Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (25 page)

The beautician looks worried.

“Mrs. Sherman is one of our most regular customers. She specifically requested the ‘top-to-toe wax’ for you.”

“She’ll never know!” I say desperately. “She’ll never know! I mean, she’s not exactly going to
look
, is she? She’s not going to ask her son if his initials are tattooed on his girlfriend’s . . .” I can’t bring myself to say
area
. “I mean, come on. Is she?”

I break off, and there’s a tense silence, broken only by the sound of tootling panpipes.

Then suddenly the beautician gives a snort of laughter. I catch her eye—and find myself starting to laugh, too, albeit slightly hysterically.

“You’re right,” says the beautician, sitting down and wiping her eyes. “You’re right. She’ll never know.”

“How about a compromise?” I say. “You do my legs and eyebrows and we keep quiet about the rest.”

“I could give you a massage instead,” says the beautician. “Use up the time.”

“There we are, then!” I say in relief. “Perfect!”

Feeling slightly drained, I lie down on the couch, and the beautician covers me up expertly with a towel.

“So, does Mrs. Sherman have a son, then?” she says, smoothing back my hair.

“Yes.” I look up, taken aback. “Has she never even mentioned him?”

“Not that I recall. And she’s been coming here for years . . .” The beautician shrugs. “I guess I always assumed she didn’t have any children.”

“Oh right,” I say, and lie back down, trying not to give away my surprise.

When I emerge an hour and a half later, I feel fantastic. I’ve got brand-new eyebrows, smooth legs, and a glow all over from the most wonderful aromatherapy massage.

Elinor is waiting for me in reception, and as I come toward her, she runs her eyes appraisingly up and down my body. For a horrible moment I think she’s going to ask me to roll up my sleeves to check the smoothness of my arms—but all she says is, “Your eyebrows look a lot better.” Then she turns and walks out, and I hurry after her.

As we get back into the car, I ask, “Where are we having lunch?”

“Nina Heywood is holding a small informal charity lunch for Ugandan famine relief,” she replies, examining one of her immaculate nails. “She holds events like this nearly every month. Do you know the Heywoods? Or the van Gelders?”

Of course I don’t bloody know them.

“No,” I hear myself saying. “But I know the Websters.”

“The Websters?” She raises her arched eyebrows. “The Newport Websters?”

“The Oxshott Websters. Janice and Martin.” I give her an innocent look. “Do you know them?”

“No,” says Elinor, giving me a frosty look. “I don’t believe I do.”

For the rest of the journey we travel in silence. Then suddenly the car is stopping and we’re getting out, and walking into the grandest, most enormous lobby I’ve ever seen, with a doorman in uniform and mirrors everywhere. We go up what seems like a zillion floors in a gilded lift with a man in a peaked cap, and into an apartment. And I have
never
seen anything like it.

The place is absolutely enormous, with a marble floor and a double staircase and a grand piano on a platform. The pale silk walls are decorated with enormous gold-framed paintings, and on pedestals around the room there are cascading flower arrangements like I’ve never seen before. Pin-thin women in expensive clothes are talking animatedly to one another, a smaller number of well-dressed men are listening politely, there are waitresses handing out champagne, and a girl in a flowing dress is playing the harp.

And this is a
small
charity lunch?

Our hostess Mrs. Heywood is a tiny woman in pink, who is about to shake hands with me when she’s distracted by the arrival of a woman in a bejeweled turban. Elinor introduces me to a Mrs. Parker, a Mr. Wunsch, and a Miss Kutomi, then drifts away, and I make conversation as best I can, even though everyone seems to assume I must be a close friend of Prince William.

“Tell me,” says Mrs. Parker urgently. “How is that poor young man bearing up after his . . . great loss?” she whispers.

“That boy has a natural nobility,” says Mr. Wunsch fiercely. “Young people today could learn a lot from him. Tell me, is it the army he’s headed for?”

“He . . . he hasn’t mentioned it,” I say helplessly. “Would you excuse me.”

I escape to the bathroom—and that’s just as huge and sumptuous as the rest of the apartment, with racks of luxury soaps and bottles of free perfume, and a comfy chair to sit in. I kind of wish I could stay there all day, actually. But I don’t dare linger too long in case Elinor comes looking for me. So with a final squirt of Eternity, I force myself to get up and go back into the throng, where waiters are moving quietly around, murmuring, “Lunch will be served now.”

As everyone moves toward a set of grand double doors I look around for Elinor but I can’t see her. There’s an old lady in black lace sitting on a chair near to me, and she begins to stand up with the aid of a walking stick.

“Let me help,” I say, hurrying forward as her grip falters. “Shall I hold your champagne glass?”

“Thank you, my dear!” The lady smiles at me as I take her arm, and we walk slowly together into the palatial dining room. People are pulling out chairs and sitting down at circular tables, and waiters are hurrying round with bread rolls.

“Margaret,” says Mrs. Heywood, coming forward and holding out her hands to the old lady. “There you are. Now let me find your seat . . .”

“This young lady was assisting me,” says the old lady as she lowers herself onto a chair, and I smile modestly at Mrs. Heywood.

“Thank you, dear,” she says absently. “Now, could you take my glass too, please . . . and bring some water to our table?”

“Of course!” I say with a friendly smile. “No problem.”

“And I’ll have a gin and tonic,” adds an elderly man nearby, swiveling in his chair.

“Coming right up!”

It just shows, what Mum says is right. The way to make a friend is to give a helping hand. I feel quite special, helping out the hostess. It’s almost like I’m throwing the party with her!

I’m not sure where the kitchen is, but the waiters are all heading toward one end of the room. I follow them through a set of double doors, and find myself in the kind of kitchen Mum would absolutely die for. Granite and marble everywhere, and a fridge which looks like a space rocket, and a pizza oven set into the wall! There are waiters in white shirts hurrying in and out with trays, and two chefs standing at a central island hob, holding sizzling pans, and someone’s yelling, “Where the
fuck
are the napkins?”

I find a bottle of water and a glass, and put them on a tray, then start looking around to see where the gin might be. As I bend down to open a cupboard door, a man with cropped bleached hair taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Oh hi!” I say, standing up. “I’m just looking for the gin, actually. Somebody wanted a gin and tonic.”

“We haven’t got time for that!” he barks. “Do you realize how short-staffed we are? We need food on tables!”

Short-staffed? I stare at him blankly for a moment. Then, as my eye falls on my black skirt and the realization hits me, I give a shocked laugh.

“No! I’m not a . . . I mean, I’m actually one of the . . .”

How do I say this without offending him? I’m sure being a waiter is actually very fulfilling. Anyway, he’s probably an actor in his spare time.

But while I’m dithering, he dumps a silver platter full of smoked fish in my arms.

“Get! Now!”

“But I’m not—”

“Now!
Food on tables
!”

With a pang of fright I quickly hurry away. OK. What I’ll do is I’ll just get away from him, and put this platter down somewhere, and find my place.

Cautiously I walk back into the dining room, and wander about between the tables, looking for a handy surface to leave the platter. But there don’t seem to be any side tables or even spare chairs. I can’t really leave it on the floor, and it would be a bit too awkward to reach between the guests and dump it on a table.

This is really annoying, actually. The platter’s quite heavy, and my arms are starting to ache. I pass by Mr. Wunsch’s chair and give him a little smile, but he doesn’t even notice me. It’s as though I’m suddenly invisible.

This is ridiculous. There
must
be somewhere I can put it down.

“Will-you-serve-the-food!” hisses a furious voice behind me, and I feel myself jump.

“OK!” I retort, feeling slightly rattled. “OK, I will!”

Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s probably easier just to serve it. Then at least it’ll be gone, and I can sit down. Hesitantly I approach the nearest table.

“Erm . . . would anyone like some smoked fish? I think this is salmon . . . and this is trout . . .”

“Rebecca?”

The elegantly coiffured head in front of me swivels round and I give a startled leap. Elinor is staring up at me, her eyes like daggers.

“Hi,” I say nervously. “Would you like some fish?”

“
What
do you think you’re doing?” she says in a low, furious voice.

“Oh!” I swallow. “Well, I was just, you know, helping out . . .”

“I’ll have some smoked salmon, thanks,” says a woman in a gold jacket. “Do you have any nonfat French dressing?”

“Erm . . . well, the thing is, I’m not actually . . .”

“Rebecca!” Elinor’s voice comes shooting out of her barely opened mouth. “Put it down. Just . . . sit down.”

“Right. Of course.” I glance uncertainly at the platter. “Or should I serve it, since I’m here anyway . . .”

“Put it down. Now!”

“Right.” I look helplessly about for a moment, then see a waiter coming toward me with an empty tray. Before he can protest I deposit the smoked fish platter on his tray, then hurry round with trembling legs to my empty chair, smoothing down my hair.

As I sit down, and spread my thick napkin over my knees, there’s silence around the table. I try a friendly little smile, but nobody responds. Then an old lady wearing about six rows of huge pearls and a hearing aid leans toward Elinor and whispers, so audibly we can all hear, “Your son is dating . . . a
waitress
?”

“SHE DID?” There’s a long pause. Luke frowns and glances at me. “Well, I’m sure she didn’t . . .” He breaks off into silence and I feel a flutter of apprehension.

It’s a couple of days later, and on the other end of the phone, speaking to Luke, is Elinor. God only knows what she’s saying about me. I wish we had a speaker phone.

On second thought, no, I don’t.

“Really?” Luke looks surprised. “I see. Interesting.” He clears his throat. “And on that matter—what about the two of us trying to meet up?”

Thank goodness. They’ve stopped talking about me.

“Oh, I see.” The deflation in Luke’s voice is unmistakable. “No, of course I understand. Yes, I will. Bye, then.” He puts down the phone and gazes down at it for a few seconds.

“So!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “What did your mother think of me?”

“Oh! Well . . .” Luke screws up his face puzzledly. “She said you were . . . overzealous. What did she mean by that?”

“I’ve no idea!” I give a shrill laugh. “Probably just . . . you know . . . hardworking! So, erm . . . did she mention your gift?” I add, changing the subject.

“No,” says Luke after a pause. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a pang of indignation toward Elinor. “Well, you know, she did absolutely love it.”

“Do you think?”

“Absolutely!” I say emphatically. “She . . . she almost cried, she was so pleased. And she said you were the best son in the whole world.”

“Really?” Luke’s face glows with pleasure. “She said that?”

I smile vaguely and reach down for my shoes. Maybe that wasn’t quite true. But I mean, I can’t tell him she just shoved it back into the box as though it were a pair of socks from Woolworth’s, can I?

“See you later.” Luke picks up his briefcase and gives me a kiss. “And good luck this morning.”

“Thanks!” I beam back, and feel a small trickle of excitement.

All of a sudden, things have started to happen over here. I keep getting phone calls from people who want to meet me, which Luke says is the “snowball effect” and he expected it all along. Yesterday I had three meetings with different sets of TV executives—today I’ve got a breakfast meeting with a Greg Walters from Blue River Productions. He’s the one who sent me the basket of fruit and was “desperate” to see me. I’ve never had anyone desperate to see me before in my entire life!

An hour later, I’m sitting in the Four Seasons restaurant, feeling like a movie star. Greg Walters is tall and tanned and has already dropped the name of every TV network I’ve ever heard of.

“You’re hot,” he now keeps saying, in between bites of croissant. “You realize that?”

“Erm . . . well . . .”

“No.” He lifts a hand. “Don’t be coy. You’re all over town. Folks are fighting over you.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks me in the eye. “I’ll be frank—I want to give you your own show.”