Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (37 page)

I can’t believe Luke’s been back for three days and hasn’t called. I mean—I knew it was over. Of course I did. But secretly, a tiny part of me thought . . .

Anyway. Obviously not.

“What would he think?” probes Michael.

“I dunno,” I mutter gruffly. “The point is, it’s all over between us. So I’d rather just . . . not be involved.”

“Well, I guess I can understand that.” Michael gives me a kind look. “Shall we order?”

While we eat, we talk about other things. Michael tells me about his advertising agency in Washington, and makes me laugh with stories of all the politicians he knows and all the trouble they get themselves into. I tell him in turn about my family, and Suze, and the way I got my job on
Morning Coffee
.

“It’s all going really well, actually,” I say boldly as I dig into a chocolate mousse. “I’ve got great prospects, and the producers really like me . . . they’re thinking of expanding my slot . . .”

“Becky,” interrupts Michael gently. “I heard. I know about your job.”

I stare at him dumbly, feeling my whole face prickle in shame.

“I felt really bad for you,” continues Michael. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Does . . . does Luke know?” I say huskily.

“Yes. I believe he does.”

I take a deep swig of my drink. I can’t bear the idea of Luke pitying me.

“Well, I’ve got lots of options open,” I say desperately. “I mean, maybe not on television . . . but I’m applying for a number of financial journalism posts . . .”

“On the
FT
?”

“On . . . well . . . on
Personal Investment Periodical
. . . and
Annuities Today
. . .”

“Annuities Today
,” echoes Michael disbelievingly. At his expression I can’t help giving a snort of shaky laughter. “Becky, do any of these jobs really excite you?”

I’m about to trot out my stock answer—“Personal finance is more interesting than you’d think, actually!” But suddenly I realize I can’t be bothered to pretend anymore. Personal finance
isn’t
more interesting than you’d think. It’s just as boring as you’d think. Even on
Morning Coffee
, it was only really when callers started talking about their relationships and family lives that I used to enjoy it.

“What do you think?” I say instead, and take another swig of gin and tonic.

Michael sits back in his chair and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “So why are you going for them?”

“I don’t know what else to do.” I give a hopeless shrug. “Personal finance is the only thing I’ve ever done. I’m kind of . . . pigeonholed.”

“How old are you, Becky? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Pigeonholed at twenty-six.” Michael shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He takes a sip of coffee and gives me an appraising look.

“If some opportunity came up for you in America,” he says, “would you take it?”

“I’d take anything,” I say frankly. “But what’s going to come up for me in America now?”

There’s silence. Thoughtfully, Michael reaches for a chocolate mint, unwraps it, and puts it in his mouth.

“Becky, I have a proposition for you,” he says, looking up. “We have an opening at the advertising agency for a head of corporate communications.”

I stare at him, glass halfway to my lips. Not daring to hope he’s saying what I think he is.

“We want someone with editorial skills, who can coordinate a monthly newsletter. You’d be ideal on those counts. But we also want someone who’s good with people. Someone who can pick up on the buzz, make sure people are happy, report to the board on any problems . . .” He shrugs. “Frankly, I can’t think of anyone better suited to it.”

“You’re . . . you’re offering me a job,” I say disbelievingly, trying to ignore the little leaps of hope inside my chest, the little stabs of excitement. “But . . . but what about
The Daily World
? The . . . shopping?”

“So what?” Michael shrugs. “So you like to shop. I like to eat. Nobody’s perfect. As long as you’re not on some international ‘most wanted’ blacklist . . .”

“No. No,” I say hurriedly. “In fact, I’m about to sort all that out.”

“And immigration?”

“I’ve got a lawyer.” I bite my lip. “I’m not sure he exactly likes me very much . . .”

“I have contacts in immigration,” says Michael reassuringly. “I’m sure we can sort something out.” He leans back and takes a sip of coffee. “Washington isn’t New York. But it’s a fun place to be, too. Politics is a fascinating arena. I have a feeling you’d take to it. And the salary . . . Well. It won’t be what CNN might have offered you. But as a ballpark . . .” He scribbles a figure on a piece of paper and pushes it across the table.

And I don’t believe it. It’s about twice what I’d get for any of those crappy journalism jobs.

Washington. An advertising agency. A whole new career.

America. Without Luke. On my own terms.

I can’t quite get my head round all of this.

“Why are you offering this to me?” I manage at last.

“I’ve been very impressed by you, Becky,” says Michael seriously. “You’re smart. You’re intuitive. I took your advice about my friend, by the way,” he adds with a twinkle. “He paid up the next day.”

“Really?” I say in delight.

“You have a good head on your shoulders—and you’re someone who gets things done.” I stare at him, feeling an embarrassed color come to my cheeks. “And maybe I figured you deserve a break,” he adds kindly. “Now, you don’t have to decide at once. I’m over here for a few more days, so if you want to, we can talk again about it. But, Becky—”

“Yes?”

“I’m serious now. Whether you decide to take up my offer or not, don’t fall into anything else.” He shakes his head. “You’re too young to settle. Look into your heart—and go after what you really want.”

I DON’T DECIDE straight away. It takes me about two weeks of pacing around the flat, drinking endless cups of coffee, talking to my parents, Suze, Michael, my old boss Philip, this new television agent Cassandra . . . basically everyone I can think of. But in the end I know. I know in my heart what I really want to do.

Luke hasn’t called—and to be honest, I shouldn’t think I’ll ever speak to him again. Michael says he’s working about seventeen hours a day—trying simultaneously to salvage Brandon Communications and keep interest open in the States—and is very stressed indeed. Apparently he still hasn’t got over the shock of discovering that Alicia was plotting against him—and that Bank of London was still considering moving with her. The shock of discovering he wasn’t “immune to shit,” as Michael so poetically put it. “That’s the trouble with having the whole world love you,” he said to me the other day. “One day, you wake up and it’s flirting with your best friend instead. And you don’t know what to do. You’re thrown.”

“So—has Luke been thrown by all this?” I asked, twisting my fingers into a knot.

“Thrown?” exclaimed Michael. “He’s been hurled across the paddock and trampled on by a herd of wild boar.”

Several times I’ve picked up the phone with a sudden longing to speak to him. But then I’ve always taken a deep breath and put it down again. That’s his life now. I’ve got to get on with mine. My whole new life.

There’s a sound at the door, and I look round. Suze is standing in the doorway, staring into my empty room.

“Oh, Bex,” she says miserably. “I don’t like it. Put it all back. Make it messy again.”

“At least it’s all feng shui now,” I say, attempting a smile. “It’ll probably bring you loads of luck.”

She comes in and walks across the empty carpet to the window, then turns round.

“It seems smaller,” she says slowly. “It should look bigger without all your clutter, shouldn’t it? But somehow . . . it doesn’t work like that. It looks like a nasty bare little box.”

There’s silence for a while as I watch a tiny spider climbing up the windowpane.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with it?” I say at last. “Are you going to get a new flatmate?”

“I don’t think so,” says Suze. “I mean, there’s no rush, is there. Tarkie said why not just have it as my office for a while.”

“Did he?” I turn to look at her with raised eyebrows. “That reminds me. Did I hear Tarquin here again last night? And creeping out this morning?”

“No,” says Suze, looking flustered. “I mean—yes.” She catches my eye and blushes. “But it was completely the last ever time. Ever.”

“You make such a lovely couple,” I say, grinning at her.

“Don’t
say
that!” she exclaims in horror. “We’re not a couple.”

“OK,” I say, relenting. “Whatever.” I look at my watch. “You know, we ought to be going.”

“Yes. I suppose so. Oh, Bex—”

I look at Suze—and her eyes are suddenly full of tears.

“I know.” I squeeze her hand tightly and for a moment neither of us says anything. Then I reach for my coat. “Come on.”

We walk along to the King George pub at the end of the road. We make our way through the bar and up a flight of wooden stairs to a large private room furnished with red velvet curtains, a bar, and lots of trestle tables set up on both sides. A makeshift platform has been set up at one end, and there are rows of plastic chairs in the middle.

“Hello!” says Tarquin, spotting us as we enter. “Come and have a drink.” He lifts his glass. “The red’s not at all bad.”

“Is the tab all set up behind the bar?” says Suze.

“Absolutely,” says Tarquin. “All organized.”

“Bex—that’s on us,” says Suze, putting her hand on me as I reach for my purse. “A good-bye present.”

“Suze, you don’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she says firmly. “So did Tarkie.”

“Let me get you some drinks,” says Tarquin—then adds, lowering his voice, “It’s a pretty good turnout, don’t you think?”

As he walks off, Suze and I turn to survey the room. There are tables set out round the room, and people are milling around, looking at neatly folded piles of clothes, shoes, CDs, and assorted bits of bric-a-brac. On one table is a pile of typed, photocopied catalogues, and people are marking them as they wander round.

I can hear a girl in leather jeans saying, “Look at this coat! Ooh, and these Hobbs boots! I’m definitely going to bid for those!” On the other side of the room, two girls are trying pairs of trousers up against themselves while their boyfriends patiently hold their drinks.

“Who
are
all these people?” I say disbelievingly. “Did you invite them all?”

“Well, I went down my address book,” says Suze. “And Tarquin’s address book. And Fenny’s . . .”

“Oh well,” I say with a laugh. “That explains it.”

“Hi, Becky!” says a bright voice behind me—and I swivel round to see Fenella’s friend Milla, with a pair of girls I half-recognize. “I’m going to bid for your purple cardigan! And Tory’s going to go for that dress with the fur, and Annabel’s seen about six thousand things she wants! We were just wondering, is there an accessories section?”

“Over there,” says Suze, pointing to the corner of the room.

“Thanks!” says Milla. “See you later!” The three girls trip off into the melee, and I hear one of them saying, “I
really
need a good belt . . .”

“Becky!” says Tarquin, suddenly coming up behind me. “Here’s some wine. And let me introduce Caspar, my chum from Christie’s.”

“Oh hello!” I say, turning round to see a guy with floppy blond hair, a blue shirt, and an enormous gold signet ring. “Thank you so much for doing this! I’m really grateful.”

“Not at all, not at all,” says Caspar. “Now, I’ve been through the catalogue and it all seems fairly straightforward. Do you have a list of reserve prices?”

“No,” I say without pausing. “No reserves. Everything must go.”

“Fine.” He smiles at me. “Well, I’ll go and get set up.”

As he walks off I take a sip of my wine. Suze has gone off to look round some of the tables, so I stand alone for a while, watching as the crowd grows. Fenella arrives at the door, and I give her a wave—but she’s immediately swallowed up in a group of shrieking friends.

“Hi, Becky,” comes a hesitant voice behind me. I wheel round in shock, and find myself staring up at Tom Webster.

“Tom!” I exclaim in shock. “What are you doing here? How do you know about this?” He takes a sip from his glass and gives a little grin.

“Suze called your mum, and she told me all about it. She and my mum have put in some orders, actually.” He pulls a list out of his pocket. “Your mum wants your cappuccino maker. If it’s for sale.”

“Oh, it’s for sale,” I say. “I’ll tell the auctioneer to make sure you get it.”

“And my mum wants that pink hat you wore to our wedding.”

“Right. No problem.” At the reminder of his wedding, I feel myself growing slightly warm.

“So—how’s married life?” I say, examining one of my nails.

“Oh . . . it’s all right,” he says after a pause.

“Is it as blissful as you expected?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Well, you know . . .” He stares into his glass, a slightly hunted look in his eye. “It would be unrealistic to expect everything to be perfect straight off. Wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

There’s an awkward silence between us. In the distance I can hear someone saying, “Kate Spade! Look, brand new!”

“Becky, I’m really sorry,” says Tom in a rush. “The way we behaved toward you at the wedding.”

“That’s all right!” I say, a little too brightly.

“It’s not all right.” He shakes his head. “Your mum was bang on. You’re one of my oldest friends. I’ve been feeling really bad, ever since.”

“Honestly, Tom. It was my fault, too. I mean, I should have just admitted Luke wasn’t there!” I smile ruefully. “It would have been a lot simpler.”

“But if Lucy was giving you a hard time, I can really understand why you felt you just had to . . . to . . .” He breaks off, and takes a deep swig of his drink. “Anyway. Luke seemed like a nice guy. Is he coming tonight?”

“No,” I say after a pause, and force a smile. “No, he isn’t.”

After half an hour or so, people begin to take their seats on the rows of plastic chairs. At the back of the room are five or six friends of Tarquin’s holding mobile phones, and Caspar explains to me that they’re on the line to telephone bidders.