Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Seven

NEW YORK! I’m going to New York! New York!

Everything is transformed. This is why Luke has been so secretive. We had a lovely long chat at the wedding, and Luke explained everything to me, and suddenly it all made sense. It turns out he’s opening up a new office of Brandon Communications in New York, in partnership with some advertising supremo called Michael Ellis who is based in Washington. And Luke’s going to go over there and head it up. He said he’s been wanting to ask me all along to come with him — but he knew I wouldn’t want to give up my career just to trail along with him. So — this is the best bit — he’s been speaking to some contacts in television, and he reckons I’ll be able to get a job as a financial expert on an American TV show! In fact, he says I’ll get “snapped up” because Americans love British accents. Apparently one producer has already practically offered me a job just from seeing a tape Luke sent him. Isn’t that great?

The reason he didn’t say anything before was he didn’t want to raise my hopes before things started looking definite. But now, apparently, all the investors are on board, and everyone’s really positive, and they’re hoping to finalize the deal as soon as possible. Michael Ellis’s agency advertises for most of the big financial players — and he’s already been talking to them all about the new company. So there are loads of potential clients out there for Luke, and that’s before he’s even started.

And guess what? We’re going over there in three days’ time! Hooray! Luke’s going to have meetings with some of his backers — and I’m going to have some interviews with TV people and explore the city. God, it’s exciting. In just seventy-two hours, I’ll be there. In the Big Apple. The city that never sleeps. The—

“Becky?”

Oh shit. I snap to attention and hastily smile brightly. I’m sitting on the set of Morning Coffee, doing my usual phone-in, and Jane from Lincoln has been explaining over the line that she wants to buy a property but doesn’t know which kind of mortgage to take out.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. How many times have I explained the difference between repayment plans and endowment policies? You know, sometimes this job can be so interesting, hearing about people and their problems and trying to help them. But other times — to be honest — it’s just as boring as Successful Saving ever was. I mean, mortgages again? I feel like yelling, “Didn’t you watch last week’s show?”

“Well, Jane!” I say, stifling a yawn. “You’re right to be concerned about redemption penalties.”

As I speak, my mind begins to drift again toward New York. Just think. We’ll have an apartment in Manhattan. In some amazing Upper East Side condo — or maybe somewhere really cool in Greenwich Village. Yes! It’s just going to be perfect.

To be honest, I hadn’t thought of Luke and me living together for… well, for ages. I reckon if we’d stayed in London, perhaps we wouldn’t have. I mean, it’s quite a big step, isn’t it? But as Luke said, this is the chance of a lifetime for both of us. It’s a whole new beginning. It’s yellow taxicabs and skyscrapers, and Woody Allen and Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

The weird thing is that although I’ve never actually been to New York, I already feel an affinity toward it. Like for example, I adore sushi — and that was invented in New York, wasn’t it? And I always watch Friends, unless I’m going out that night. And Cheers. (Except now I come to think of it, that’s Boston. Still, it’s the same thing, really.)

“So really, Jane, whatever you’re buying,” I say dreamily, “be it a… a Fifth Avenue duplex… or an East Village walk-up… you must maximize the potential of your dollar. Which means…”

I stop as I see both Emma and Rory staring at me strangely.

“Becky, Jane is planning to buy a semidetached house in Skegness,” says Emma.

“And surely it’s pounds?” says Rory, looking around, as though for support. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes, well,” I say hurriedly. “Obviously, I was just using those as examples. The principles apply wherever you’re buying. London, New York, Skegness…”

“And on that international note, I’m afraid we’ll have to finish,” says Emma. “Hope that helped you, Jane, and thanks once again to Becky Bloomwood, our financial expert… do you have time for a last word, Becky?”

“The same message as ever,” I say, smiling warmly into the camera. “Look after your money…”

“And your money will look after you,” everyone choruses dutifully.

“And that brings us to the end of the show,” says Emma. “Join us tomorrow, when we’ll be making over a trio of teachers from Teddington…”

“… talking to the man who became a circus performer at sixty-five…” says Rory.

“… and giving away £5,000 in ‘Go On — Have a Guess!’ Good-bye!”

There’s a frozen pause — then everyone relaxes as the signature music starts blaring out of the loudspeakers.

“So — Becky — are you going to New York or something?” says Rory.

“Yes,” I say, beaming back at him. “For two weeks!”

“How nice!” says Emma. “What brought this on?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” I shrug vaguely. “Just a sudden whim.”

I’m not telling anyone at Morning Coffee yet about moving to New York. It was Luke’s advice, actually. Just in case.

“Becky, I wanted a quick word,” says Zelda, one of the assistant producers, bustling onto the set with some papers in her hand. “Your new contract is ready to be signed, but I’ll need to go through it with you. There’s a new clause about representing the image of the station.” She lowers her voice. “After all that business with Professor Jamie.”

“Oh right,” I say, and pull a sympathetic face. Professor Jamie is the education expert on Morning Coffee. Or at least he was, until The Daily World ran an exposé on him last month in their series “Are They What They Seem?” revealing that he isn’t a real professor at all. In fact, he hasn’t even got a degree, except the fake one he bought from the “University of Oxbridge.” All the tabloids picked up the story, and kept showing photographs of him in the dunce’s hat he wore for last year’s telethon. I felt really sorry for him, actually, because he used to give good advice.

And I was a bit surprised at The Daily World being so vicious. I’ve actually written for The Daily World myself, once or twice, and I’d always thought they were quite reasonable, for a tabloid.

“It won’t take five minutes,” says Zelda. “We could go into my office—”

“Well…” I say, and hesitate. Because I don’t really want to sign anything at the moment. Not if I’m planning to switch jobs. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually.” Which is true, because I’ve got to get to Luke’s office by twelve, and then start getting my stuff ready for New York. (Ha! Ha-ha!) “Can it wait till I come back?”

“OK,” says Zelda. “No problem.” She puts the contract back in its brown envelope and grins at me. “Have a great time. Hey, you know, you must do some shopping while you’re there.”

“Shopping?” I say, as though it hadn’t occurred to me. “Yes, I suppose I could.”

“Ooh yes!” says Emma. “You can’t go to New York without shopping! Although I suppose Becky would tell us we should put our money into a savings plan instead.”

She laughs merrily and Zelda joins in. And I smile back, feeling a bit uncomfortable. Somehow, all the people at Morning Coffee have got the idea I’m incredibly organized with my money — and, without quite meaning to, I’ve gone along with it. Still, I don’t suppose it really matters.

“A savings plan is a good idea, of course…” I hear myself saying. “But as I always say, there’s no harm going shopping once in a while as long as you stick to a budget.”

“Is that what you’re going to do, then?” asks Emma interestedly. “Give yourself a budget?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I say wisely. “It’s the only way.”

Which is completely true. I mean, obviously I’m planning to give myself a New York shopping budget. I’ll set realistic limits and I’ll stick to them. It’s really very simple.

Although what I’ll do is make the limits fairly broad and flexible. Because it’s always a good idea to allow some extra leeway for emergencies or one-offs.

“You’re so virtuous!” says Emma, shaking her head. “Still — that’s why you’re the financial expert and I’m not…” Emma looks up as the sandwich man approaches us with a tray of sandwiches. “Ooh lovely, I’m starving! I’ll have… bacon and avocado.”

“And I’ll have tuna and sweet corn,” says Zelda. “What do you want, Becky?”

“Pastrami on rye,” I say casually. “Hold the mayo.”

“I don’t think they do that,” says Zelda, wrinkling her brow. “They’ve got ham salad…”

“Then a bagel. Cream cheese and lox. And a soda.”

“Soda water, do you mean?” says Zelda.

“What’s lox?” says Emma puzzledly — and I pretend I haven’t heard. I’m not actually sure what lox is — but everyone eats it in New York, so it’s got to be delicious.

“Whatever it is,” says the sandwich man, “I ’aven’t got it. You can ’ave cheese and tomato and a nice packet of Hula Hoops.”

“OK,” I say reluctantly, and reach for my purse. As I do so, a pile of post that I picked up this morning falls out of my bag, onto the floor. Shit. Hastily, I gather all the letters up, and shove them into my Conran Shop carrier bag, hoping no one spotted them. But bloody Rory was looking straight at me.

“Hey, Becky,” he says, giving a guffawing laugh. “Was that a red bill I saw there?”

“No!” I say at once. “Of course not! It’s a… a birthday card. A joke birthday card. For my accountant. Anyway, I must run. Ciao!”

OK, so that wasn’t quite true. It was a red bill. To be honest, there have been quite a few red bills arriving for me over the last few days, which I’m completely intending to get round to paying off when I’ve got the cash. But I mean, I’ve got more important things happening in my life than a few crappy final demands. In a few months’ time, I’m going to be living on the other side of the Atlantic. I’m going to be an American television star!

Luke says I’ll probably earn twice in the States what I do here. If not more! So a few crummy bills won’t exactly matter then, will they? A few outstanding pounds won’t exactly ruin my sleep when I’m a household name and living in a Park Avenue penthouse.

God, and that’ll completely suss that horrible John Gavin. Just imagine his face when I march in and tell him I’m going to be the new anchorwoman on CNN, on a salary six times what he earns. That’ll teach him to be so nasty. I finally got round to opening his latest letter this morning, and it actually quite upset me. What does he mean, “excessive level of debt”? What does he mean, “special status”? You know, Derek Smeath would never have been so rude to me, not in a million years.

Luke’s in a meeting when I arrive, but that’s OK, because I don’t mind hanging around. I love visiting the Brandon Communications offices — in fact, I pop in there quite a lot, just for the atmosphere. It’s such a cool place — all blond-wood floors and spotlights and trendy sofas, and people rushing around being really busy and dynamic. Everyone stays really late every night, even though they don’t have to — and at about seven o’clock someone always opens a bottle of wine and passes it around.

I’ve got a present to give his assistant Mel for her birthday, which was yesterday. I’m quite pleased with it actually — it’s a gorgeous pair of cushions from the Conran Shop — and as I hand over the carrier bag, I actually hear her gasp, “Oh, Becky! You shouldn’t have!”

“I wanted to!” I beam, and perch companionably on her desk as she admires them. “So — what’s the latest?’’

Ooh, you can’t beat a good gossip. Mel puts down the carrier bag and gets out a box of toffees, and we have a lovely old natter. I hear all about her terrible date with an awful guy her mother’s been trying to set her up with, and she hears all about Tom’s wedding. And then she lowers her voice and starts filling me in on all the office gossip.

She tells me all about the two receptionists who haven’t been speaking ever since they came to work in the same Next jacket and both refused to take it off — and the girl in accounts who has just come back from maternity leave and is throwing up every morning but won’t admit anything.

“And here’s a really juicy one!” she says, handing me the box of toffees. “I reckon Alicia’s having an affair in the office.”

“No!” I stare at her in amazement. “Really? With who?”

“With Ben Bridges.”

I screw up my face, trying to place the name.

“That new guy who used to be at Coupland Foster Bright.”

“Him?” I stare at Mel. “Really?”

I have to say I’m surprised. He’s very sweet, but quite short and pushy. Not what I would have said was Alicia’s type.

“I keep seeing them together, kind of whispering. And the other day Alicia said she was going to the dentist — but I went into Ratchetts and there they were, having a secret lunch—”

She breaks off as Luke appears at the door of his office, ushering out a man in a purple shirt.

“Mel, order a taxi for Mr. Mallory, would you please?”

“Of course, Luke,” says Mel, switching into her efficient secretary voice. She picks up the phone and we grin at each other — then I walk into Luke’s office.

His office is so smart. I always forget how grand he is. He’s got a sweeping maple desk that was designed by some award-winning Danish designer, and on the shelves in the alcove behind it are all his shiny PR awards.

“Here you are,” he says, handing me a sheaf of papers. The top one is a letter from someone called “Howski and Forlano, U.S. Immigration Lawyers,” and as I see the words “your proposed relocation to the United States,” I feel a tingle of excitement which reaches right to my fingertips.

“This is really happening, isn’t it?” I say, walking over to his floor-length window and gazing down at the busy street below. “We’re really going to New York.”

“The flights are booked,” he says, grinning at me.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do know just what you mean,” he echoes, and wraps me in his arms. “And it’s very exciting.”

For a while we just stand there, the two of us, looking down at the busy London street below. I can hardly believe I’m planning to leave all this to live in a foreign country. It’s exciting and wonderful — but just a little scary, at the same time.

“Do you really think I’ll get a job out there?” I say, as I have every time I’ve seen him in the past week. “Do you honestly think I will?”

“Of course you will.” He sounds so assured and confident, I feel myself relax into his arms. “They’ll love you. You’re talented, and you’re charming, and you come with a record of success… no question at all.” He kisses me and holds me tight for a moment. Then he moves away to his desk, frowns absently, and opens a huge file labeled “New York.” No wonder it’s so huge. He told me the other day that he’s been working toward a New York deal for three years. Three years!

“I can’t believe you’ve been planning this for so long and never told me,” I say, watching him scribble something on a Post-it.

“Mmm,” says Luke. I clench the papers in my hands slightly harder and take a deep breath. There’s something I’ve been wanting to say for a while — and now is as good a moment as any.

“Luke, what would you have done if I hadn’t wanted to go to New York?”

There’s silence apart from the hum of the computer.

“I knew you’d want to go,” says Luke at last. “It’s the next obvious step for you.”

“But… what if I hadn’t?” I bite my lip. “Would you still have gone?” Luke sighs.

“Becky — you do want to go to New York, don’t you?”

“Yes! You know I do!”

“So — what’s the point in asking what-if questions? The point is, you want to go, I want to go… it’s all perfect.” He smiles at me and puts down his pen. “How are your parents doing?”

“They’re… OK,” I say hesitantly. “They’re kind of getting used to the idea.”

Which is sort of true. They were fairly shocked when I told them, I have to admit. In hindsight, perhaps I should have introduced Luke to them before making the announcement. Because how it happened was, I hurried into the house — where they were still sitting in their wedding gear, drinking tea in front of Countdown — and I switched off the telly and said joyfully, “Mum, Dad, I’m moving to New York with Luke!”

Whereupon Mum just looked at Dad and said, “Oh, Graham. She’s gone.”

She said afterward she didn’t mean it like that — but I’m not so sure.

Then they actually met Luke, and he told them about his plans, and explained about all the opportunities in American TV for me — and I could see Mum’s smile fading. Her face seemed to get smaller and smaller, and sort of closed in on itself. She went off to make some tea in the kitchen, and I followed her — and I could see she was upset. But she refused to show it. She just made the tea, with slightly shaking hands, and put out some biscuits — and then she turned to me and smiled brightly, and said, “I’ve always thought you would suit New York, Becky. It’s the perfect place for you.”

I stared at her, suddenly realizing what I was talking about. Going and living thousands of miles away from home, and my parents, and… my whole life, apart from Luke.

“You’ll… you’ll come and visit lots,” I said, my voice trembling slightly.

“Of course we will, darling! All the time!”

She squeezed my hand and looked away — and then we went out into the sitting room, and didn’t say much more about it.

But the next morning, when we came down for breakfast, she and Dad were poring over an ad in the Sunday Times for holiday properties in Florida, which they claimed they had been thinking about anyway. As we left that afternoon, they were arguing vigorously over whether the Disneyland in Florida was better than the one in California — even though I happen to know neither of them has ever set foot near Disneyland in their lives.

“Becky, I have to get on,” says Luke, interrupting my thoughts. “Scottish Prime’s new fund launch is tomorrow, and I’ve got a lot to do.” He picks up the phone and dials a number. “I’ll see you this evening, OK?”

“OK,” I say, still loitering by the window. Then, suddenly remembering, I turn round. “Hey, have you heard about Alicia?”

“What about her?” Luke frowns at the receiver and puts it down.

“Mel reckons she’s having an affair! With Ben Bridges! Can you believe it?”

“No, frankly,” says Luke, tapping at his keyboard. “I can’t.”

“So what do you think’s going on?” I perch on his desk and look excitedly at him.

“My sweet—” says Luke patiently. “I really do have to get on.”

“Aren’t you interested?”

“No. As long as they’re doing their jobs.”

“People are more than just their jobs,” I say reprovingly. But Luke isn’t even listening. He’s got that faraway, cutoff look which comes over him when he’s concentrating on business.

“Oh well,” I say, and roll my eyes. “See you later.”

As I come out, Mel is not at her desk — but Alicia is standing there in a smart black suit, staring at some papers. Her face seems more flushed than usual, and I wonder with an inward giggle if she’s just been canoodling with Ben.

“Hi, Alicia,” I say politely. “How are you?”

Alicia jumps, and she quickly gathers up whatever it is she’s reading — then looks at me with a strange expression, as though horns have sprouted from my head.

“Becky,” she says slowly. “Well, I never. The financial expert herself. The money guru!”

What is it about Alicia? Why does everything she say sound like she’s playing some stupid game?

“Yes,” I say. “It’s me. Where’s Mel gone?”

As I approach Mel’s desk, I feel sure I left something on it. But I can’t quite think what. Did I have an umbrella?

“She’s gone to lunch,” says Alicia. “She showed me the present you bought her. Very stylish.”

“Thanks,” I say shortly.

“So.” She gives a faint smile. “I gather you’re tagging along with Luke to New York. Must be nice to have a rich boyfriend.”

God, she’s a cow! She’d never say that in front of Luke.

“I’m not ‘tagging along,’ actually,” I retort pleasantly. “I’ve got lots of meetings with television executives. It’s a completely independent trip.”

“But…” Alicia frowns thoughtfully. “Your flight’s on the company, is it?”

“No! I paid for it myself!”

“Just wondering!” Alicia lifts her hands apologetically. “Well, have a great time, won’t you?” She gathers up some folders and pops them into her briefcase, then snaps it shut. “I must run. Ciao.”

“See you later,” I say, and watch as she walks briskly off to the lifts.

I stand there by Mel’s desk for a few seconds longer, still wondering what on earth it was that I put down. Oh, I don’t suppose it can be important.

I get home to find Suze in the hall, talking on the phone. Her face is all red and shiny and her voice is trembling, and at once I’m seized by the terror that something awful has happened. Fearfully, I raise my eyebrows at her — and she nods frantically back, in between saying “Yes,” and “I see,” and “When would that be?”

I sink onto a chair, feeling weak with worry. What’s she talking about? A funeral? A brain operation? As soon as I decide to go away — this happens.

“Guess what’s happened?” she says shakily as she puts down the phone, and I leap up.

“Suze, I won’t go to New York,” I say, and impulsively take her hands. “I’ll stay here and help you get through whatever it is. Has someone… died?”

“No,” says Suze dazedly, and I swallow hard.

“Are you ill?”

“No, no, Bex, this is good news! I just… don’t quite believe it.”

“Well — what, then? Suze, what is it?”

“I’ve been offered my own line of home accessories in Hadleys. You know, the department store?” She shakes her head disbelievingly. “They want me to design a whole line! Frames, vases, stationery… whatever I want.”

“Oh my God!” I clap a hand over my mouth. “That’s fantastic!”

“This guy just rang up, out of the blue, and said his scouts have been monitoring sales of my frames. Apparently they’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Oh, Suze!”

“I had no idea things were going so well.” Suze still looks shell-shocked. “This guy said it was a phenomenon! Everyone in the industry is talking about it. Apparently the only shop that hasn’t done so well is that one which is miles away. Finchley or somewhere.”

“Oh, right,” I say vaguely. “I don’t think I’ve ever even been to that one.”

“But he said that had to be a blip — because all the other ones, in Fulham and Notting Hill and Chelsea, have all soared.” She gives an embarrassed smile. “Apparently in Gifts and Goodies, around the corner, I’m the number-one bestseller!”

“Well, I’m not surprised!” I exclaim. “Your frames are easily the best thing in that shop. Easily the best.” I throw my arms around her. “I’m so proud of you, Suze. I always knew you were going to be a star.”

“Well, I never would have done it if it weren’t for you! I mean, it was you who got me started making frames in the first place…” Suddenly Suze looks almost tearful. “Oh, Bex — I’m really going to miss you.”

“I know,” I say, biting my lip. “Me too.”

For a while, we’re both silent, and I honestly think I might start crying any second. But instead, I take a deep breath and look up. “Well, you’ll just have to launch a New York branch.”

“Yes!” says Suze, brightening. “Yes, I could do that, couldn’t I?”

“Of course you could. You’ll be all over the world soon.” I give her a hug. “Hey, let’s go out tonight and celebrate.”

“Oh, Bex, I’d love to,” says Suze, “but I can’t. I’m going up to Scotland. In fact—” She looks at her watch, and pulls a face. “Oh, I didn’t realize how late it was. Tarquin’ll be here any moment.”

“Tarquin’s coming here?” I say in shock. “Now?”

Tarquin is Suze’s cousin and is one of the richest people in Britain. (He’s also one of the worst-dressed.) He’s very sweet, and I never used to take much notice of him — until, a few months ago, we spent a truly toe-curling evening together. Even the memory of it makes me feel uncomfortable. Basically, the date was going fine (at least, fine given that I didn’t find him attractive or have anything in common with him) — until Tarquin caught me flicking through his checkbook. Or at least, I think he did. I’m still not quite sure what he saw — and to be honest, I’m not keen to find out.

“I’m driving him up to my aunt’s house for this dreary family party thing,” says Suze. “We’re going to be the only ones there under ninety.”

As she hurries off to her room, the doorbell rings and she calls over her shoulder, “Could you get that, Bex? It’s probably him.”

Oh God. Oh God. I really don’t feel prepared for this.

Trying to assume an air of confident detachment I swing open the front door and say brightly, “Tarquin!”

“Becky,” he says, staring at me as though I’m the lost treasure of Tutankhamen.

And he’s looking as bony and strange as ever, with an odd green hand-knitted jersey stuffed under a tweed waistcoat, and a huge old fob watch dangling from his pocket. I’m sorry, but surely the fifteenth richest man in England, or whatever he is, should be able to buy a nice new Timex?

“Well — come on in,” I say overheartily, throwing my hand out like an Italian restaurant owner.

“Great,” says Tarquin, and follows me into the sitting room. There’s an awkward pause while I wait for him to sit down; in fact, I start to feel quite impatient as he hovers uncertainly in the middle of the room. Then suddenly I realize he’s waiting for me to sit down, and hastily sink down onto the sofa.

“Would you like a titchy?” I ask politely.

“Bit early,” says Tarquin, with a nervous laugh.

(“Titchy” is Tarquin-speak for drink, by the way. And trousers are “tregs” and… you get the picture.)

We lapse into another dreadful silence. I just can’t stop remembering awful details from our date — like when he tried to kiss me and I pretended to be absorbed in a nearby picture. Oh God. Forget. Forget.

“I… I heard you were moving to New York,” Tarquin says suddenly, staring at the floor. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” I say, unable to stop myself smiling. “Yes, that’s the plan.”

“I went to New York once myself,” Tarquin says. “Didn’t really get on with it.”

“No,” I say consideringly. “No, I can believe that. It’s a bit different from Scotland, isn’t it? Much more… frantic.”

“Absolutely!” he exclaims, as if I’ve said something very insightful. “That was just it. Too frantic. And the people are absolutely extraordinary. Quite mad, in my opinion.”

Compared to what? I want to retort. At least they don’t call water “Ho” and sing Wagner in public.

But that wouldn’t be kind. So I say nothing, and he says nothing — and when the door opens, we both look up gratefully.

“Hi!” says Suze, appearing at the door. “Tarkie, you’re here! Listen, I’ve just got to get the car, because I had to park a few streets away the other night. I’ll beep when I get back, and we can whiz off. OK?”

“OK,” says Tarquin, nodding. “I’ll just wait here with Becky.”

“Lovely!” I say, trying to smile brightly.

Suze disappears, I shift awkwardly in my seat, and Tarquin stretches his feet out and stares at them. Oh, this is excruciating. The very sight of him is niggling at me more and more — and suddenly I realize I have to say something now, otherwise I’ll disappear off to New York and the chance will be lost.

“Tarquin,” I say, and exhale sharply. “There’s something I… I really want to say to you. I’ve been wanting to say it for a while, actually.”

“Yes?” he says, his head jerking up. “What… what is it?” He meets my eyes anxiously, and I feel a slight pang of nerves. But now I’ve started, I’ve got to carry on. I’ve got to tell him the truth. I push my hair back, and take a deep breath.

“That jumper,” I say. “It really doesn’t go with that waistcoat.”

“Oh,” says Tarquin, looking taken aback. “Really?”

“Yes!” I say, feeling a huge relief at having got it off my chest. “In fact… it’s frightful.”

“Should I take it off?”

“Yes. In fact, take the waistcoat off, too.”

Obediently he peels off the jumper and the waistcoat — and it’s amazing how much better he looks when he’s just in a plain blue shirt. Almost… normal! Then I have a sudden inspiration.

“Wait here!”

I hurry to my room and seize one of the carrier bags sitting on my chair. There’s a jumper inside which I bought a few days ago for Luke’s birthday, but I’ve discovered he’s already got exactly the same one, so I was planning to take it back.

“Here!” I say, arriving back in the sitting room. “Put this on. It’s Paul Smith.”

Tarquin slips the plain black jumper over his head and pulls it down — and what a difference! He’s actually starting to look quite distinguished.

“Your hair,” I say, staring critically at him. “We need to do something with that.”

Ten minutes later I’ve wetted it, blow-dried it, and smoothed it back with a bit of mousse. And… I can’t tell you. It’s a transformation.

“Tarquin, you look wonderful!” I say — and I really mean it. He’s still got that thin, bony look, but suddenly he doesn’t look geeky anymore, he looks kind of… interesting.

“Really?” says Tarquin, staring down at himself. He looks a little shell-shocked, but the point is, he’ll thank me in the long run.

A car horn sounds from outside, and we both jump.

“Well — have a good time,” I say, suddenly feeling like his mother. “Tomorrow morning, just wet your hair again and push your fingers through it, and it should look OK.”

“Right,” says Tarquin, looking as though I’ve just given him a long mathematical formula to memorize. “I’ll try to remember. And the jersey? Shall I return it by post?”

“Don’t return it!” I say in horror. “It’s yours to keep, and wear. A gift.”

“Thank you,” says Tarquin. “I’m… very grateful, Becky.” He comes forward and pecks me on the cheek, and I pat him awkwardly on the hand. And as he disappears out of the door, I find myself hoping that he’ll get lucky at this party, and find someone. He really does deserve it.

As I hear Suze’s car drive away, I wander into the kitchen and make a cup of tea, wondering what to do for the rest of the afternoon. I was half-planning to do some more work on my self-help book. But my other alternative is to watch Manhattan, which Suze taped last night, and would be really useful research for my trip. Because after all, I need to be well prepared.

I can always work on the book when I get back from New York. Exactly.

I’m just happily putting the video into the machine when the phone rings.

“Oh, hello,” says a girl’s voice. “Sorry to disturb you. Is that Becky Bloomwood, by any chance?”

“Yes,” I say, reaching for the remote control.

“This is Sally,” says the girl. “I’m the new secretary at Morning Coffee. We met the other day.”

“Oh. Erm… yes!” I wrinkle my brow, trying to remember.

“We just wanted to check on which hotel you’re staying at in New York, in case we need to contact you urgently.”

“I’ll be at the Four Seasons.”

“Four… Seasons,” says Sally carefully. “Excellent.”

“Do you think they might want me to do a report from New York or something?” I ask excitedly. That would be so cool! A special report from New York!

“Maybe,” says Sally. “And that’s with a Mr… Luke Brandon?”

“That’s right.”

“For how many nights?”

“Erm… thirteen? Fourteen? I’m not sure.” I’m squinting at the telly, wondering if I’ve gone too far back. Surely they don’t show that Walker’s crisps ad anymore?

“And are you staying in a room or a suite?”

“I think it’s a suite. I could find out…”

“No, don’t worry,” says Sally pleasantly. “Well, I won’t trouble you anymore. Enjoy your trip.”

“Thanks!” I say, just as I find the start of the film. “I’m sure we will!”

The phone goes dead, and I walk over to the sofa, frowning slightly. Why did Sally need to know whether I was in a suite? Unless — maybe she was just curious.

But then I forget all about it, as Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue suddenly crashes through the air, and the screen is filled with pictures of Manhattan. I stare at the television, utterly gripped. This is where we’re going! In three days’ time we’ll be there! I just cannot, cannot wait!

"Little Ridings"

34 Copse Road

Eastbourne

Sussex

21 September 2000

Dear Rebecca:

Thank you for your letter and good wishes. I am thoroughly enjoying my retirement, thank you.

I am sorry to hear that you are having such difficulties dealing with John Gavin. May I assure you that he is not a heartless android programmed to make your life miserable. If you ever were cast out on the street with nothing but a pair of shoes, I’m sure he would be concerned, rather than “laugh evilly and walk away.”

If you persevere with your good intentions, I’m certain your relationship with him will improve. You have every ability to keep your accounts in check, as long as your resolve remains steady.

I look forward to hearing how you get along.

With very best wishes,

Derek Smeath

REGAL AIRLINES

Head Office Preston House 354 Kingsway London WC2 4TH

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

23 September 2000

Dear Rebecca Bloomwood:

Thank you for your letter of 18 September, and I was sorry to hear that our luggage policy has been giving you anxiety attacks and frown lines.

I accept that you may well weigh considerably less than, as you put it, “a fat businessman from Antwerp, stuffing his face full of doughnuts.” Unfortunately Regal Airlines is still unable to increase your luggage allowance beyond the standard 20 kg.

You are welcome to start a petition and to write to Cherie Blair. However, our policy will remain the same.

Please enjoy your flight.

Mary Stevens

Customer Care Manager