Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (36 page)

I start to stuff clothes into the first bag, until it’s as tightly packed as I can get it. Panting with effort, I close the plastic zip—then attach the hoover nozzle to the hole. And I don’t believe this. It works. It works! Before my eyes, my clothes are shrinking away into nothing!

Oh, this is fantastic. This is going to revolutionize my life! Why on earth declutter when you can just shrink-wrap?

There are eight bags in all—and when they’re all full, I cram them all into my wardrobe and close the door. It’s a bit of a tight squash—and I can hear a bit of a hissing sound as I force the door shut—but the point is, they’re in. They’re contained.

And just look at my room now! It’s incredible! OK, it’s not exactly immaculate—but it’s so much better than it was before. I quickly shove a few stray items under my duvet, arrange some cushions on top, and stand back. As I look around, I feel all warm and proud of myself. I’ve never seen my room look so good before. And Suze is right—I do feel different, somehow.

You know, maybe feng shui’s got something to it after all. Maybe this is the turning point. My life will be transformed from now on.

I take one final admiring look at it, then call out of the door, “I’m done!”

As Suze comes to the door I perch smugly on the bed and beam at her astounded expression.

“Bex, this is fantastic!” she says, peering disbelievingly around the cleared space. “And you’re so quick! It took me ages to sort all my stuff out!”

“Well, you know.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Once I decide to do something, I do it.”

She takes a few steps in, and looks in astonishment at my dressing table.

“I never knew that dressing table had a marble top!”

“I know!” I say proudly. “It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”

“But where’s all the rubbish? Where are the bin bags?”

“They’re . . . I’ve already got rid of them.”

“So did you chuck loads out?” she says, wandering over to the almost-empty mantelpiece. “You must have done!”

“A . . . a fair amount,” I say evasively. “You know. I was quite ruthless in the end.”

“I’m so impressed!” She pauses in front of the wardrobe, and I stare at her, suddenly nervous.

Don’t open it, I pray silently. Just
don’t
open it.

“Have you got anything left?” she says, with a grin, and pulls open the door of the wardrobe. And we both scream.

It’s like a nail-bomb explosion.

Except, instead of nails, it’s clothes.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know
what
I did wrong. But one of the bags bursts open, showering jumpers everywhere, and pushing all the other bags out. Then another one bursts open, and another one. It’s a clothes storm. Suze is completely covered in stretchy tops. A sequinned skirt lands on the light shade. A bra shoots across the room and hits the window. Suze is half-shrieking and half-laughing, and I’m flapping my arms madly and yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

And oh no.

Oh no. Please stop. Please.

But it’s too late. Now a cascade of gift-shop carrier bags is tumbling down from their hiding place on the top shelf. One after another, out into the daylight. They’re hitting Suze on the head, landing on the floor, and spilling open—and revealing the same contents in each. Gray sparkly boxes with a silver S C-S scrawled on the front.

About forty of them.

“What . . .” Suze pulls a T-shirt off her head and stares at them, open-mouthed. “Where on earth did you . . .” She scrabbles among the clothes littering the floor, picks up one of the boxes, and pulls it open and stares in silence. There, wrapped in turquoise tissue paper, is a photo frame made out of tan leather.

Oh God. Oh God.

Without saying anything, Suze bends down and picks up a Gifts and Goodies carrier bag. As she pulls it open, a receipt flutters to the floor. Silently she takes out the two boxes inside—and opens each to reveal a frame made of purple tweed.

I open my mouth to speak—but nothing comes out. For a moment we just stare at each other.

“Bex . . . how many of these have you got?” says Suze at last, in a slightly strangled voice.

“Um . . . not many!” I say, feeling my face grow hot. “Just . . . you know. A few.”

“There must be about . . . fifty here!”

“No!”

“Yes!” She looks around, cheeks growing pink with distress. “Bex, these are really expensive.”

“I haven’t bought that many!” I give a distracting laugh. “And I didn’t buy them all at once . . .”

“You shouldn’t have bought
any
! I told you, I’d make you one!”

“I know,” I say a little awkwardly. “I know you did. But I wanted to buy one. I just wanted to . . . to support you.”

There’s silence as Suze reaches for another Gifts and Goodies bag, and looks at the two boxes inside.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she says suddenly. “You’re the reason I’ve sold so well.”

“It’s not! Honestly, Suze—”

“You’ve spent all your money on buying my frames.” Her voice starts to wobble. “All your money. And now you’re in debt.”

“I haven’t!”

“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have my deal!”

“You would!” I say in dismay. “Of course you would! Suze, you make the best frames in the world! I mean . . . look at this one!” I grab for the nearest box and pull out a frame made out of distressed denim. “I would have bought this even if I hadn’t known you. I would have bought all of them!”

“You wouldn’t have bought this many,” she gulps. “You would have bought maybe . . . three.”

“I would have bought them all! They’re the best frames in the world! They’d make a perfect present, or a . . . an ornament for the house . . .”

“You’re just saying that,” she says tearfully.

“No, I’m not!” I say, feeling tears coming to my own eyes. “Suze, everybody loves your frames. I’ve seen people in shops saying how brilliant they are!”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have! There was this woman admiring one in Gifts and Goodies, just the other day, and everyone in the shop was agreeing!”

“Really?” says Suze in a small voice.

“Yes. You’re so talented, and successful . . .” I look around my bomb-site room, and feel a sudden wave of despair. “And I’m such a mess. John Gavin’s right, I should have assets by now. I should be all sorted out. I’m just . . . worthless.” Tears start to trickle down my face.

“You’re not!” says Suze in horror. “You’re not worthless!”

“I am!” Miserably, I sink to the carpet of clothes on the floor. “Suze, just look at me. I’m unemployed, I haven’t got any prospects, I’m being taken to court, I owe thousands and thousands of pounds, and I don’t know how I’m even going to start paying it all off . . .”

There’s an awkward cough at the door. I look up, and Tarquin is standing at the door, holding three mugs of coffee.

“Refreshments?” he says, picking his way across the floor.

“Thanks, Tarquin,” I say, sniffing, and take a mug from him. “Sorry about all this. It’s just . . . not a great time.”

He sits down on the bed and exchanges looks with Suze.

“Bit short of cash?” he says.

“Yes,” I gulp, and wipe my eyes. “Yes, I am.” Tarquin gives Suze another glance.

“Becky, I’d be only too happy to—”

“No. No, thanks.” I smile at him. “Really.”

There’s silence as we all sip our coffee. A shaft of winter sunlight is coming through the window, and I close my eyes, feeling the soothing warmth on my face.

“Happens to the best of us,” says Tarquin sympathetically. “Mad Uncle Monty was always going bust, wasn’t he, Suze?”

“God, that’s right! All the time!” says Suze. “But he always bounced back, didn’t he?”

“Absolutely!” says Tarquin. “Over and over again.”

“What did he do?” I say, looking up with a spark of interest.

“Usually sold off a Rembrandt,” says Tarquin. “Or a Stubbs. Something like that.”

Great. What is it about these millionaires? I mean, even Suze, who I love. They just don’t get it. They
don’t know what it’s like to have no money
.

“Right,” I say, trying to smile. “Well . . . unfortunately, I don’t have any spare Rembrandts lying around. All I’ve got is . . . a zillion pairs of black trousers. And some T-shirts.”

“And a fencing outfit,” puts in Suze.

Next door, the phone starts ringing, but none of us move.

“And a wooden bowl which I hate.” I give a half-giggle, half-sob. “And forty photograph frames.”

“And fifty million pots of lavender honey.”

“And a Vera Wang cocktail dress.” I look around my room, suddenly alert. “And a brand-new Kate Spade bag . . . and . . . and a whole wardrobe full of stuff which I’ve never even worn . . . Suze . . .” I’m almost too agitated to speak. “Suze . . .”

“What?”

“Just . . . just think about it. I haven’t got nothing. I
have
got assets! I mean, they might have depreciated a little bit . . .”

“What do you mean?” says Suze puzzledly—then her face lights up. “Ooh, have you got an ISA that you forgot about?”

“No! Not an ISA!”

“I don’t understand!” wails Suze. “Bex, what are you talking about?”

And I’m just opening my mouth to answer, when the answer machine clicks on next door, and a gravelly American voice starts speaking, which makes me stiffen and turn my head.

“Hello, Becky? It’s Michael Ellis here. I’ve just arrived in London for a conference, and I was wondering—could we perhaps meet up for a chat?”

It’s so weird to see Michael here in London. In my mind he belongs firmly in New York, in the Four Seasons. Back in that other world. But here he is, large as life, in the River Room at the Savoy, his face creased in a beam. As I sit down at the table he lifts a hand to a waiter.

“A gin and tonic for the lady, please.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Am I right?”

“Yes, please.” I smile at him gratefully, and shake out my napkin to cover my awkwardness. Even though we talked so much in New York, I’m feeling a bit shy at seeing him again.

“So,” he says, as the waiter brings me my drink. “Quite a lot has been going on since we last spoke.” He lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I take a sip. “Like what?”

“Like Alicia Billington and four others have been fired from Brandon Communications.”

“
Four
others?” I gape at him. “Were they all planning together?”

“Apparently so. It turns out Alicia has been working on this little project for some time. This wasn’t just some tiny little pie-in-the-sky scheme. This was well organized and thought out. Well backed, too. You know Alicia’s future husband is very wealthy?”

“I didn’t,” I say, and remember her Chanel shoes. “But it makes sense.”

“He put together the finance. As you suspected, they were planning to poach Bank of London.”

I take a sip of gin and tonic, relishing the sharp flavor.

“So what happened?”

“Luke swooped in, took them all by surprise, herded them into a meeting room, and searched their desks. And he found plenty.”

“Luke did?” I feel a deep thud in my stomach. “You mean—Luke’s in London?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How long has he been back?”

“Three days now.” Michael gives me a quick glance. “I guess he hasn’t called you, then.”

“No,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “No, he hasn’t.” I reach for my glass and take a deep swig. Somehow while he was still in New York, I could tell myself that Luke and I weren’t speaking because of geography as much as anything else. But now he’s in London—and he hasn’t even called—it feels different. It feels kind of . . . final.

“So . . . what’s he doing now?”

“Damage limitation,” says Michael wryly. “Upping morale. It turns out as soon as he left for New York, Alicia got busy spreading rumors he was going to close the U.K. branch down completely. That’s why the atmosphere plummeted. Clients have been neglected, the staff has all been on the phone to headhunters . . . Meanwhile Alicia was spinning a completely different story to Luke.” He shakes his head. “That girl is trouble.”

“I know.”

“Now, that’s something I’ve been wondering.
How
do you know?” He leans forward interestedly. “You picked up on Alicia in a way neither Luke nor I did. Was that based on anything?”

“Not really,” I say honestly. “Just the fact that she’s a complete cow.”

Michael throws his head back and roars with laughter.

“Feminine intuition. Why should there be any other reason?”

He chuckles for a few moments more—then puts his glass down and gives me a twinkling smile. “Speaking of which—I heard the gist of what you said to Luke about his mom.”

“Really?” I look at him in horror. “He told you?”

“He spoke to me about it, asked if you’d said anything to me.”

“Oh!” I feel a flush creeping across my face. “Well, I was . . . angry. I didn’t
mean
to say she was a . . .” I clear my throat. “I just spoke without thinking.”

“He took it to heart, though.” Michael raises his eyebrows. “He called his mom up, said he was damned if he was going to go home without seeing her, and arranged a meeting.”

“Really?” I stare at him, feeling prickles of intrigue. “And what happened?”

“She never showed up. Sent some message about having to go out of town. Luke was pretty disappointed.” Michael shakes his head. “Between you and me—I think you were right about her.”

“Oh. Well.”

I give an awkward shrug and reach for the menu to hide my embarrassment. I can’t
believe
Luke told Michael what I said about his mother. What else did he tell him? My bra size?

For a while I stare at the list of dishes without taking any of them in—then look up, to see Michael gazing seriously at me.

“Becky, I haven’t told Luke it was you who tipped me off. The story I’ve given him is I got an anonymous message and decided to look into it.”

“That sounds fair enough,” I say, gazing at the tablecloth.

“You’re basically responsible for saving his company,” says Michael gently. “He should be very grateful to you. Don’t you think he should know?”

“No.” I hunch my shoulders. “He’d just think . . . he’d think I was . . .” I break off, feeling my eyes grow hot.