Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (56 page)

“Did you start to get a feel for the place?”

“Oh, I think so. I mean, obviously it's early . . .” I frown at the screen. “Come
on,
already.”

“But you weren't too overwhelmed?”

“Mmm . . . not really,” I say absently. Aha! Suddenly the screen is filling up with images. A row of little sweeties at the top—and logos saying,
It's fun. It's fashion. In New York City.
The Daily Candy home page!

I click on “Subscribe” and briskly start to type in my e-mail details, as Luke gets up and comes toward me, a concerned look on his face.

“So tell me, Becky,” he says. “I know it must all seem very strange and daunting to you. I know you couldn't possibly find your feet in just one day. But on first impressions—do you think you could get used to New York? Do you think you could ever see yourself living here?”

I type the last letter with a flourish, press “Send,” and look at him thoughtfully.

“You know what? I think I probably could.”

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
UNITED KINGDOM

September 28, 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Thank you for your completed U.S. immigration forms. As you know, the authorities will wish to evaluate the assets and unique talents which you can bring to this country.

Under section B69 referring to special abilities, you write, “I'm really good at chemistry, ask anyone at Oxford.” We did in fact contact the vice-chancellor of Oxford University, who failed to display any familiarity with your work.

As did the British Olympic long-jump coach.

We enclose fresh forms and request that you fill them out again.

With kind regards,

Edgar Forlano

Nine

T
WO DAYS LATER,
I'm feeling quite dazzled by all the sights and sounds of New York. I've walked so many blocks my feet ache, and I've really seen some awe-inspiring things. Like, in Bloomingdale's, they have a chocolate factory! And there's a whole district full of nothing but shoe shops!

I keep trying to get Luke along to look at all these amazing sights—but he just has meeting after meeting. He's seeing about twenty people a day—wooing potential clients and networking with media people, and even looking round office spaces in the financial district. As he said yesterday at breakfast, he needs to hit the ground running when he arrives. I was about to make a little joke about “Break a leg!” . . . but then I decided against it. Luke's taking everything a bit seriously at the moment.

As well as setting up the new company, he's had briefings from Alicia in London every morning—and she keeps sending through faxes for him to approve, and needlessly long e-mails. I just know she's only doing it all to show off to Luke—and the really annoying thing is, it's working. Like, a couple of clients rang up to complain about things, but when he called Alicia she had already leapt into action and sorted it out. So then I had to hear for fifteen minutes about how marvelous she is, and what a great job she's doing—and keep nodding my head as though I completely agreed. But I still can't stand her. She rang up the other morning when Luke was out, and when I picked up, she said “
So
sorry to disturb your beauty sleep!” in this really patronizing way, and rang off before I could think of a good reply.

Still, never mind. On the positive side, Luke and I did manage to get our walk in Central Park—even if it was only for five minutes. And one afternoon, Luke took me on the Staten Island Ferry, which was fantastic—except for the moment when I lost my new baseball cap overboard.

Obviously, I didn't
mean
to shriek so loudly. Nor did I mean for that old woman to mishear and think I'd lost my “cat”—and I certainly didn't want her to insist the boat should be stopped. It caused a bit of a kerfuffle, actually, which was rather embarrassing. Still, never mind—as Luke said, at least all those tourists with their video cameras had something to film.

But now it's Wednesday morning. The holiday is over—and I've got a slight dentisty feeling of dread. It's my first appointment today with a pair of important TV people from HLBC. I'm actually quite scared.

Luke's left early for a breakfast meeting with Michael and some top PR headhunter who's going to supply him with staff, so I'm left alone in bed, sipping coffee and nibbling at a croissant, and telling myself not to get nervous. The key is not to panic, but to stay calm and cool. As Luke kept reassuring me, this meeting is not an interview as such, it's simply a first-stage introduction. A “getting-to-know-you” lunch, he called it.

But in a way, lunch is even more scary than an interview. What if I knock something over? What if I don't tip all the right people? What if I can't think of anything to say and we sit there in an embarrassing silence?

I spend all morning in our room, trying to read the
Wall Street Journal
and watching CNN—but that only freaks me out even more. I mean, these American television presenters are so slick and immaculate. They never fluff their words, and they never make jokes, and they know everything. Like who's the trade secretary of Iraq, and the implications of global warming for Peru. And here I am, thinking I can do what they do.

My other problem is, I haven't done a proper interview for years.
Morning Coffee
never bothered to interview me, I just kind of fell into it. And for my old job on
Successful Saving,
I just had a cozy chat with Philip, the editor, who already knew me from press conferences. So the idea of having to impress a pair of complete strangers from scratch is completely terrifying.

“Just be yourself,” Luke kept saying. But frankly, that's a ridiculous idea. Everyone knows, the point of an interview is not to demonstrate who you are, but to pretend to be whatever sort of person they want for the job. That's why they call it “interview technique.”

My interview outfit consists of a beautiful black suit I got at Whistles, with quite a short skirt and discreet red stitching. I've teamed it with high-heeled court shoes and some very sheer, very expensive tights. (Or “hose” as I must now start calling them. But honestly. It sounds like Shakespeare or something.) As I arrive at the restaurant where we're meeting, I see my reflection in a glass door—and I'm quite impressed. But at the same time, half of me wants to run away, give up on the idea, and buy myself a nice pair of shoes to commiserate.

I can't, though. I have to go through with this. The reason my stomach feels so hollow and my hands feel so damp is that this really matters to me. I can't tell myself I don't care and it's not important, like I do about most things. Because this really does matter. If I don't manage to get a job in New York, then I won't be able to live here. If I screw this interview up, and word gets around that I'm hopeless—then it's all over. Oh God. Oh God . . .

OK, calm down, I tell myself firmly. I can do this. I can do it. And afterward, I'm going to reward myself with a little treat. The Daily Candy Web site e-mailed me this morning, and apparently this huge makeup emporium in SoHo called Sephora is running a special promotion today, until four. Every customer gets a goody bag—and if you spend fifty dollars, you get a free special engraved beauty box! I mean, how cool would that be?

About two seconds after the e-mail arrived, I got one from Jodie, the girl I met at the sample sale. I'd been telling her I was a bit nervous about meeting Luke's mother—and she said I should get a makeover for the occasion and Sephora was definitely the place, did I want to meet up? So that will be fun, at least . . .

There, you see, I feel better already, just thinking about it. OK, go girl. Go get 'em.

I force myself to push open the door, and suddenly I'm in a very smart restaurant, all black lacquer and white linen and colored fish swimming in tanks.

“Good afternoon,” says a maître d' dressed entirely in black.

“Hello,” I say. “I'm here to meet—”

Shit, I've completely forgotten the names of the people I'm meeting.

Oh, great start, Becky. This is really professional.

“Could you just . . . hang on?” I say, and turn away, flushing red. I scrabble in my bag for the piece of paper—and here we are. Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland.

Kent? Is that really a name?

“It's Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say to the maître d', hastily shoving the paper back in my bag, “meeting Judd Westbrook and Kent Garland of HLBC.”

He scans the list, then gives a frosty smile. “Ah yes. They're already here.”

Taking a deep breath, I follow him to the table—and there they are. A blond woman in a beige trouser suit and a chiseled-looking man in an equally immaculate black suit and sage-green tie. I fight the urge to run away, and advance with a confident smile, holding out my hand. They both look up at me, and for a moment neither says anything—and I feel a horrible conviction that I've already broken some vital rule of etiquette. I mean, you do shake hands in America, don't you? Are you supposed to kiss? Or bow?

But thankfully the blond woman is getting up and clasping my hand warmly.

“Becky!” she says. “
So
thrilled to meet you. I'm Kent Garland.”

“Judd Westbrook,” says the man, gazing at me with deep-set eyes. “We're very excited to meet you.”

“Me too!” I say. “And thank you so much for your lovely flowers!”

“Not at all,” says Judd, and ushers me into a chair. “It's a delight.”

“An enormous pleasure,” says Kent.

There's an expectant silence.

“Well, it's a . . . a fantastic pleasure for me, too,” I say hastily. “Absolutely . . . phenomenal.”

So far so good. If we just keep telling each other what a pleasure this is, I should do OK. Carefully I place my bag on the floor, along with my copies of the
FT
and the
Wall Street Journal.
I thought about the
South China Morning Post,
too, but decided that might be a bit much.

“Would you like a drink?” says a waiter, appearing at my side.

“Oh yes!” I say, and glance nervously around at the table to see what everyone else is having. Kent and Judd have both got tumblers full of what looks like G&T, so I'd better follow suit. “A gin and tonic, please.”

To be honest, I think I need it, just to relax. As I open my menu, both Judd and Kent are gazing at me with an alert interest, as though they think I might suddenly burst into blossom or something.

“We've seen your tapes,” says Kent, leaning forward. “And we're very impressed.”

“Really?” I say—and then realize I shouldn't sound quite so astonished. “Really,” I repeat, trying to sound nonchalant. “Yes, well, I'm proud of the show, obviously . . .”

“As you know, Rebecca, we produce a show called
Consumer Today,
” says Kent. “We don't have a personal finance segment at present, but we'd love to bring in the kind of advisory slot you're doing in Britain.” She glances at Judd, who nods in agreement.

“It's obvious you have a passion for personal finance,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well—”

“It shines through your work,” he asserts firmly. “As does the pincerlike grip you have on your subject.”

Pincerlike grip?

“You know, you're pretty unique, Rebecca,” Kent is saying. “A young, approachable, charming girl, with such a high level of expertise and conviction in what you're saying . . .”

“You're an inspiration for the financially challenged everywhere,” agrees Judd.

“What we admire the most is the patience you show these people.”

“The empathy you have with them . . .”

“. . . that faux-simplistic style of yours!” says Kent, and looks at me intently. “How do you keep that up?”

“Erm . . . you know! It just . . . comes, I suppose . . .” The waiter puts a drink in front of me and I grab it thankfully. “Well, cheers, everyone!” I say, lifting my glass.

“Cheers!” says Kent. “Are you ready to order, Rebecca?”

“Absolutely!” I reply, quickly scanning the menu. “The ahm . . . sea bass, please, and a green salad.” I look at the others. “And shall we share some garlic bread?”

“I'm wheat-free,” says Judd politely.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Well . . . Kent?”

“I don't eat carbohydrates,” she says pleasantly. “But you go ahead. I'm sure it's delicious!”

“No, it's OK,” I say hastily. “I'll just have the sea bass.”

God, how could I be so stupid? Of course Manhattanites don't eat garlic bread.

“And to drink?” says the waiter.

“Erm . . .” I look around the table. “I don't know. A sauvignon blanc, maybe? What does everyone else want?”

“Sounds good,” says Kent with a friendly smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Just some more Pellegrino for me,” she adds, and gestures to her tumbler.

“And me,” says Judd.

Pellegrino? They're on
Pellegrino
?

“I'll just have water too!” I say quickly. “I don't need wine! It was just an idea. You know—”

“No!” says Kent. “You must have whatever you like!” She smiles at the waiter. “A bottle of the sauvignon blanc, please, for our guest.”

“Honestly—” I say, flushing red.

“Rebecca,” says Kent, lifting a hand with a smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Oh great. Now she thinks I'm a complete alcoholic. She thinks I can't survive one getting-to-know-you lunch without hitting the booze.

Well, never mind. It's done now. And it'll be OK. I'll just drink one glass. One glass, and that's it.

And that is honestly what I mean to do. Drink one glass and leave it at that.

But the trouble is, every time I finish my glass, a waiter comes along and fills it up again, and somehow I find myself drinking it. Besides which, it would look rather ungrateful to order a whole bottle of wine and leave it undrunk.

So the upshot is, by the time we've finished our food, I'm feeling quite . . . Well. I suppose one word might be
drunk.
Another might be
pissed.
But it's not a problem, because we're having a really good time, and I'm actually being really witty. Probably because I've relaxed a little. I've told them lots of funny stories about behind the scenes at
Morning Coffee,
and they've listened carefully and said it all sounds “quite fascinating.”

“Of course, you British are very different from us,” says Kent thoughtfully, as I finish telling her about the time Dave the cameraman arrived so pissed he keeled over in the middle of a shot, and got Emma picking her nose. God, that was funny. In fact, I can't stop giggling, just remembering it.

“We just love your British sense of humor,” says Judd, and stares intently at me as though expecting a joke.

OK, quick. Think of something funny. British sense of humor. Erm
. . . Fawlty Towers? Ab Fab?

“Don't mention the war!” I hear myself exclaiming. “Sweetie darling.” I give a snort of laughter, and Judd and Kent exchange puzzled looks.

Just then, the coffee arrives. At least, I'm having coffee, Kent's having English breakfast tea, and Judd's having some weird herbal thing which he gave to the waiter to make.

“I adore tea,” says Kent, giving me a smile. “So calming. Now, Rebecca. In England, the custom is that you turn the pot three times clockwise to keep away the devil. Is that right? Or is it counterclockwise?”

Turn the pot? I've never heard of turning the bloody pot.

“Erm . . . let me remember.”

I screw my face up thoughtfully, trying to remember the last time I drank tea from a teapot. But the only image that comes to me is of Suze dunking a teabag in a mug while she tears a KitKat open with her teeth.

“I think it's counterclockwise,” I say at last. “Because of the old saying, ‘The devil he creeps around the clock . . . but never backward he will go.' ”

What the hell am I talking about? Why have I suddenly put on a Scottish accent?