Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (26 page)

I stare at him, almost unable to breathe for excitement.

“Really? My own show? Doing what?”

“Whatever. We’ll find you a winning format.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “You’re a political commentator, right?”

“Um . . . not really,” I say awkwardly. “I do personal finance. You know, mortgages and stuff?”

“Right.” Greg nods. “Finance. So I’m thinking . . . off the top of my head . . . Wall Street. Wall Street meets
Ab Fab
meets Oprah. You could do that, right?”

“Erm . . . absolutely!”

I beam confidently at him and take a bite of croissant.

“I have to go,” he says as he finishes his coffee. “But I’m going to call you tomorrow and set up a meeting with our head of development. Is that OK?”

“Fine!” I say, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That would be good.”

As he walks off, a huge grin of delight spreads across my face. My own show! Things are just going better and better. Everyone I speak to seems to want to offer me a job, and they all keep buying me nice meals, and yesterday, someone said I could have a career in Hollywood, no question. Hollywood!

I mean, just imagine if I get my own show in Hollywood! I’ll be able to live in some amazing house in Beverly Hills, and go to parties with all the film stars. Maybe Luke will start a Los Angeles branch of his company. I mean, people out there need PR—and he could easily switch from finance to movies. And . . . yes! We could set up a film production company together!

“What a pleasant surprise,” says a cheerful voice, and I look up dazedly to see Michael Ellis pulling out a chair at another table.

“Oh,” I say, wrenching my mind away from the Oscars. “Oh, hello. Do join me!” And I gesture politely to the chair opposite.

“I’m not disturbing you?” he says, sitting down.

“No. I was having a meeting but it’s over.” I look around vaguely. “Is Luke with you?”

Michael shakes his head.

“He’s talking to some people at JD Slade this morning. The big guns.”

A waiter comes and clears away Greg’s plate, and Michael orders a cappuccino.

“So—how are things going?” I ask, lowering my voice slightly. “Luke told me about one of the backers getting nervous.”

“Right.” Michael nods gravely. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on there.”

“But why do you
need
backers?” I ask. “I mean, Luke’s got loads of money . . .”

“Never invest your own money,” says Michael. “First rule of business. Besides which, Luke has very grand plans, and grand plans tend to need a lot of capital.” He looks up. “You know, he’s very driven, that man of yours.
Very
determined to succeed over here.”

“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “All he ever does is work.”

“Work is good,” says Michael, frowning into his coffee. “Obsession is . . . not so good.” He’s silent for a moment, then looks up with a smile. “But I gather things are going well for you?”

“They are, actually,” I say, unable to maintain my calm. “In fact, they’re going brilliantly! I’ve had all these fantastic meetings, and everybody says they want to give me a job! I just had a meeting with Greg Walters from Blue River Productions—and he said he was going to give me my own show. And yesterday, someone was talking about Hollywood!”

“That’s great,” says Michael. “Really great.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks at me thoughtfully. “If I could just say a word?”

“What?”

“These TV people. You don’t necessarily want to believe every single word they say.”

I look at him, a little discomfited.

“What do you mean?”

“These guys like talking big,” says Michael, slowly stirring his coffee. “It makes them feel good. And they believe everything they say at the time when they’re saying it. But when it comes to the cold hard dollar . . .” He stops, and looks up at me. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I won’t be disappointed!” I retort indignantly. “Greg Walters said the whole town was fighting over me!”

“I’m sure he did,” says Michael. “And I very much hope they are. All I’m saying is—”

He stops as a uniformed concierge stops by our table.

“Miss Bloomwood,” he says. “I have a message for you.”

“Thanks!” I say in surprise.

I open the envelope he gives me, and pull out the sheets of paper—and it’s a message from Kent Garland at HLBC.

“Well!” I say, unable to stop a smile of triumph. “It looks like HLBC wasn’t just talking big. It looks like they mean business.” I give the piece of paper to Michael Ellis, wanting to add, “So there!”

“ ‘Please call Kent’s assistant to arrange a screen test,’ ” reads Michael aloud. “Well, looks like I’m wrong,” he says, smiling. “And I’m very glad about it.” He lifts his coffee cup toward me. “So here’s to a successful screen test.”

OK. What am I going to wear tomorrow?
What am I going to wear
? I mean, this is the most important moment of my life, a screen test for American television. My outfit has to be sharp, flattering, photogenic, immaculate . . . I mean, I’ve got nothing. Nothing.

I leaf through all my clothes for the millionth time, and flop back down on the bed, exhausted. I can’t believe I’ve come all this way without one single screen-test outfit.

Well, there’s nothing for it. I’ve got no choice.

I pick up my bag and check that I’ve got my wallet—and I’m just reaching for my coat when the phone rings.

“Hello?” I say into the receiver, hoping it might be Luke.

“Bex!” comes Suze’s voice, all tinny and distant.

“Suze!” I say in delight. “Hi!”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going really well!” I say. “I’ve had loads of meetings, and everyone’s being really positive! It’s just brilliant!”

“Bex! That’s great.”

“How about you?” I frown slightly at her voice. “Is everything OK?”

“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Everything’s fine. Except . . .” She hesitates. “I just thought you should know, a man phoned up this morning about some money you owe a shop. La Rosa, in Hampstead.”

“Really?” I pull a face. “Them again?”

“Yes. He asked me when you were going to be out of the artificial limb unit.”

“Oh,” I say after a pause. “Right. So—what did you say?”

“Bex, why did he think you were in the artificial limb unit?”

“I don’t know,” I say evasively. “Maybe he heard something. Or . . . or I may possibly have written him the odd little letter . . .”

“Bex,” interrupts Suze, and her voice is quivering slightly. “You told me you’d taken care of all those bills. You promised!”

“I have taken care of them!” I reach for my hairbrush and begin to brush my hair.

“By telling them your
parachute
didn’t open in time?” cries Suze. “I mean, honestly, Bex—”

“Look, don’t stress. I’ll sort it all out as soon as I come home.”

“He said he was going to have to take extreme action! He said he was very sorry, but enough allowances had been made, and—”

“They always say that,” I say soothingly. “Suze, you really don’t have to worry. I’m going to earn loads over here. I’ll be loaded! And I’ll be able to pay everything off, and everything will be fine.”

There’s silence, and I imagine Suze sitting on the floor of the sitting room, winding her hair tightly round her fingers.

“Really?” she says at last. “Is it all going well, then?”

“Yes! I’ve got a screen test tomorrow, and this guy wants to give me my own show, and they’re even talking about Hollywood!”

“Hollywood?” breathes Suze. “That’s amazing.”

“I know!” I beam at my own reflection. “Isn’t it great? I’m hot! That’s what the guy from Blue River Productions said.”

“So—what are you going to wear for your screen test?”

“I’m just off to Barneys,” I say happily. “Choose a new outfit!”

“Barneys?”
exclaims Suze in horror. “Bex, you
promised
me you weren’t going to go overboard! You completely promised me you were going to stick to a budget.”

“I have! I’ve completely stuck to it! It’s all written out and everything! And anyway, this is a business expense. I’m investing in my career.”

“But—”

“Suze, you can’t make money unless you spend it first. Everyone knows that! I mean, you have to spend money on your materials, don’t you?”

There’s a pause.

“I suppose so,” says Suze doubtfully.

“And anyway, what are credit cards for?”

“Oh Bex . . .” Suze sighs. “Actually, that’s funny—that’s just what the council tax girl said yesterday.”

“What council tax girl?” I frown at my reflection and reach for an eyeliner.

“The girl who came round this morning,” says Suze vaguely. “She had a clipboard. And she asked loads of questions about me, and the flat, and how much rent you paid me . . . we had a really nice chat. And I was telling her all about you being in America, and Luke . . . and your TV job . . .”

“Great,” I say, not really listening. “That sounds really good. Listen, Suze, I’ve got to run. But honestly, don’t worry. If anyone else phones for me, just don’t take the call. OK?”

“Well . . . OK,” says Suze. “And good luck tomorrow!”

“Thanks!” I say, and put down the phone. Ha-ha-ha! Off to Barneys!

Barneys. I’ve kind of been saving it for last, like an extra-special chocolate. Now, as I push through the distinctive black revolving doors and walk slowly across the pale mosaic floor, looking at all the beautiful people peering into cabinets full of contemporary jewelry . . . I feel like Goldilocks picking the right chair. The music is buzzy and the atmosphere is great, and everyone looks like they’re having a great time . . .

For a while I linger at a cabinet with a stunning aquamarine crystal necklace in it. I’d look just like a mermaid in that. I wonder how much it is? I’m just peering to see the price tag when an assistant approaches—and I come to with a jolt. I’m not here to buy a necklace. I’m going to buy what I
need
.

Feeling virtuous, I force myself to move away from the cabinet. Down to business. I study the store guide, then I take the escalator up to the top floor of the store, glimpsing tanks of fish, cages of brightly colored birds . . . and everywhere I look, gorgeous clothes.

Oh God, the
clothes
. They are just the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen! Everywhere I look, I see shapes and colors and designs I just want to grab and touch and stroke. But I can’t just spend all day marveling at candy-colored knitwear and beaded mules. I have to be focused. An outfit for tomorrow, nothing else.

Right. So what exactly do I want? Maybe a jacket, so I look authoritative—but it has to be the right jacket. Not too boxy, not too stiff . . . just nice clean lines. And maybe a skirt. Or just look at those trousers. They would look fantastic, if I had the right shoes . . .

I wander slowly round each floor, making mental notes. Then at last, when I’m sure I haven’t left anything out, I start collecting all my possibilities. A Calvin Klein jacket . . . and a skirt . . .

“Excuse me?”

A voice interrupts me just as I’m reaching for a sleeveless top, and I turn in surprise. A woman in a black trouser suit is smiling at me.

“Would you like any help with your shopping today?”

“Erm . . . oh, thanks!” I say. “If you could hold these . . .” I hand her the garments I’ve already picked out and her smile flickers slightly.

“When I said help . . . we’re running a unique promotion of our personal shopping department today. We’d like to introduce the concept to a wider audience. So if you’d like to take up the offer of an introductory session, there are some slots still available.”

“Oh right,” I say interestedly. “What exactly would that—”

“Our trained, experienced personal shoppers can help you find exactly what you’re searching for,” says the woman pleasantly. “They can help you find your own style, focus on designs that suit you, and guide you through the daunting fashion maze.” She gives a tight little laugh, and I get the feeling she’s said this little spiel quite a few times today.

“I see,” I say thoughtfully. “The thing is . . . I’m not sure I really need guiding. So thanks very much, but—”

“The service is complimentary,” says the woman. “Today we’re also offering tea, coffee, or a glass of champagne.”

Champagne? Free champagne?

“Ooh!” I say. “Well, actually—that sounds really good. Yes, please!”

And actually, I think as I follow her to the third floor, these trained shoppers must really know their stuff—and they’ll probably have a completely different eye. They’ll probably show me a whole side of myself that I’ve never even seen before!

We arrive at a suite of large dressing rooms, and the woman shows me in with a smile.

“Your personal shopper today will be Erin,” she says. “Erin has only recently joined us, so she will be receiving some occasional guidance from a senior Barneys shopper. Will that be all right?”

“Absolutely!” I say, taking off my coat.

“Would you prefer tea, coffee, or champagne?”

“Champagne,” I say quickly. “Thanks.”

“Very well,” she says with a smile. “Ah, and here’s Erin.”

I look up with interest, to see a tall thin girl coming into the dressing room. She’s got straight blond hair and a small, kind of squashed-looking mouth. In fact her whole face looks as though she were once squeezed between a pair of lift doors and never quite recovered.

“Hello,” she says, and I watch her mouth in fascination as she smiles. “I’m Erin—and I’ll be helping you find the outfit to best suit your needs.”

“Great!” I say. “Can’t wait!”

I wonder how this Erin got her job. Not by her taste in shoes, certainly.

“So . . .” Erin looks at me thoughtfully. “What were you looking for today?”

“I have a screen test tomorrow,” I explain. “I want to look kind of . . . smart and sassy, but approachable, too. Maybe with a little witty twist somewhere.”

“A witty twist,” echoes Erin, scribbling on her pad. “Right. And were you thinking . . . a suit? A jacket?”

“Well,” I say, and launch into an exact explanation of what I’m looking for. Erin listens carefully, and I notice a dark-haired woman in tortoiseshell glasses occasionally coming to the door of our dressing room and listening too.