Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (8 page)

“Oh,” I say. “Erm . . . yes. Absolutely.”

“Up there,” she points, and I walk tentatively toward the front of the chapel, hoping it will become obvious what the Bevington Triptych is. A statue, maybe? Or a . . . a piece of tapestry?

But as I reach the elderly lady, I see that she’s staring up at a whole wall of stained-glass windows. And I have to admit, they’re pretty amazing. I mean, look at that huge blue one in the middle. It’s fantastic!

“The Bevington Triptych,” says the elderly woman. “It simply has no parallel, does it?”

“Wow,” I breathe reverentially, staring up with her. “It’s beautiful.”

And it really is stunning. It just shows, there’s no mistaking a real work of art, is there? Real genius just leaps out at you. And I’m not even an expert.

“Wonderful colors,” I murmur.

“The detail,” says the woman, clasping her hands, “is absolutely incomparable.”

“Incomparable,” I echo.

And I’m just about to point out the rainbow, which I think is a really nice touch—when I suddenly notice that the elderly woman and I aren’t looking at the same window. She’s looking at a much smaller, dingier one which I hadn’t even noticed.

As inconspicuously as possible, I shift my gaze to the right one—and feel a pang of disappointment. Is
this
the Bevington Triptych? But it isn’t even pretty!

“Whereas this Victorian rubbish,” the woman suddenly adds savagely, “is absolutely criminal! That rainbow! Doesn’t it make you feel sick?” She gestures to my big blue window, and I gulp.

“I know,” I say. “It’s shocking, isn’t it? Absolutely . . . You know, I think I’ll just go for a little wander . . .”

Hastily I back away, before she can say any more. And I’m sidling back down the side of the pews, wondering vaguely what to do next, when suddenly I notice a little side chapel in the corner.

Spiritual retreat,
reads a notice outside.
A place to sit quietly, pray, and discover more about the Catholic faith.

Cautiously I poke my head inside the side chapel—and there’s an old nun, sitting on a chair, doing embroidery. She smiles at me, and nervously I smile back and walk inside.

I sit down on a dark wooden pew, trying not to make any creaking sounds, and for a while I’m too awestruck to say anything. This is just amazing. The atmosphere is fantastic, all quiet and still—and I feel incredibly cleansed and holy just from being here. I smile again at the nun, shyly, and she puts down her embroidery and looks at me as though waiting for me to speak.

“I really like your candles,” I say in a quiet, reverent voice. “Are they from Habitat?”

“No,” says the nun, looking a bit startled. “I don’t believe so.”

“Oh right.”

I give a tiny yawn—because I’m still sleepy from all this country air—and as I do so, I notice that one of my nails has chipped. So very quietly, I unzip my bag, get out my nail file, and start to buff it. The nun looks up, and I give her a rueful smile, and point to my nail (silently, because I don’t want to ruin the spiritual atmosphere). Then, when I’ve finished, the edge is looking a bit ragged, so I take out my Maybelline express dry polish and very quickly touch it up.

All the while, the nun is watching me with a perplexed expression, and as I’m finishing, she says, “My dear, are you a Catholic?”

“No, I’m not, actually,” I say.

“Was there anything you wanted to talk about?”

“Um . . . not really.” I run my hand fondly over the pew I’m sitting on, and give her a friendly smile. “This carving is really nice, isn’t it. Is all your furniture as nice as this?”

“This is the chapel,” says the nun, giving me a strange look.

“Oh, I know! But you know, loads of people have pews in their houses, too, these days. I saw this article in
Harpers—
”

“My child . . .” The nun lifts a hand to interrupt me. “My child, this is a place of spiritual retreat. Of quietness.”

“I know!” I say in surprise. “That’s why I came in. For quietness.”

“Good,” says the nun, and we lapse into silence again.

In the distance, a bell starts tolling, and I notice the nun begins murmuring very quietly under her breath. I wonder what she’s saying? My granny used to knit things, and mutter the pattern to herself. Maybe she’s lost track of her embroidery.

“Your sewing’s going really well,” I say encouragingly. “What’s it going to be?” She gives a tiny start, and puts down her embroidery.

“My dear,” she says, and exhales sharply. Then she gives me a warm smile. “My dear, we have some quite famous lavender fields. Would you like to go and see them?”

“No, it’s all right.” I beam at her. “I’m just happy, sitting here with you.”

The nun’s smile wavers slightly. “What about the crypt?” she says. “Would you be interested in that?”

“Not particularly. But honestly, I’m not bored! It’s just so lovely here. So . . . tranquil. Just like
The Sound of Music
.”

She stares at me as though I’m speaking gibberish, and I realize she’s probably been in the convent so long, she doesn’t know what
The Sound of Music
is.

“There was this film . . .” I start to explain. Then it occurs to me, maybe she doesn’t know what a film is, even. “It’s like, moving pictures,” I say carefully. “You watch it on a screen. And there was this nun called Maria . . .”

“We have a shop,” interrupts the nun urgently. “A shop. What about that?”

A shop! For a moment I feel all excited, and want to ask what they sell. But then I remember the promise I made to Suze.

“I can’t,” I say regretfully. “I told my flatmate I wouldn’t go shopping today.”

“Your flatmate?” says the nun. “What does she have to do with it?”

“She just gets really worried about me spending money—”

“Does your flatmate run your life?”

“Well, it’s just I made her this quite serious promise a while ago. You know, a bit like a vow, I suppose . . .”

“She’ll never know!” says the nun. “Not if you don’t tell her.”

I stare at her, a bit taken aback.

“But I’d feel really bad, breaking my promise! No, I’ll just stay here with you for a bit longer, if that’s OK.” I pick up a little statue of Mary which has caught my eye. “This is nice. Where did you get it?”

The nun stares at me, her eyes narrowing.

“Don’t think of it as shopping,” she says at last. “Think of it as making a donation.” She leans forward. “You donate the money—and we give you a little something in return. You couldn’t really count it as shopping at all. More . . . an act of charity.”

I’m silent for a few moments, letting this idea sink in. The truth is, I do always mean to do more for charity, and maybe this is my chance.

“So, it’ll be like doing a good deed?” I say, just to be sure.

“Exactly the same. And Jesus and all his angels will bless you for it.” She takes hold of my arm. “Now, you go along and have a browse. Come on, I’ll show you the way . . .”

As we leave the side chapel, the nun shuts the door and takes down the Spiritual Retreat notice.

“Aren’t you coming back?” I say in surprise.

“Not today, no,” she says, and gives me an odd look. “I think I’ll leave it for today.”

You know, it’s just like they say—virtue is its own reward. As I arrive back at the hotel later that afternoon, I’m glowing with happiness at all the good I’ve done. I must have donated at least £50 in that shop, if not more! In fact, not to show off or anything, but I’m obviously naturally very altruistic. Because once I started donating, I couldn’t stop! Each time I parted with a bit more money, I felt a real high. And although it’s a completely incidental point, I ended up with some really nice stuff in return. Lots of lavender honey, and lavender essential oil, and some lavender tea, which I’m sure will be delicious, and a lavender pillow to help me sleep.

The amazing thing is, I’d never really given lavender much thought before. I just thought of it as a plant in people’s gardens. But that young nun behind the table was quite right—it has such vital, life-enhancing properties that it should be part of everyone’s life. Plus St. Winifred’s lavender is completely organic, she explained, so it’s vastly superior to other varieties, but the prices are much lower than many competing mail-order catalogues. She was the one who persuaded me to buy the lavender pillow, actually, and to put my name on the mailing list. She was really quite persistent, for a nun.

When I get back to Blakeley Hall, the minicab driver offers to help me lug it all in, because the box of lavender honey is quite heavy. And I’m standing at the reception desk, giving him a nice hefty tip and thinking I might go and have a nice bath with my new lavender bath essence . . . when the front door into reception swings open. Into the hotel strides a girl with blond hair, a Louis Vuitton bag, and long tanned legs.

I stare at her in disbelief. It’s Alicia Billington. Or, as I call her, Alicia Bitch Longlegs. What’s
she
doing here?

Alicia is one of the account executives in Brandon Communications—which is Luke’s PR company—and we’ve never exactly got along. In fact, between you and me, she’s a bit of a cow and, secretly, I wish Luke would fire her. A few months ago, actually, she nearly did get fired—and it was kind of to do with me. (I was a financial journalist then, and I wrote this piece . . . oh, it’s a bit of a long story.) But in the end she just got a stiff warning, and since then, she’s really pulled her socks up.

I know all this because I have little chats every now and then with Luke’s assistant, Mel, who’s a real sweetie and keeps me up on all the gossip. She was telling me only the other day that she reckons Alicia’s really changed. She isn’t any
nicer
, but she certainly works harder. She badgers journalists until they put her clients into their stories, and often stays really late at the office, tapping at her computer. And only the other day she told Mel she wanted a full list of all the company’s clients, with contact names, so she could familiarize herself with them. Plus she wrote some company strategy report which Luke was really impressed by. Mel added gloomily that she reckons Alicia wants a promotion—and I think she could be right.

The trouble with Luke is, he only looks at how hard a person works and what results they get—and not at what a completely horrible cow they are. In fact, just the other day I heard him telling someone how reliable Alicia was in stressful situations and how he’s really starting to depend on her. So the chances are, she probably will get a promotion—and become even more unbearable.

As I watch her come in, I’m slightly transfixed. Half of me wants to run away and half of me wants to know what she’s doing here. But before I can decide, she spots me, and raises her eyebrows slightly. And oh God, suddenly I realize what I must look like—in a grotty old gray T-shirt that, to be honest, looks nothing like a dress, and my hair a mess, and my face all red from lugging carrier bags full of lavender honey. And she’s in an immaculate white suit.

“Rebecca!” she says, and puts her hand over her mouth in mock dismay. “You’re not supposed to know I’m here! Just pretend you haven’t seen me.”

“What . . . what do you mean?” I say, trying not to sound as disconcerted as I feel. “What
are
you doing here?”

“I’ve just popped in for a quick introductory meeting with the new associates,” says Alicia. “You know my parents only live five miles away? So it made sense.”

“Oh right,” I say. “No, I didn’t.”

“But Luke’s given us all
strict
instructions,” says Alicia, “we’re not allowed to bother you. After all, this is your holiday!”

And there’s something about the way she says it that makes me feel like a child.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I say robustly. “When something as . . . as important as this is going on. In fact, Luke and I were talking about it earlier on actually. Over breakfast.”

OK, so I only mentioned breakfast to remind her that Luke and I are going out together. Which I
know
is really pathetic. But somehow, whenever I’m talking to Alicia, I feel we’re in some secret little competition, and if I don’t fight back, she’ll think she’s won.

“Really?” says Alicia. “How sweet.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “So—what do you think of this whole enterprise? You must have an opinion.”

“I think it’s great,” I say after a pause. “Really great.”

“You don’t mind?” Her eyes are probing my face.

“Well . . . not really.” I shrug. “I mean, it was supposed to be a holiday, but if it’s that important—”

“I don’t mean the meetings!” says Alicia, laughing a little. “I mean—this whole deal. The whole New York thing.”

I open my mouth to reply—then feebly close it again. What New York thing?

And like a buzzard sensing weakness, she leans forward, a tiny, malicious smile at her lips. “You do
know
, don’t you, Rebecca, that Luke’s going to move to New York?”

I can’t move for shock. That’s what he’s so excited about. Luke’s moving to New York. But . . . but why hasn’t he told me?

My face feels rather hot and there’s a horrible thickening in my chest. He’s going to New York and he hasn’t even told me.

“Rebecca?”

My head jerks up, and I quickly force a smile onto my face. I can’t let Alicia realize this is all news to me. I just
can’t
.

“Of course I know about it,” I say huskily, and clear my throat. “I know all about it. But I . . . I never discuss business in public. Much better to be discreet, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she answers—and the way she looks at me makes me think she isn’t convinced for a minute. “So . . . will you be going out there too?”

I stare back, my lips trembling, unable to think of an answer, my face growing pinker and pinker—when suddenly, thank God, a voice behind me says, “Rebecca Bloomwood. Parcel for a Miss Rebecca Bloomwood.”

My head jerks round in astonishment, and, I don’t believe it. A man in uniform is approaching the desk, holding my huge, battered Special Express parcel, which I’d honestly given up for lost. All my things, at last. All my carefully chosen outfits. I can wear anything I like tonight!