY?” says Erin, wrinkling her brow. “I don’t believe…”

“The assistant there told me they’re new in. So nice. You should have a look at them!” I turn round and look carefully at her outfit. “You know what? The mauve DKNY would look really good with that turtleneck you’re wearing. And you could team it with a pair of those new Stephane Kelian boots with the spiky heels. You know the ones?”

“I know the ones,” says Erin tightly. “The crocodile and suede ones.” I look at her in surprise.

“No, not those ones. The new range. With the stitching up the back. They’re so gorgeous! In fact they’d go well with the knee-length skirt…”

“Thank you!” interrupts Erin sharply. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Honestly. I’m only giving her a few hints. You’d think she’d be pleased I was so interested in her shop!

Although, I have to say, she doesn’t seem to know it very well.

“Hello there!” comes a voice from the door — and the woman in tortoiseshell glasses is leaning against the door frame, looking at me interestedly. “Everything all right?”

“Great, thanks!” I say, beaming at her.

“So,” says the woman, looking at Erin. “You’re going to try the knee-length skirt for our customer. Is that right?”

“Yes,” says Erin, and gives a rather forced smile. “I’ll just go get it.”

As she disappears, I can’t resist sidling over to the rack of clothes, just to see what else she brought. The woman in glasses watches me for a moment, then comes in and holds out her hand.

“Christina Rowan,” she said. “I head up the personal shopping department.”

“Well, hello!” I say, looking at a pale blue Jill Stuart shirt. “I’m Becky Bloomwood.”

“And you’re from England, I guess, by your accent?”

“London, but I’m going to move to New York!”

“Are you, indeed.” Christina Rowan gives me a friendly smile. “Tell me, what do you do, Becky? Do you work in fashion?”

“Oh no. I’m in finance.”

“Finance! Really.” She raises her eyebrows.

“I give financial advice on the telly. You know, pensions and stuff…” I reach for a pair of soft cashmere trousers. “Aren’t these beautiful? Much better than the Ralph Lauren ones. And they’re cheaper.”

“They’re great, aren’t they?” She gives me a quizzical look. “Well, it’s nice to have such an enthusiastic customer.” She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a business card. “Do come back and visit us when you’re here again.”

“I will!” I beam at her. “And thanks very much!”

It’s four o’clock by the time I finally leave Barneys. I hail a cab and travel back to the Four Seasons. As I push open the door to our room and look at my reflection in the silent dressing table mirror, I’m still on a kind of glittery high, almost a hysterical excitement at what I’ve just done. What I’ve just bought.

I know I went out just planning to buy a single outfit for my screen test. But I ended up… Well, I suppose I just got a bit… a bit carried away. So my final list of purchases goes like this:

1. Moschino jacket2. Knee-length Barneys skirt3. Calvin Klein underwear4. Pair of new tights and…5. Vera Wang cocktail dress.

Just… before you say anything, I know I wasn’t supposed to be buying a cocktail dress. I know that when Erin said, “Are you interested in evening wear?” I should simply have said no.

But oh God. Oh God. That Vera Wang dress. Inky purple, with a low back and glittering straps. It just looked so completely movie-star perfect. Everyone crowded round to see me in it — and when I drew back the curtain, they all gasped.

And I just stared at myself, mesmerized. Entranced by what I could look like, by the person I could be. There was no question. I had to have it. I had to. As I signed the credit card slip… I wasn’t me anymore. I was Grace Kelly. I was Gwyneth Paltrow. I was a glittering somebody else, who can casually sign a credit card slip for thousands of dollars while smiling and laughing at the assistant, as though this were a nothing-purchase.

Thousands of dollars.

Although, for a designer like Vera Wang, that price is actually quite…

Well, it’s really very…

I feel slightly sick. I don’t even want to think about how much it cost. The point is, I’ll be able to wear it for years. Yes! Years and years. And I need designer clothes if I’m going to be a famous television star. I mean, I’ll have important events to go to — and I can’t just turn up in M&S, can I? Exactly.

And I’ve got a £10,000 credit card limit. That’s the real point. I mean, they wouldn’t give it to me if they didn’t think I could afford it.

Suddenly I hear a sound at the door, and quickly rise to my feet. Heart thumping, I go to the wardrobe I’ve been stashing all my shopping in, open the door, and quickly shove my Barneys bags inside — then close the door and turn round with a smile, just as Luke enters the room, talking on his mobile.

“Of course I’m in fucking control,” he’s spitting furiously into the phone. “What the fuck do they think they’re—” He breaks off and is silent for a few moments. “I don’t need to fly back to London! Alicia has it all in hand. She says there’s absolutely no problem with Provident Assurance, she spoke to them today and they’re very happy. Someone’s just shit-stirring, God knows who. Yes, I know,” he says in a calmer voice. “Yes. OK, will do. I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael. Thanks.”

He switches off his mobile, puts it away, and looks at me as though he’s almost forgotten who I am. But then his brow softens and he smiles.

“Hi!” he says, and drops his briefcase onto a chair.

“Hi!” I say brightly, moving away from the wardrobe door. “Stranger.”

“I know,” says Luke, rubbing his face wearily. “I’m sorry. Things have been… a bit of a nightmare, to be frank. I heard about your screen test, though. Fantastic news.”

He goes to the minibar, pours himself a scotch, and downs it. Then he pours himself another one and takes a slug while I watch anxiously. His face is pale and tense, I notice, and there are shadows under his eyes.

“Is it all… going OK?” I ask gingerly.

“It’s going,” he replies. “That’s about as much as I can say.” He walks over to the window and stares out over the glittering Manhattan skyline, and I bite my lip nervously.

“Luke — couldn’t someone else go to all these meetings? Couldn’t someone else fly out and take some of the load? Like… Alicia?”

It nearly kills me even to mention her name — but I honestly am getting a bit worried. Slightly to my relief, though, Luke shakes his head.

“I can’t bring in somebody new at this stage. I’ve been managing it all until now; I’ll just have to see it through. I just had no idea they’d be so pedantic. I had no idea they’d be so…” He sits down in an armchair and takes a slug of his drink. “I mean, Jesus, they ask a lot of questions. I know Americans are thorough but—” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “They have to know everything. About every single client, every single potential client, everybody who’s ever worked for the company, every single bloody memo I’ve ever sent… Is there any possibility of litigation here? Who was your receptionist in 1993? What car do you drive? What fucking… toothpaste do you use? And now, with these rumors… they’re picking everything apart all over again.”

He breaks off and drains his glass, and I stare at him in dismay.

“They sound awful!” I say, and the flicker of a smile passes across Luke’s face.

“They’re not awful. They’re just very conservative, old-school investors — and something’s rattling them. I don’t know what.” He exhales sharply. “I just need to keep them steady.”

His voice is trembling slightly — and as I glance at his hand I see that it’s clenched tightly around his glass. I’ve never seen Luke like this, to be honest. He usually looks so utterly in control, so completely smooth…

“Luke, I think you should have an evening off. You haven’t got a meeting tonight, have you?”

“No,” says Luke, looking up. “But I need to go through some of these forecasts again. Big meeting tomorrow, with all the investors. I need to be prepared.”

“You are prepared!” I reply. “What you need is to be relaxed. If you work all night, you’ll just be tired and tense and ratty.” I go over to him, take his glass out of his hand, and start to massage his shoulders. “Come on, Luke. You really need a night off. I bet Michael would agree. Wouldn’t he?”

“He’s been telling me to lighten up,” admits Luke after a long pause.

“Well, then, lighten up! Come on, a few hours of fun never did anybody any harm. Let’s both dress up and go somewhere really nice, and dance, and drink cocktails…” I kiss him gently on the back of his neck. “I mean, why on earth come to New York and not enjoy it?”

There’s silence — and for an awful moment I think Luke’s going to say he hasn’t got time. But then suddenly he turns round — and thank God, I can see the faint glimmer of a smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “Come on. Let’s do it.”

It turns into the most magical, glamorous, glossy evening of my life. I put on my Vera Wang dress and Luke puts on his smartest suit, and we go to a fabulous restaurant all done like an Art Deco cruise ship, where beautiful people are eating lobster and there’s an old-fashioned jazz band, just like in the movies. Luke orders Bellinis, and we toast each other, and as he relaxes, he tells me more about his deal. In fact, he confides in me more than he ever has before.

“This city,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a demanding place. Like… skiing down the edge of a precipice. If you make one mistake — that’s it. You fall.”

“But if you don’t make any mistakes?”

“You win,” says Luke. “You win it all.”

“You’re going to win,” I say confidently. “You’re going to wow them all tomorrow.”

“And you’re going to wow them at your screen test,” says Luke, as a waiter appears at our table with our first course — the most amazing sculptures made out of seafood, presented on hexagonal plates. He pours our wine, and Luke lifts his glass in a toast.

“To you, Becky. You’re going to be a huge success.”

“No, you’re going to be a huge success,” I reply, feeling a glow of pleasure all around me. “We’re both going to be huge successes!”

Maybe it’s the Bellini, going to my head — but suddenly I feel again exactly as I did in Barneys. I’m not the old Becky — I’m someone new and sparkling. Surreptitiously I glance at myself in a nearby mirror, and feel a twinge of delight. I mean, just look at me! All poised and groomed, in a New York restaurant, wearing a thousands-of-dollars dress, with my wonderful, successful boyfriend — and a screen test tomorrow for American television!

I feel completely intoxicated with happiness. This expensive, glossy world is where I’ve been heading all along. Limos and flowers; waxed eyebrows and designer clothes from Barneys; a purse stuffed with business cards of TV executives. These are my people; this is where I’m meant to be. My old life seems a million, zillion miles away, like a tiny dot on the horizon. Mum and Dad and Suze… my untidy room in Fulham… EastEnders with a pizza… I mean, let’s face it. That was never really me, was it?

We end up staying out for hours. We dance to the jazz band, eat passion fruit sorbet, and talk about everything in the world but work. Luke asks the band to play “These Foolish Things,” which is a song I completely love — and then sings along as we dance (very out of tune, but I don’t say anything). When we get back to the hotel we’re both laughing, and tripping slightly as we walk, and Luke’s hand is making its way deftly inside my dress.

“Miss Bloomwood?” says the concierge as we pass the desk. “There’s a message for you to call a Susan Cleath-Stuart, in London. Whatever time you get in. Apparently it’s urgent.”

“Oh God,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She’ll just be calling to lecture me about how much I spent on my new dress. ‘How much? Oh Bex, you shouldn’t have…’ ”

“It’s a fantastic dress,” says Luke, running his hands appreciatively up and down it. “Although there’s far too much of it. You could lose this bit here… and this bit…”

“Would you like the number?” says the concierge, holding out a piece of paper.

“No, thanks,” I say, waving my hand. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“And please,” adds Luke, “hold all calls to our room, until further notice.”

“Very well,” says the concierge with a twinkle. “Good night, sir. Good night, ma’am.”

We travel up in the lift, grinning stupidly at each other in the mirrors — and as we arrive at our room, I realize that I’m really feeling quite drunk. My only consolation is, Luke looks completely plastered, too.

“That,” I say, as the door closes behind us, “was the best night of my life. The very best.”

“It isn’t over yet,” says Luke, coming toward me with a meaningful gleam in his eye. “I feel I need to reward you for your most insightful comments, Miss Bloomwood. You were right. All work and no play…” He starts to pull my Vera Wang straps gently down off my shoulders. “Makes Jack…” he murmurs against my skin. “A very…”

And suddenly we’re tumbling down onto the bed together, and his mouth is on mine, and my mind is wheeling with alcohol and delight. As he’s pulling off his shirt, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I stare at my intoxicated, happy self for an instant, and hear a voice inside saying: remember this moment forever. Remember this moment, Becky, because right now, life is perfect.

The rest is a haze of drunken, blurry pleasure, drifting into oblivion. The last thing I remember is Luke kissing me on the eyelids and telling me to sleep well and that he loves me. That’s the last thing.

And then, like a car crash, it happens.