Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Fifteen

AFTER A WEEK, I give up on hearing anything from Michael. Whatever he’s said to Luke, I’m never going to hear about it. I feel as though that whole part of my life is over. Luke, America, television, everything. Time to start again.

I’m trying to keep positive, and tell myself I’ve lots of avenues open to me. But what is the next career move for an ex— television financial expert? I rang up a television agent, and to my dismay, she sounded exactly like all those TV people in America. She said she was thrilled to hear from me, she’d have absolutely no problem finding me work — if not my own series — and that she’d ring back that day with lots of exciting news. I haven’t heard from her since.

So now I’m reduced to looking through the Media Guardian, looking for jobs I might just have half a chance of getting. So far, I’ve ringed a staff writer job on Investor’s Chronicle, an assistant editorship of Personal Investment Periodical, and editor of Annuities Today. I don’t know much about annuities, but I can always quickly read a book about it.

“How are you doing?” says Suze, coming into the room with a bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes.

“Fine,” I say, trying to raise a smile. “I’ll get there.” Suze takes a mouthful of cereal and eyes me thoughtfully.

“What have you got planned for today?”

“Nothing much,” I say morosely. “You know — just trying to get a job. Sort out my mess of a life. That kind of thing.”

“Oh right.” Suze pulls a sympathetic face. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”

I flick my fingers toward a ringed advertisement.

“I thought I’d go for editor of Annuities Today. The right candidate may also be considered for editorship of the annual Tax Rebate supplement!”

“Really?” She involuntarily pulls a face — then hastily adds, “I mean… that sounds good! Really interesting!”

“Tax rebates? Suze, please.”

“Well — you know. Relatively speaking.”

I rest my head on my knees and stare at the sitting-room carpet. The sound on the television has been turned down, and there’s silence in the room apart from Suze munching. I close my eyes and slump down farther on the floor, until my head’s resting on the sofa seat. I feel as though I could stay here for the rest of my life.

“Bex, I’m worried about you,” says Suze. “You haven’t been out for days. What else are you planning to do today?”

I open my eyes briefly and see her peering anxiously down at me.

“Dunno. Watch Morning Coffee.”

“You are not watching Morning Coffee!” says Suze firmly. “Come on.” She closes the Media Guardian. “I’ve had a really good idea.”

“What?” I say suspiciously as she drags me to my room. She swings open the door, leads me inside, and spreads her arms around, gesturing to the mess everywhere.

“I think you should spend the morning decluttering.”

“What?” I stare at her in horror. “I don’t want to declutter.”

“Yes, you do! Honestly, you’ll feel so great, like I did. It was brilliant! I felt so good afterward.”

“Yes, and you had no clothes! You had to borrow knickers from me for three weeks!”

“Well, OK,” she concedes. “Maybe I went a bit too far. But the point is, it completely transforms your life.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It does! It’s feng shui! You have to let things out of your life to allow the new good things in.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true! The moment I decluttered, I got Hadleys phoning me up with an offer. Come on, Bex… Just a little bit of decluttering would do you a world of good.”

She throws open my wardrobe and begins to leaf through my clothes.

“I mean, look at this,” she says, pulling out a blue fringed suede skirt. “When did you last wear that?”

“Erm… quite recently,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. I bought that skirt off a stall in the Portobello Road without trying it on — and when I got it home it was too small. But you never know, I might lose loads of weight one day.

“And these… and these…” She gives an incredulous frown. “Blimey, Bex, how many pairs of black trousers have you got?”

“Only one! Two, maybe.”

“Four… five… six…” She’s leafing through the hangers, sternly plucking out pairs of trousers.

“Those ones are just for when I feel fat,” I say defensively as she pulls out my comfy old Benetton boot-cuts. “And those are jeans!” I exclaim as she starts rooting around at the bottom. “Jeans don’t count as trousers!”

“Says who?”

“Says everybody! It’s common knowledge!”

“Ten… eleven…”

“Yeah… and those are for skiing! They’re a completely different thing! They’re sportswear.” Suze turns to look at me.

“Bex, you’ve never been skiing.”

“I know,” I say after a short silence. “But… you know. Just in case I ever get asked. And they were on sale.”

“And what’s this?” She picks up my fencing mask gingerly. “This could go straight in the bin.”

“I’m taking up fencing!” I say indignantly. “I’m going to be Catherine Zeta-Jones’s stunt double!”

“I don’t even understand how you can fit all this stuff in here. Don’t you ever chuck things out?” She picks up a pair of shoes decorated with shells. “I mean, these. Do you ever wear these anymore?”

“Well… no.” I see her expression. “But that’s not the point. If I did chuck them out, then shells would come back in the next day — and I’d have to buy a new pair. So this is like… insurance.”

“Shells are never going to come back in.”

“They might! It’s like the weather. You just can’t tell.”

Suze shakes her head, and picks her way over the piles of stuff on the floor toward the door. “I’m giving you two hours and when I come back I want to see a transformed room. Transformed room — transformed life. Now start!”

She disappears out of the room and I sit on my bed, staring disconsolately around at my room.

Well, OK, maybe she does have a point. Maybe I should have a little tidy-up. But I don’t even know where to start. I mean, if I start throwing things out just because I never wear them — where will I stop? I’ll end up with nothing.

And it’s all so hard. It’s all so much effort.

I pick up a jumper, look at it for a few seconds, then put it down again. Just the thought of trying to decide whether to keep it or not exhausts me.

“How are you doing?” comes Suze’s voice from outside the door.

“Fine!” I call back brightly. “Really good!”

Come on, I’ve got to do something. OK, maybe I should start in one corner, and work my way round. I pick my way to the corner of my room, where a heap of stuff is teetering on my dressing table, and try to work out what everything is. There’s all that office equipment I ordered off the Internet… There’s that wooden bowl I bought ages ago because it was in Elle Decoration (and then saw exactly the same one in Woolworth’s)… a tie-dye kit… some sea salt for doing body rubs… What is all this stuff, anyway? What’s this box which I haven’t even opened?

I open up the package and stare at a fifty-meter roll of turkey foil. Turkey foil? Why would I buy that? Was I once planning to cook a turkey? Puzzledly I reach for the letter on top, and see the words, “Welcome to the world of Country Ways. We’re so pleased your good friend, Mrs. Jane Bloomwood, recommended our catalogue to you…”

Oh God, of course. It’s just that stuff Mum ordered to get her free gift. A casserole dish, some turkey foil… some of those plastic bags she was stuffing patio cushions into… some weird gadget for putting in the…

Hang on.

Just hang on a minute. I drop the gadget and slowly reach for the plastic bags again. A woman with a dodgy blond haircut is staring proudly at me over a shrink-wrapped duvet, and a bubble from her mouth reads, “With up to 75 percent reduction, I have so much more room in my closet now!”

Cautiously I open my door, and tiptoe along to the broom cupboard. As I pass the sitting room I look in — and to my astonishment Suze is sitting on the sofa with Tarquin, talking earnestly.

“Tarquin!” I say, and both their heads jerk up guiltily. “I didn’t hear you arrive.”

“Hello, Becky,” he says, not meeting my eye.

“We just had to… talk about something,” says Suze, giving me an embarrassed look. “Have you finished?”

“Erm… nearly,” I say. “I just thought I’d hoover my room. To make it look really good!”

I shut my door behind me, and pull the bags out of their packaging. Right. This should be nice and easy. Just stuff them full, and suck out the air. Ten sweaters per bag, it says — but frankly, who’s going to count?

I start to stuff clothes into the first bag, until it’s as tightly packed as I can get it. Panting with effort, I close the plastic zip — then attach the hoover nozzle to the hole. And I don’t believe this. It works. It works! Before my eyes, my clothes are shrinking away into nothing!

Oh, this is fantastic. This is going to revolutionize my life! Why on earth declutter when you can just shrink-wrap?

There are eight bags in all — and when they’re all full, I cram them all into my wardrobe and close the door. It’s a bit of a tight squash — and I can hear a bit of a hissing sound as I force the door shut — but the point is, they’re in. They’re contained.

And just look at my room now! It’s incredible! OK, it’s not exactly immaculate — but it’s so much better than it was before. I quickly shove a few stray items under my duvet, arrange some cushions on top, and stand back. As I look around, I feel all warm and proud of myself. I’ve never seen my room look so good before. And Suze is right — I do feel different, somehow.

You know, maybe feng shui’s got something to it after all. Maybe this is the turning point. My life will be transformed from now on.

I take one final admiring look at it, then call out of the door, “I’m done!”

As Suze comes to the door I perch smugly on the bed and beam at her astounded expression.

“Bex, this is fantastic!” she says, peering disbelievingly around the cleared space. “And you’re so quick! It took me ages to sort all my stuff out!”

“Well, you know.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Once I decide to do something, I do it.”

She takes a few steps in, and looks in astonishment at my dressing table.

“I never knew that dressing table had a marble top!”

“I know!” I say proudly. “It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”

“But where’s all the rubbish? Where are the bin bags?”

“They’re… I’ve already got rid of them.”

“So did you chuck loads out?” she says, wandering over to the almost-empty mantelpiece. “You must have done!”

“A… a fair amount,” I say evasively. “You know. I was quite ruthless in the end.”

“I’m so impressed!” She pauses in front of the wardrobe, and I stare at her, suddenly nervous.

Don’t open it, I pray silently. Just don’t open it.

“Have you got anything left?” she says, with a grin, and pulls open the door of the wardrobe. And we both scream.

It’s like a nail-bomb explosion.

Except, instead of nails, it’s clothes.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did wrong. But one of the bags bursts open, showering jumpers everywhere, and pushing all the other bags out. Then another one bursts open, and another one. It’s a clothes storm. Suze is completely covered in stretchy tops. A sequinned skirt lands on the light shade. A bra shoots across the room and hits the window. Suze is half-shrieking and half-laughing, and I’m flapping my arms madly and yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

And oh no.

Oh no. Please stop. Please.

But it’s too late. Now a cascade of gift-shop carrier bags is tumbling down from their hiding place on the top shelf. One after another, out into the daylight. They’re hitting Suze on the head, landing on the floor, and spilling open — and revealing the same contents in each. Gray sparkly boxes with a silver S C-S scrawled on the front.

About forty of them.

“What…” Suze pulls a T-shirt off her head and stares at them, open-mouthed. “Where on earth did you…” She scrabbles among the clothes littering the floor, picks up one of the boxes, and pulls it open and stares in silence. There, wrapped in turquoise tissue paper, is a photo frame made out of tan leather.

Oh God. Oh God.

Without saying anything, Suze bends down and picks up a Gifts and Goodies carrier bag. As she pulls it open, a receipt flutters to the floor. Silently she takes out the two boxes inside — and opens each to reveal a frame made of purple tweed.

I open my mouth to speak — but nothing comes out. For a moment we just stare at each other.

“Bex… how many of these have you got?” says Suze at last, in a slightly strangled voice.

“Um… not many!” I say, feeling my face grow hot. “Just… you know. A few.”

“There must be about… fifty here!”

“No!”

“Yes!” She looks around, cheeks growing pink with distress. “Bex, these are really expensive.”

“I haven’t bought that many!” I give a distracting laugh. “And I didn’t buy them all at once…”

“You shouldn’t have bought any! I told you, I’d make you one!”

“I know,” I say a little awkwardly. “I know you did. But I wanted to buy one. I just wanted to… to support you.”

There’s silence as Suze reaches for another Gifts and Goodies bag, and looks at the two boxes inside.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she says suddenly. “You’re the reason I’ve sold so well.”

“It’s not! Honestly, Suze—”

“You’ve spent all your money on buying my frames.” Her voice starts to wobble. “All your money. And now you’re in debt.”

“I haven’t!”

“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have my deal!”

“You would!” I say in dismay. “Of course you would! Suze, you make the best frames in the world! I mean… look at this one!” I grab for the nearest box and pull out a frame made out of distressed denim. “I would have bought this even if I hadn’t known you. I would have bought all of them!”

“You wouldn’t have bought this many,” she gulps. “You would have bought maybe… three.”

“I would have bought them all! They’re the best frames in the world! They’d make a perfect present, or a… an ornament for the house…”

“You’re just saying that,” she says tearfully.

“No, I’m not!” I say, feeling tears coming to my own eyes. “Suze, everybody loves your frames. I’ve seen people in shops saying how brilliant they are!”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have! There was this woman admiring one in Gifts and Goodies, just the other day, and everyone in the shop was agreeing!”

“Really?” says Suze in a small voice.

“Yes. You’re so talented, and successful…” I look around my bomb-site room, and feel a sudden wave of despair. “And I’m such a mess. John Gavin’s right, I should have assets by now. I should be all sorted out. I’m just… worthless.” Tears start to trickle down my face.

“You’re not!” says Suze in horror. “You’re not worthless!”

“I am!” Miserably, I sink to the carpet of clothes on the floor. “Suze, just look at me. I’m unemployed, I haven’t got any prospects, I’m being taken to court, I owe thousands and thousands of pounds, and I don’t know how I’m even going to start paying it all off…”

There’s an awkward cough at the door. I look up, and Tarquin is standing at the door, holding three mugs of coffee.

“Refreshments?” he says, picking his way across the floor.

“Thanks, Tarquin,” I say, sniffing, and take a mug from him. “Sorry about all this. It’s just… not a great time.”

He sits down on the bed and exchanges looks with Suze.

“Bit short of cash?” he says.

“Yes,” I gulp, and wipe my eyes. “Yes, I am.” Tarquin gives Suze another glance.

“Becky, I’d be only too happy to—”

“No. No, thanks.” I smile at him. “Really.”

There’s silence as we all sip our coffee. A shaft of winter sunlight is coming through the window, and I close my eyes, feeling the soothing warmth on my face.

“Happens to the best of us,” says Tarquin sympathetically. “Mad Uncle Monty was always going bust, wasn’t he, Suze?”

“God, that’s right! All the time!” says Suze. “But he always bounced back, didn’t he?”

“Absolutely!” says Tarquin. “Over and over again.”

“What did he do?” I say, looking up with a spark of interest.

“Usually sold off a Rembrandt,” says Tarquin. “Or a Stubbs. Something like that.”

Great. What is it about these millionaires? I mean, even Suze, who I love. They just don’t get it. They don’t know what it’s like to have no money.

“Right,” I say, trying to smile. “Well… unfortunately, I don’t have any spare Rembrandts lying around. All I’ve got is… a zillion pairs of black trousers. And some Tshirts.”

“And a fencing outfit,” puts in Suze.

Next door, the phone starts ringing, but none of us move.

“And a wooden bowl which I hate.” I give a half-giggle, half-sob. “And forty photograph frames.”

“And fifty million pots of lavender honey.”

“And a Vera Wang cocktail dress.” I look around my room, suddenly alert. “And a brand-new Kate Spade bag… and… and a whole wardrobe full of stuff which I’ve never even worn… Suze…” I’m almost too agitated to speak. “Suze…”

“What?”

“Just… just think about it. I haven’t got nothing. I have got assets! I mean, they might have depreciated a little bit…”

“What do you mean?” says Suze puzzledly — then her face lights up. “Ooh, have you got an ISA that you forgot about?”

“No! Not an ISA!”

“I don’t understand!” wails Suze. “Bex, what are you talking about?”

And I’m just opening my mouth to answer, when the answer machine clicks on next door, and a gravelly American voice starts speaking, which makes me stiffen and turn my head.

“Hello, Becky? It’s Michael Ellis here. I’ve just arrived in London for a conference, and I was wondering — could we perhaps meet up for a chat?”

It’s so weird to see Michael here in London. In my mind he belongs firmly in New York, in the Four Seasons. Back in that other world. But here he is, large as life, in the River Room at the Savoy, his face creased in a beam. As I sit down at the table he lifts a hand to a waiter.

“A gin and tonic for the lady, please.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Am I right?”

“Yes, please.” I smile at him gratefully, and shake out my napkin to cover my awkwardness. Even though we talked so much in New York, I’m feeling a bit shy at seeing him again.

“So,” he says, as the waiter brings me my drink. “Quite a lot has been going on since we last spoke.” He lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I take a sip. “Like what?”

“Like Alicia Billington and four others have been fired from Brandon Communications.”

“Four others?” I gape at him. “Were they all planning together?”

“Apparently so. It turns out Alicia has been working on this little project for some time. This wasn’t just some tiny little pie-in-the-sky scheme. This was well organized and thought out. Well backed, too. You know Alicia’s future husband is very wealthy?”

“I didn’t,” I say, and remember her Chanel shoes. “But it makes sense.”

“He put together the finance. As you suspected, they were planning to poach Bank of London.”

I take a sip of gin and tonic, relishing the sharp flavor.

“So what happened?”

“Luke swooped in, took them all by surprise, herded them into a meeting room, and searched their desks. And he found plenty.”

“Luke did?” I feel a deep thud in my stomach. “You mean — Luke’s in London?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How long has he been back?”

“Three days now.” Michael gives me a quick glance. “I guess he hasn’t called you, then.”

“No,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “No, he hasn’t.” I reach for my glass and take a deep swig. Somehow while he was still in New York, I could tell myself that Luke and I weren’t speaking because of geography as much as anything else. But now he’s in London — and he hasn’t even called — it feels different. It feels kind of… final.

“So… what’s he doing now?”

“Damage limitation,” says Michael wryly. “Upping morale. It turns out as soon as he left for New York, Alicia got busy spreading rumors he was going to close the U.K. branch down completely. That’s why the atmosphere plummeted. Clients have been neglected, the staff has all been on the phone to headhunters… Meanwhile Alicia was spinning a completely different story to Luke.” He shakes his head. “That girl is trouble.”

“I know.”

“Now, that’s something I’ve been wondering. How do you know?” He leans forward interestedly. “You picked up on Alicia in a way neither Luke nor I did. Was that based on anything?”

“Not really,” I say honestly. “Just the fact that she’s a complete cow.”

Michael throws his head back and roars with laughter.

“Feminine intuition. Why should there be any other reason?”

He chuckles for a few moments more — then puts his glass down and gives me a twinkling smile. “Speaking of which — I heard the gist of what you said to Luke about his mom.”

“Really?” I look at him in horror. “He told you?”

“He spoke to me about it, asked if you’d said anything to me.”

“Oh!” I feel a flush creeping across my face. “Well, I was… angry. I didn’t mean to say she was a…” I clear my throat. “I just spoke without thinking.”

“He took it to heart, though.” Michael raises his eyebrows. “He called his mom up, said he was damned if he was going to go home without seeing her, and arranged a meeting.”

“Really?” I stare at him, feeling prickles of intrigue. “And what happened?”

“She never showed up. Sent some message about having to go out of town. Luke was pretty disappointed.” Michael shakes his head. “Between you and me — I think you were right about her.”

“Oh. Well.”

I give an awkward shrug and reach for the menu to hide my embarrassment. I can’t believe Luke told Michael what I said about his mother. What else did he tell him? My bra size?

For a while I stare at the list of dishes without taking any of them in — then look up, to see Michael gazing seriously at me.

“Becky, I haven’t told Luke it was you who tipped me off. The story I’ve given him is I got an anonymous message and decided to look into it.”

“That sounds fair enough,” I say, gazing at the tablecloth.

“You’re basically responsible for saving his company,” says Michael gently. “He should be very grateful to you. Don’t you think he should know?”

“No.” I hunch my shoulders. “He’d just think… he’d think I was…” I break off, feeling my eyes grow hot.

I can’t believe Luke’s been back for three days and hasn’t called. I mean — I knew it was over. Of course I did. But secretly, a tiny part of me thought…

Anyway. Obviously not.

“What would he think?” probes Michael.

“I dunno,” I mutter gruffly. “The point is, it’s all over between us. So I’d rather just… not be involved.”

“Well, I guess I can understand that.” Michael gives me a kind look. “Shall we order?”

While we eat, we talk about other things. Michael tells me about his advertising agency in Washington, and makes me laugh with stories of all the politicians he knows and all the trouble they get themselves into. I tell him in turn about my family, and Suze, and the way I got my job on Morning Coffee.

“It’s all going really well, actually,” I say boldly as I dig into a chocolate mousse. “I’ve got great prospects, and the producers really like me… they’re thinking of expanding my slot…”

“Becky,” interrupts Michael gently. “I heard. I know about your job.”

I stare at him dumbly, feeling my whole face prickle in shame.

“I felt really bad for you,” continues Michael. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Does… does Luke know?” I say huskily.

“Yes. I believe he does.”

I take a deep swig of my drink. I can’t bear the idea of Luke pitying me.

“Well, I’ve got lots of options open,” I say desperately. “I mean, maybe not on television… but I’m applying for a number of financial journalism posts…”

“On the FT?”

“On… well… on Personal Investment Periodical… and Annuities Today…”

“Annuities Today,” echoes Michael disbelievingly. At his expression I can’t help giving a snort of shaky laughter. “Becky, do any of these jobs really excite you?”

I’m about to trot out my stock answer—“Personal finance is more interesting than you’d think, actually!” But suddenly I realize I can’t be bothered to pretend anymore. Personal finance isn’t more interesting than you’d think. It’s just as boring as you’d think. Even on Morning Coffee, it was only really when callers started talking about their relationships and family lives that I used to enjoy it.

“What do you think?” I say instead, and take another swig of gin and tonic.

Michael sits back in his chair and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “So why are you going for them?”

“I don’t know what else to do.” I give a hopeless shrug. “Personal finance is the only thing I’ve ever done. I’m kind of… pigeonholed.”

“How old are you, Becky? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Pigeonholed at twenty-six.” Michael shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He takes a sip of coffee and gives me an appraising look.

“If some opportunity came up for you in America,” he says, “would you take it?”

“I’d take anything,” I say frankly. “But what’s going to come up for me in America now?”

There’s silence. Thoughtfully, Michael reaches for a chocolate mint, unwraps it, and puts it in his mouth.

“Becky, I have a proposition for you,” he says, looking up. “We have an opening at the advertising agency for a head of corporate communications.”

I stare at him, glass halfway to my lips. Not daring to hope he’s saying what I think he is.

“We want someone with editorial skills, who can coordinate a monthly newsletter. You’d be ideal on those counts. But we also want someone who’s good with people. Someone who can pick up on the buzz, make sure people are happy, report to the board on any problems…” He shrugs. “Frankly, I can’t think of anyone better suited to it.”

“You’re… you’re offering me a job,” I say disbelievingly, trying to ignore the little leaps of hope inside my chest, the little stabs of excitement. “But… but what about The Daily World? The… shopping?”

“So what?” Michael shrugs. “So you like to shop. I like to eat. Nobody’s perfect. As long as you’re not on some international ‘most wanted’ blacklist…”

“No. No,” I say hurriedly. “In fact, I’m about to sort all that out.”

“And immigration?”

“I’ve got a lawyer.” I bite my lip. “I’m not sure he exactly likes me very much…”

“I have contacts in immigration,” says Michael reassuringly. “I’m sure we can sort something out.” He leans back and takes a sip of coffee. “Washington isn’t New York. But it’s a fun place to be, too. Politics is a fascinating arena. I have a feeling you’d take to it. And the salary… Well. It won’t be what CNN might have offered you. But as a ballpark…” He scribbles a figure on a piece of paper and pushes it across the table.

And I don’t believe it. It’s about twice what I’d get for any of those crappy journalism jobs.

Washington. An advertising agency. A whole new career.

America. Without Luke. On my own terms.

I can’t quite get my head round all of this.

“Why are you offering this to me?” I manage at last.

“I’ve been very impressed by you, Becky,” says Michael seriously. “You’re smart. You’re intuitive. I took your advice about my friend, by the way,” he adds with a twinkle. “He paid up the next day.”

“Really?” I say in delight.

“You have a good head on your shoulders — and you’re someone who gets things done.” I stare at him, feeling an embarrassed color come to my cheeks. “And maybe I figured you deserve a break,” he adds kindly. “Now, you don’t have to decide at once. I’m over here for a few more days, so if you want to, we can talk again about it. But, Becky—”

“Yes?”

“I’m serious now. Whether you decide to take up my offer or not, don’t fall into anything else.” He shakes his head. “You’re too young to settle. Look into your heart — and go after what you really want.”