Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (28 page)

“Miss Bloomwood?” says the concierge as we pass the desk. “There’s a message for you to call a Susan Cleath-Stuart, in London. Whatever time you get in. Apparently it’s urgent.”

“Oh God,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She’ll just be calling to lecture me about how much I spent on my new dress. ‘How much? Oh Bex, you
shouldn’t
have . . .’ ”

“It’s a fantastic dress,” says Luke, running his hands appreciatively up and down it. “Although there’s far too much of it. You could lose this bit here . . . and this bit . . .”

“Would you like the number?” says the concierge, holding out a piece of paper.

“No, thanks,” I say, waving my hand. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“And please,” adds Luke, “hold all calls to our room, until further notice.”

“Very well,” says the concierge with a twinkle. “Good night, sir. Good night, ma’am.”

We travel up in the lift, grinning stupidly at each other in the mirrors—and as we arrive at our room, I realize that I’m really feeling quite drunk. My only consolation is, Luke looks completely plastered, too.

“That,” I say, as the door closes behind us, “was the best night of my life. The very best.”

“It isn’t over yet,” says Luke, coming toward me with a meaningful gleam in his eye. “I feel I need to reward you for your most insightful comments, Miss Bloomwood. You
were
right. All work and no play . . .” He starts to pull my Vera Wang straps gently down off my shoulders. “Makes Jack . . .” he murmurs against my skin. “A very . . .”

And suddenly we’re tumbling down onto the bed together, and his mouth is on mine, and my mind is wheeling with alcohol and delight. As he’s pulling off his shirt, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I stare at my intoxicated, happy self for an instant, and hear a voice inside saying: remember this moment forever. Remember this moment, Becky, because right now, life is perfect.

The rest is a haze of drunken, blurry pleasure, drifting into oblivion. The last thing I remember is Luke kissing me on the eyelids and telling me to sleep well and that he loves me. That’s the last thing.

And then, like a car crash, it happens.

AT FIRST, I don’t realize anything is wrong. I wake up feeling extremely bleary—to see Luke handing me a cup of tea.

“Why don’t you check the messages?” he says, giving me a kiss, and heads toward the shower. After a few sips of tea, I lift the telephone receiver and press the star button.

“You have twenty-three messages,” says the telephone voice—and I gape at it in astonishment. Twenty-three?

Perhaps they’re all job offers! is my first thought. Perhaps it’s people calling from Hollywood! In great excitement I press the button to hear the first one. But it’s not a job offer—it’s Suze—and she’s sounding really hassled.

“Bex, please ring me. As soon as you get this. It’s . . . it’s really urgent. Bye.”

The voice asks me if I’d like to hear my remaining messages—and for a moment I hesitate. But Suze did sound pretty desperate—and I remember with a twinge of guilt that she called last night, too. I dial the number—and to my surprise, it clicks onto her answer machine.

“Hi! It’s me!” I say as soon as Suze’s voice has finished speaking. “Well, you’re not in, so I hope whatever it is has sorted itself—”

“Bex!” Suze’s voice practically bursts my eardrum. “Oh my God, Bex, where have you been?”

“Out,” I say puzzledly. “And then asleep. Suze, is everything—”

“Bex, I never said those things!” she interrupts, sounding distressed. “You have to believe me. I’d never say
anything
like that. They just . . . twisted everything round. I told your mum, I didn’t have any idea—”

“My mum?” I say in puzzlement. “Suze, slow down. What are you talking about?”

There’s silence.

“Oh God,” says Suze. “Bex, haven’t you seen it?”

“Seen what?” I say.

“The Daily World,”
says Suze. “I . . . I thought you got all the British papers.”

“We do,” I say, rubbing my dry face. “But they’ll still be outside the door. Is there . . . is there something about me?”

“No,” says Suze a little too quickly. “No. I mean . . . there is this one very tiny thing. But it’s not worth looking at. I really wouldn’t bother. In fact—throw
The Daily World
away, I would. Just . . . put it in the bin, without even opening it.”

“There’s something nasty, isn’t there?” I say apprehensively. “Do my legs look really fat?”

“It’s really nothing!” says Suze. “Nothing! So anyway . . . have you been to Rockefeller Center yet? It’s supposed to be great! Or FAO Schwarz? Or . . .”

“Suze, stop,” I interrupt. “I’m going to go and get it. I’ll call you back.”

“OK, look, Bex, just remember,” says Suze in a rush. “Hardly
anyone
reads
The Daily World
. You know, like about three people. And it’s tomorrow’s fish-and-chips. And everyone knows the newspapers make up complete lies . . .”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “I’ll remember that. And don’t worry, Suze! These stupid little things don’t faze me!”

But as I put the phone down, my hand is trembling slightly. What on earth can they have said about me? I hurry to the door, grab the pile of papers, and cart them all back to the bed. I seize hold of
The Daily World
and feverishly start to leaf through it. Page after page . . . but there’s nothing there. I go back to the beginning and leaf through more carefully, looking at all the tiny box items—and there really is no mention of me at all. I lean back on my pillows, bemused. What on earth is Suze going on about? Why on earth is she so—

And then I spot the center double-page spread. A single folded sheet, lying on the bed, which must have fallen out as I grabbed hold of the paper. Very slowly I reach for it. I open it. And it’s as though someone’s punched me in the stomach.

There’s a picture of me. It’s a photo I don’t recognize—not very flattering. I’m walking along, in some street . . . A New York street, I realize with a lurch. And I’m holding lots of shopping bags. And there’s a picture of Luke, in a circle. And a little picture of Suze. And the headline reads . . .

I can’t even tell you what it says. I can’t even say it. It’s . . . it’s too awful.

It’s a huge article, spanning the whole center spread. As I read it, my heart is thudding; my head feels hot and cold. It’s so nasty. It’s so . . . personal. Halfway through I can’t stand it anymore. I close the paper, and stare ahead, breathing hard, feeling as though I might throw up.

Then almost immediately, with trembling hands, I open it again. I have to see exactly what they’ve said. I have to read every horrible, humiliating line.

When I’ve finally finished, I sit, breathing hard, trying to keep control. I can’t quite believe this is really happening. This paper has already been printed millions of times. It’s too late to stop it. In Britain, I suddenly realize, this has been out for hours. My parents will have seen it. Everyone I know will have seen it. I’m powerless.

As I’m sitting there, the telephone gives a shrill ring, and I jump with fright. After a moment it rings again, and I stare at it in terror. I can’t answer. I can’t talk to anybody, not even Suze.

The phone rings for the fourth time, and Luke strides out of the bathroom, a towel round his waist and his hair slicked back.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” he says shortly, and grabs for the receiver. “Hello? Yes, Luke Brandon here.”

I feel a swoop of fear, and wrap the duvet more tightly around me.

“Right,” Luke is saying. “Fine. I’ll see you then.” He puts the phone down and scribbles something on a pad of paper.

“Who was that?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“A secretary from JD Slade,” he says, putting his pen down. “Change of venue.”

He starts to get dressed, and I say nothing. My hand tightens around the
Daily World
page. I want to show him . . . but I don’t want to show him. I don’t want him to read those horrible things about me. But I can’t let him see it from someone else.

I can’t sit here forever, saying nothing. I close my eyes—then take a deep breath and say, “Luke, there’s a thing about me in the paper.”

“Good,” says Luke absently, doing up his tie. “I thought you might get a bit of publicity. Which paper?”

“It’s . . . it’s not good,” I say, and lick my dry lips. “It’s really awful.”

Luke looks at me properly and sees my expression.

“Oh, Becky,” he says, “it can’t be that bad. Come on, show me. What does it say?” He holds out his hand, but I don’t move.

“It’s just . . . really horrible. And there’s a great big picture—”

“Did you have a bad hair day?” says Luke teasingly, and reaches for his jacket. “Becky, no piece of publicity is ever 100 percent perfect. You’re always going to find
something
to fret about, whether it’s your hair, or something you said . . .”

“Luke!” I say despairingly. “It’s nothing like that. Just . . . have a look.”

Slowly I unfold the paper and give it to Luke. He takes it cheerfully—but as he gazes at it, his smile slowly disappears.

“What the fuck— Is that
me
?” He glances at me briefly, and I swallow, not daring to say anything. Then he scans the page while I watch nervously.

“Is this true?” he says at last. “Any of it?”

“N-no!” I stammer. “At least . . . not . . . not all of it. Some of it is . . .”

“Are you in debt?”

I meet his gaze, feeling my face turn crimson.

“A . . . a little bit. But I mean, not like they say . . . I mean, I don’t know anything about a summons . . .”

“Tuesday afternoon!” He hits the paper. “For Christ’s sake. You were at the Guggenheim. Find your ticket, we’ll prove you were there, get a retraction—”

“I . . . Actually . . . Luke . . .” He looks up and I feel a lurch of pure fear. “I didn’t go to the Guggenheim. I . . . I went . . . shopping.”

“You went . . .” He stares at me—then silently starts to read again.

When he’s finished he stares ahead expressionlessly.

“I don’t believe this,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him.

He looks as grim as I feel—and for the first time this morning I feel tears pricking at my eyes.

“I know,” I say shakily. “It’s awful. They must have been following me. They must have been there all along, watching me,
spying
on me . . .” I look at him for a response, but he’s just staring straight ahead. “Luke, don’t you have anything to say? Do you realize—”

“Becky, do
you
realize?” he interrupts. He turns toward me—and at his expression I feel the blood draining from my face. “Do you realize quite how bad this is for
me
?”

“I’m really sorry,” I gulp. “I know you hate being in the paper . . .”

“It’s not a bloody question of—” He stops himself, and says more calmly, “Becky, do you realize how this is going to make me look? Today of all fucking days?”

“I . . . I didn’t . . .” I whisper.

“I have to go into a meeting in an hour’s time and convince a stuffy, conservative New York investment bank that I’m fully in control of every aspect of my business and personal life. They’ll all have seen this. I’ll be a joke!”

“But of course you’re in control!” I say in alarm. “Luke, surely they’ll realize . . . surely they won’t—”

“Listen,” says Luke, turning round. “Do you know what the perception of me is in this city? The general perception here—for some inexplicable reason—is that I’m losing my touch.”

“Losing your touch?” I echo in horror.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Luke takes a deep, controlled breath. “What I’ve been doing over the last few days is working my fucking
arse
off to convince these people that their perception is wrong. That I’m on top of it. That I have the media taped. And now . . .” He hits the paper sharply and I wince.

“Maybe . . . maybe they won’t have seen it.”

“Becky, they see everything,” says Luke. “That’s their job. That’s—”

He breaks off as the phone rings. After a pause, he picks it up.

“Hi, Michael. Ah. You’ve seen it. Yes, I know. Unfortunate timing. All right. See you in a sec.” He puts down the phone and reaches for his briefcase, without looking at me.

I feel cold and shivery. What have I done? I’ve wrecked everything. Phrases from the article keep popping into my mind, making me feel sick.
Feckless Becky . . . hypocritical Becky
. . . And they’re right. They’re all right.

When I look up, Luke’s closing his briefcase with a snap.

“I have to go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” At the door he hesitates, and turns round, looking suddenly confused. “But I don’t understand. If you weren’t at the Guggenheim—where did you get the book you gave me?”

“At the museum shop,” I whisper. “On Broadway.”

“But the sparkle stuff on your face. You said it was—”

“I . . . I had a makeover. Luke, I’m so sorry . . . I . . .”

I tail away into a hideous silence. I can feel my heart thumping, the blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know what to say, how to redeem myself.