Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

by Sophie Kinsella

  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 g
et 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 Manhatta
n. 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.