Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (16 page)

“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 best-seller!”

“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.