Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (18 page)

“Hi there,” says a voice. I look up and see a muscular guy in trendy black Lycra coming toward me. “I’m Tony. How are you today?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, and casually do a little hamstring stretch. (At least, I think it’s my hamstring. The one in your leg.) “Just here for a workout.”

Nonchalantly I swap legs, clasp my hands, and stretch my arms out in front of me. I can see my reflection on the other side of the room—and though I say it myself, I look pretty bloody cool.

“Do you exercise regularly?” asks Tony.

“Not in a gym,” I say, reaching down to touch my toes—then changing my mind halfway down and resting my hands on my knees. “But I walk a lot.”

“Great!” says Tony. “On a treadmill? Or cross-country?”

“Round the shops, mostly.”

“OK . . .” he says doubtfully.

“But I’m often holding quite heavy things,” I explain. “You know, carrier bags and stuff.”

“Right . . .” says Tony, not looking that convinced. “Well . . . would you like me to show you how the machines work?”

“It’s all right,” I say confidently. “I’ll be fine.”

Honestly, I can’t be bothered listening to him explain every single machine and how many settings it has. I mean, I’m not a moron, am I? I take a towel from the pile, drape it around my neck, and head off toward a running machine, which should be fairly simple. I step up onto the treadmill and survey the buttons in front of me. A panel is flashing the word “time” and after some thought I enter “40 minutes,” which sounds about right. I mean, that’s how long you’d go on a walk for, isn’t it? It flashes “program” and after scrolling down the choices I select “Everest,” which sounds much more interesting than “hill walk.” Then it flashes “level.” Hmm. Level. I look around for some advice—but Tony is nowhere to be seen.

The balding guy is getting onto the treadmill next to mine, and I lean over.

“Excuse me,” I say politely. “Which level do you think I should choose?”

“That depends,” says the guy. “How fit are you?”

“Well,” I say, smiling modestly. “You know . . .”

“I’m going for level 5, if it’s any help,” says the guy, briskly punching at his machine.

“OK,” I say. “Thanks!”

Well, if he’s level 5, I must be at least level 7. I mean, frankly, look at him—and look at me.

I reach up to the machine and punch in “7”—then press “start.” The treadmill starts moving, and I start walking. And this is really pleasant! I really should go to the gym more often. Or, in fact, join a gym.

But it just shows, even if you don’t work out, you can still have a level of natural baseline fitness. Because this is causing me absolutely no problems at all. In fact, it’s far too easy. I should have chosen level—

Hang on. The machine’s tilting upward. And it’s speeding up. I’m running to catch up with it.

Which is OK. I mean, this is the point, isn’t it? Having a nice healthy jog. Running along, panting a little, but that just means my heart is working. Which is perfect. Just as long as it doesn’t get any—

It’s tilting again. And it’s getting faster. And faster.

I can’t do this. My face is red. My chest is hurting. I’m panting frenziedly, and clutching the sides of the machine. I can’t run this fast. I have to slow down a bit.

Feverishly I jab at the panel—but the treadmill keeps whirring round—and suddenly cranks up even higher. Oh no. Please, no.

“Time left: 38.00” flashes brightly on a panel in front of me.
Thirty-eight more minutes
?

I glance to my right—and the balding guy is sprinting easily along as though he’s running through a field of daisies. I want to ask him for help, but I can’t open my mouth. I can’t do anything except keep my legs moving as best I can.

But all of a sudden he glances in my direction—and his expression changes.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

He hastily punches at his machine, which grinds to a halt, then leaps down and jabs at mine.

The treadmill slows down, then comes to a rather abrupt standstill—and I collapse against one of the side bars, gasping for breath.

“Have some water,” says the man, handing me a cup.

“Th-thanks,” I say, and stagger down off the treadmill, still gasping. My lungs feel as if they’re about to burst, and when I glimpse my reflection opposite, my face is beet red.

“Maybe you should leave it for today,” says the man, gazing at me anxiously.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, maybe I will.” I take a swig of water, trying to get my breath back. “I think actually the trouble is, I’m not used to American machines.”

“Could be,” says the man, nodding. “They can be tricky. Of course, this one,” he adds, slapping it cheerfully, “was made in Germany.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Yes. Well, anyway. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time,” says the man—and as he gets back onto his treadmill I can see him smiling.

Oh God, that was really embarrassing. As I make my way, showered and changed, to the foyer of the hotel for the walking tour, I feel a little deflated. Maybe Luke’s right. Maybe I won’t cope with the pace of New York. Maybe it’s a stupid idea, my moving here with him. I mean, if I can’t keep up with a treadmill, how am I going to keep up with a whole city?

A group of sightseers has already assembled—mostly much older than me and attired in a variety of sensible windbreakers and sneakers. They’re all listening to a young, enthusiastic man who’s saying something about the Statue of Liberty.

“Hi there!” he says, breaking off as I approach. “Are you here for the tour?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

“And your name?”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say, flushing a little as all the others turn to look at me. “I paid at the desk, earlier.”

“Well, hi, Rebecca!” says the man, ticking something off on his list. “I’m Christoph. Welcome to our group. Got your walking shoes on?” He looks down at my boots (bright purple, kitten heel, last year’s Bertie sale) and his cheery smile falters. “You realize this is a three-hour tour? All on foot?”

“Absolutely,” I say in surprise. “That’s why I put these boots on.”

“Right,” says Christoph after a pause. “Well—OK.” He looks around. “I think that’s it, so let’s start our tour!”

He leads the way out of the hotel, onto Fifty-seventh Street. It’s a wide and busy street, with canopied entrances and trees planted at intervals and limousines pulling up in front of expensive-looking shops. As everyone else follows Christoph briskly along the pavement, I find myself walking slowly, staring upward. It’s an amazingly clear, fresh day—with almost blinding sunlight bouncing off the pavements and buildings—and as I look around I’m completely filled with awe. God, this city is an incredible place. I mean, obviously I knew that New York would be full of tall skyscrapers. But it’s only when you’re actually standing in the street, staring up at them, that you realize how . . . well, how
huge
they are. I gaze up at the tops of the buildings against the sky, until my neck is aching and I’m starting to feel dizzy. Then slowly my eyes wander down, floor by floor to shop-window level. And I find myself staring at two words.
Prada
and
Shoes
.

Ooh.

Prada Shoes. Right in front of me.

I’ll just have a really quick look.

As the others all march on, I hurry up to the window and stare at a pair of deep brown pumps with cream stitching. God, those are divine. I wonder how much they are? You know, Prada is probably really cheap over here. Maybe I should just pop in and—

“Rebecca?”

With a start I come to and look round to see the tour group twenty yards down the street, all staring at me.

“Sorry,” I say, and reluctantly pull myself away from the window. “I’m coming.”

“There’ll be time for shopping later,” says Christoph cheerfully.

“I know,” I say, and give a relaxed laugh. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it!”

Of course, he’s quite right. There’ll be plenty of time to go shopping. Plenty of time.

Right. I’m really going to concentrate on the tour.

“So, Rebecca,” says Christoph brightly, as I rejoin the group. “I was just telling the others that we’re heading down East Fifty-seventh Street to Fifth Avenue, the most famous avenue of New York City.”

“Great!” I say. “That sounds really good!”

“Fifth Avenue serves as a dividing line between the ‘East Side’ and the ‘West Side,’ ” continues Christoph. “Anyone interested in history will like to know that . . .”

I’m nodding intelligently as he speaks, and trying to look interested. But as we walk down the street, my head keeps swiveling from left to right, like someone watching a tennis game. Christian Dior, Herm`es, Chanel . . . This street is just incredible. If only we could just slow down a bit, and have a proper look—but Christoph is marching on ahead like a hike leader, and everybody else in the group is following him happily, not even glancing at the amazing sights around them. Do they not have eyes in their heads?

“. . . where we’re going to take in two well-known landmarks: Rockefeller Center, which many of you will associate with ice-skating . . .”

We swing round a corner—and my heart gives a swoop of excitement. Tiffany’s. It’s Tiffany’s, right in front of me! I
must
just have a quick peek. I mean, this is what New York is all about. Little blue boxes, and white ribbon, and those gorgeous silver beans . . . I sidle up to the window and stare longingly at the beautiful display inside. Wow. That necklace is absolutely stunning. Oh God, and look at that watch, with all those little diamonds round the edge. I wonder how much something like that would—

“Hey, everybody, wait up!” rings out Christoph’s voice. I look up—and they’re all bloody miles ahead again. How come they walk so fast, anyway? “Are you OK there, Rebecca?” he calls, with a slightly forced cheeriness. “You’re going to have to try to keep up! We have a lot of ground to cover!”

“Sorry,” I say, and scuttle toward the group. “Just having a quick little look at Tiffany’s.” I grin at a woman next to me, expecting her to smile back. But she looks at me blankly and pulls the hood of her baggy gray sweatshirt more tightly over her head.

“As I was saying,” Christoph says as we stride off again, “above Fourteenth Street, Manhattan was designed as a grid, so that . . .”

And for a while I really try to concentrate. But it’s no good. I can’t listen. I mean, come on. This is Fifth Avenue! There are women striding along in immaculate coats and sunglasses, yellow taxicabs honking at each other, two men are standing on a street corner, arguing in Italian . . . And everywhere I look, there are fabulous shops. There’s Gucci—and that’s the hugest Gap I’ve ever seen in my life . . . and oh God, look at that window display over there! And we’re just walking straight past Armani Exchange and no one’s even pausing . . .

What is
wrong
with these people? Are they complete philistines?

We walk on a bit farther, and I’m trying my best to catch a glimpse inside a window full of amazing-looking hats when . . . oh my God. Just . . . just look there. It’s Saks Fifth Avenue. Right there, across the street. One of the most famous department stores in the world. Floors and floors of clothes and shoes and bags . . . And thank God, at
last
, Christoph is coming to his senses and stopping.

“This is one of New York’s most famous landmarks,” he’s saying, with a gesture. “Many New Yorkers regularly visit this magnificent place of worship—once a week or even more often. Some even make it here daily! We don’t have time to do more than have a quick look inside—but those that are interested can always make a return trip.”

“Is it very old?” asks a man with a Scandinavian accent.

“The building dates from 1879,” says Christoph, “and was designed by James Renwick.”

Come on, I think impatiently, as someone else asks a question about the architecture. Who cares who designed it? Who cares about the stonework? It’s what’s inside that matters.

“Shall we go in?” says Christoph at last.

“Absolutely!” I say joyfully, and hurry across the street toward the entrance.

It’s only as my hand is actually on the door that I realize no one else is with me. Where’ve they all gone? Puzzled, I look back—and the rest of the group is processing into a big stone church, outside which there’s a board reading “St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

Oh.

Oh, I see. When he said “magnificent place of worship” he meant . . .

Right. Of course.

I hesitate, hand on the door, feeling torn. I should go into the cathedral. I should take in some culture and come back to Saks later.

But then—how is that going to help me get to know whether I want to live in New York or not? Looking around some old cathedral?

Put it like this—how many millions of cathedrals do we have in England? And how many branches of Saks Fifth Avenue?

“Are you going in?” says an impatient voice behind me.

“Yes!” I say, coming to a decision. “Absolutely. I’m going in.”

I push my way through the heavy wooden doors and into the store, feeling almost sick with anticipation. I haven’t felt this excited since Octagon relaunched their designer floor and I was invited to the cardholders’ champagne reception.

I mean, visiting any shop for the first time is exciting. There’s always that electric buzz as you push open the door; that hope, that
belief
, that this is going to be the shop of all shops, which will bring you everything you ever wanted, at magically low prices. But this is a thousand times better. A million times. Because this isn’t just any old shop, is it? This is a world-famous shop. I’m actually here. I’m in Saks on Fifth Avenue in New York. As I walk slowly into the store—forcing myself not to rush—I feel as though I’m setting off for a date with a Hollywood movie star.

I wander through the perfumery, gazing around at the elegant Art Deco paneling; the high, airy ceilings; the foliage everywhere. God, this has to be one of the most beautiful shops I’ve ever been in. At the back are old-fashioned lifts which make you feel you’re in a film with Cary Grant, and on a little table is a pile of store directories. I pick one up, just to get my bearings . . . and I don’t quite believe it. There are ten floors to this store.