Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Eight

I WAS made to live in America.

We’ve only been here one night, but already I’m completely in love with the place. For a start, our hotel is fantastic — all limestone and marble and amazing high ceilings. We’re staying in an enormous suite overlooking Central Park, with a paneled dressing room and the most incredible bath that fills up in about five seconds. Everything is so grand, and luxurious, and kind of… more. Like last night, after we arrived, Luke suggested a quick nightcap downstairs — and honestly, the martini they brought me was the hugest drink I’ve ever seen. In fact, I nearly couldn’t finish it. (But I managed it in the end. And then I had another one, just because it would have been churlishto refuse.)

Plus, everyone is so nice all the time. The hotel staff smile whenever they see you — and when you say “thank you,” they reply, “you’re welcome,” which they would never do in Britain, just kind of grunt. To my amazement, I’ve already been sent a lovely bouquet of flowers and an invitation to lunch from Luke’s mother, Elinor, and another bouquet from the TV people I’m meeting on Wednesday, and a basket of fruit from someone I’ve never heard of but who is apparently “desperate” to meet me!

I mean, when did Zelda from Morning Coffee last send me a basket of fruit?

I take a sip of coffee, and smile blissfully at Luke. We’re sitting in the restaurant finishing breakfast before he whizzes off for a meeting, and I’m just deciding what to do with my time. I haven’t got any interviews for a couple of days — so it’s completely up to me whether I take in a few museums, or stroll in Central Park… or… pop into a shop or two…

“Would you like a refill?” comes a voice at my ear, and I look up to see a smiling waiter offering me a coffeepot. You see what I mean? They’ve been offering us endless coffee since we sat down, and when I asked for an orange juice they brought me a huge glass, all garnished with frosted orange peel. And as for those scrummy pancakes I’ve just polished off… I mean, pancakes for breakfast. It’s pure genius, isn’t it?

“So — I guess you’ll be going to the gym?” says Luke, as he folds up his copy of the Daily Telegraph. He reads all the papers every day, American and British. Which is quite good, because it means I can still read my Daily World horoscope.

“The gym?” I say puzzledly.

“I thought that was going to be your routine,” he says, reaching for the FT. “A workout every morning.”

And I’m about to say, “Don’t be ridiculous!”—when it occurs to me that I might have rashly announced something along those lines last night. After that second martini.

Still — that’s OK. I can go to the gym. In fact, it would be good to go to the gym. And then I could… well, I could always take in a few sights, I suppose. Maybe look at a few famous buildings.

You know, I’m sure I read somewhere that Bloomingdale’s is quite an admired piece of architecture.

“And then what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” I say vaguely, watching as a waiter puts a plate of French toast down on the table next to ours. God, that looks delicious. Why don’t we have stuff like this in Europe? “Go and explore New York, I guess.”

“I was asking at reception — and there’s a guided walking tour which leaves from the hotel at eleven. The concierge highly recommended it.”

“Oh right,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, I suppose I could do that…”

“Unless you wanted to get any shopping out of the way?” Luke adds, reaching for the Times, and I stare at him slightly incredulously. You don’t “get shopping out of the way.” You get other things out of the way.

Which, in fact, makes me think. Maybe I should do this tour — and then I’ve got sightseeing ticked off.

“The guided tour sounds good,” I say. “In fact, it’ll be a great way to get to know my new home city. The Statue of Liberty, Central Park…”

“Don’t go to Central Park,” puts in Luke.

“Why not? Is it dangerous?”

“It can be, but that’s not why.” Luke looks up with that serious, affectionate expression of his. “The truth is, I’d love to introduce it to you myself. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.”

“OK.” I smile at him, feeling touched. “I won’t go to Central Park.”

As he shakes open the Times I look at him more carefully. His jaw is set and he doesn’t quite have his usual confident demeanor. In fact he looks… nervous, I realize in surprise.

“Feeling all right?” I say encouragingly. “All set for your meeting? Who’s it with, anyway?”

“Mason Forbes Stockbrokers,” says Luke. “One of the companies I’m very much hoping to sign up as a client.”

“Excellent! Well, I’m sure it’ll go brilliantly.”

“I hope so.” He’s silent for a moment. “It’s all been talk up to now. Talk and plans and promises. But now I need to start getting a few results. A few signatures on the line.”

“You’ll get your signatures!” Confidently, I pick up The Daily World. “Just listen to your horoscope: ‘A day for doing deals and winning hearts. If you have faith in yourself, others will too. You are beginning a streak of success.’ ” I look up. “You see? It’s in your stars!”

“Let me see that,” says Luke, and plucks the paper from my hand before I can stop him.

Damn.

“You do slightly have to read between the lines…” I add quickly.

“I see,” he says, gazing down at the horoscope page with a smile. “Yes, that would explain it. So, do you want to hear yours?”

“I’ve already—”

“ ‘Spend today exploring new surroundings,’ ” says Luke, as though reading. “ ‘Remember to hold your bag tightly to you and that over here it’s called a purse. Have a nice day — but don’t feel obliged to tell complete strangers to have one.’ ”

He smiles at me and I laugh. As he puts away the paper I take a sip of coffee and glance around the dining room at all the smart businessmen and groomed women sitting on luxurious striped chairs. Piano music is tinkling discreetly and I feel like I’m at the hub of some cosmopolitan, civilized world. At a nearby table a woman in black is talking about the First Lady’s wardrobe, and I listen eagerly until she gives me a look.

The First Lady. I mean, it sounds so much more impressive than “prime minister’s wife.”

“God, just think, Luke,” I say dreamily. “In a few weeks’ time, this will be our home city. We’ll be real New Yorkers!”

I’ll have to buy a few more black things before then, I find myself thinking. Everyone here seems to wear black…

“Becky—” says Luke. He puts down his paper — and suddenly he looks rather grave. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. Everything’s been such a rush, I haven’t had a chance — but it’s something I really think you need to hear.”

“OK,” I say apprehensively. “What is it?”

“It’s a big step, moving to a new city, especially a city as extreme as New York. It’s not the same as London…”

“I know,” I nod. “You have to have your nails done.”

Luke gives a puzzled frown before carrying on: “I’ve been here many times — and even I find it overwhelming at times. The sheer pressure and pace of life here is, frankly, on another level from London.”

“Right. So — what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I think you should take it slow. Don’t expect to fit in straight away. You may well find it a bit of a shock to begin with.”

I stare at him, discomfited.

“Don’t you think I’ll be able to stand the pace?”

“I’m not saying that,” says Luke. “I’m just saying — get to know the city gradually. Get the feel of it; see if you can really see yourself living here. You may hate it! You may decide you can’t possibly move here. Of course, I very much hope you don’t — but it’s worth keeping an open mind.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “I see.”

“So just see how today goes — and we’ll talk some more this evening. OK?”

“OK,” I say, and drain my coffee thoughtfully.

I’ll show Luke I can fit into this city. I’ll show him I can be a true New Yorker. I’ll go to the gym, and then I’ll eat a bagel, and then I’ll… shoot someone, maybe?

Or maybe just the gym will be enough.

I’m actually quite looking forward to doing a workout, because I bought this fab DKNY exercise outfit in the sales last year, and this is the first time I’ve had the chance to wear it! I did mean to join a gym, in fact I even went and got a registration pack from Holmes Place in Fulham. But then I read this really interesting article which said you could lose loads of weight just by fidgeting. Just by twitching your fingers and stuff! So I thought I’d go for that method instead, and spend the money I saved on a new dress.

But it’s not that I don’t like exercise or anything. And if I’m going to live in New York, I’ll have to go to the gym every day. I mean, it’s the law or something. So this is a good way to acclimatize.

As I reach the entrance to the fitness center I glance at my reflection — and I’m secretly quite impressed. They say people in New York are all pencil thin and fit, don’t they? But I reckon I look much fitter than some of these characters. I mean, look at that balding guy over there in the gray T-shirt. He looks like he’s never been near a gym in his life!

“Hi there,” says a voice. I look up and see a muscular guy in trendy black Lycra coming toward me. “I’m Tony. How are you today?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, and casually do a little hamstring stretch. (At least, I think it’s my hamstring. The one in your leg.) “Just here for a workout.”

Nonchalantly I swap legs, clasp my hands, and stretch my arms out in front of me. I can see my reflection on the other side of the room — and though I say it myself, I look pretty bloody cool.

“Do you exercise regularly?” asks Tony.

“Not in a gym,” I say, reaching down to touch my toes — then changing my mind halfway down and resting my hands on my knees. “But I walk a lot.”

“Great!” says Tony. “On a treadmill? Or cross-country?”

“Round the shops, mostly.”

“OK…” he says doubtfully.

“But I’m often holding quite heavy things,” I explain. “You know, carrier bags and stuff.”

“Right…” says Tony, not looking that convinced. “Well… would you like me to show you how the machines work?”

“It’s all right,” I say confidently. “I’ll be fine.”

Honestly, I can’t be bothered listening to him explain every single machine and how many settings it has. I mean, I’m not a moron, am I? I take a towel from the pile, drape it around my neck, and head off toward a running machine, which should be fairly simple. I step up onto the treadmill and survey the buttons in front of me. A panel is flashing the word “time” and after some thought I enter “40 minutes,” which sounds about right. I mean, that’s how long you’d go on a walk for, isn’t it? It flashes “program” and after scrolling down the choices I select “Everest,” which sounds much more interesting than “hill walk.” Then it flashes “level.” Hmm. Level. I look around for some advice — but Tony is nowhere to be seen.

The balding guy is getting onto the treadmill next to mine, and I lean over.

“Excuse me,” I say politely. “Which level do you think I should choose?”

“That depends,” says the guy. “How fit are you?”

“Well,” I say, smiling modestly. “You know…”

“I’m going for level 5, if it’s any help,” says the guy, briskly punching at his machine.

“OK,” I say. “Thanks!”

Well, if he’s level 5, I must be at least level 7. I mean, frankly, look at him — and look at me.

I reach up to the machine and punch in “7”—then press “start.” The treadmill starts moving, and I start walking. And this is really pleasant! I really should go to the gym more often. Or, in fact, join a gym.

But it just shows, even if you don’t work out, you can still have a level of natural baseline fitness. Because this is causing me absolutely no problems at all. In fact, it’s far too easy. I should have chosen level—

Hang on. The machine’s tilting upward. And it’s speeding up. I’m running to catch up with it.

Which is OK. I mean, this is the point, isn’t it? Having a nice healthy jog. Running along, panting a little, but that just means my heart is working. Which is perfect. Just as long as it doesn’t get any—

It’s tilting again. And it’s getting faster. And faster.

I can’t do this. My face is red. My chest is hurting. I’m panting frenziedly, and clutching the sides of the machine. I can’t run this fast. I have to slow down a bit.

Feverishly I jab at the panel — but the treadmill keeps whirring round — and suddenly cranks up even higher. Oh no. Please, no.

“Time left: 38.00” flashes brightly on a panel in front of me. Thirty-eight more minutes?

I glance to my right — and the balding guy is sprinting easily along as though he’s running through a field of daisies. I want to ask him for help, but I can’t open my mouth. I can’t do anything except keep my legs moving as best I can.

But all of a sudden he glances in my direction — and his expression changes.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

He hastily punches at his machine, which grinds to a halt, then leaps down and jabs at mine.

The treadmill slows down, then comes to a rather abrupt standstill — and I collapse against one of the side bars, gasping for breath.

“Have some water,” says the man, handing me a cup.

“Th-thanks,” I say, and stagger down off the treadmill, still gasping. My lungs feel as if they’re about to burst, and when I glimpse my reflection opposite, my face is beet red.

“Maybe you should leave it for today,” says the man, gazing at me anxiously.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, maybe I will.” I take a swig of water, trying to get my breath back. “I think actually the trouble is, I’m not used to American machines.”

“Could be,” says the man, nodding. “They can be tricky. Of course, this one,” he adds, slapping it cheerfully, “was made in Germany.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Yes. Well, anyway. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time,” says the man — and as he gets back onto his treadmill I can see him smiling.

Oh God, that was really embarrassing. As I make my way, showered and changed, to the foyer of the hotel for the walking tour, I feel a little deflated. Maybe Luke’s right. Maybe I won’t cope with the pace of New York. Maybe it’s a stupid idea, my moving here with him. I mean, if I can’t keep up with a treadmill, how am I going to keep up with a whole city?

A group of sightseers has already assembled — mostly much older than me and attired in a variety of sensible windbreakers and sneakers. They’re all listening to a young, enthusiastic man who’s saying something about the Statue of Liberty.

“Hi there!” he says, breaking off as I approach. “Are you here for the tour?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

“And your name?”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say, flushing a little as all the others turn to look at me. “I paid at the desk, earlier.”

“Well, hi, Rebecca!” says the man, ticking something off on his list. “I’m Christoph. Welcome to our group. Got your walking shoes on?” He looks down at my boots (bright purple, kitten heel, last year’s Bertie sale) and his cheery smile falters. “You realize this is a three-hour tour? All on foot?”

“Absolutely,” I say in surprise. “That’s why I put these boots on.”

“Right,” says Christoph after a pause. “Well — OK.” He looks around. “I think that’s it, so let’s start our tour!”

He leads the way out of the hotel, onto Fifty-seventh Street. It’s a wide and busy street, with canopied entrances and trees planted at intervals and limousines pulling up in front of expensive-looking shops. As everyone else follows Christoph briskly along the pavement, I find myself walking slowly, staring upward. It’s an amazingly clear, fresh day — with almost blinding sunlight bouncing off the pavements and buildings — and as I look around I’m completely filled with awe. God, this city is an incredible place. I mean, obviously I knew that New York would be full of tall skyscrapers. But it’s only when you’re actually standing in the street, staring up at them, that you realize how… well, how huge they are. I gaze up at the tops of the buildings against the sky, until my neck is aching and I’m starting to feel dizzy. Then slowly my eyes wander down, floor by floor to shop-window level. And I find myself staring at two words. Prada and Shoes.

Ooh.

Prada Shoes. Right in front of me.

I’ll just have a really quick look.

As the others all march on, I hurry up to the window and stare at a pair of deep brown pumps with cream stitching. God, those are divine. I wonder how much they are? You know, Prada is probably really cheap over here. Maybe I should just pop in and—

“Rebecca?”

With a start I come to and look round to see the tour group twenty yards down the street, all staring at me.

“Sorry,” I say, and reluctantly pull myself away from the window. “I’m coming.”

“There’ll be time for shopping later,” says Christoph cheerfully.

“I know,” I say, and give a relaxed laugh. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it!”

Of course, he’s quite right. There’ll be plenty of time to go shopping. Plenty of time.

Right. I’m really going to concentrate on the tour.

“So, Rebecca,” says Christoph brightly, as I rejoin the group. “I was just telling the others that we’re heading down East Fifty-seventh Street to Fifth Avenue, the most famous avenue of New York City.”

“Great!” I say. “That sounds really good!”

“Fifth Avenue serves as a dividing line between the ‘East Side’ and the ‘West Side,’ ” continues Christoph. “Anyone interested in history will like to know that…”

I’m nodding intelligently as he speaks, and trying to look interested. But as we walk down the street, my head keeps swiveling from left to right, like someone watching a tennis game. Christian Dior, Herm`es, Chanel… This street is just incredible. If only we could just slow down a bit, and have a proper look — but Christoph is marching on ahead like a hike leader, and everybody else in the group is following him happily, not even glancing at the amazing sights around them. Do they not have eyes in their heads?

“… where we’re going to take in two well-known landmarks: Rockefeller Center, which many of you will associate with ice-skating…”

We swing round a corner — and my heart gives a swoop of excitement. Tiffany’s. It’s Tiffany’s, right in front of me! I must just have a quick peek. I mean, this is what New York is all about. Little blue boxes, and white ribbon, and those gorgeous silver beans… I sidle up to the window and stare longingly at the beautiful display inside. Wow. That necklace is absolutely stunning. Oh God, and look at that watch, with all those little diamonds round the edge. I wonder how much something like that would—

“Hey, everybody, wait up!” rings out Christoph’s voice. I look up — and they’re all bloody miles ahead again. How come they walk so fast, anyway? “Are you OK there, Rebecca?” he calls, with a slightly forced cheeriness. “You’re going to have to try to keep up! We have a lot of ground to cover!”

“Sorry,” I say, and scuttle toward the group. “Just having a quick little look at Tiffany’s.” I grin at a woman next to me, expecting her to smile back. But she looks at me blankly and pulls the hood of her baggy gray sweatshirt more tightly over her head.

“As I was saying,” Christoph says as we stride off again, “above Fourteenth Street, Manhattan was designed as a grid, so that…”

And for a while I really try to concentrate. But it’s no good. I can’t listen. I mean, come on. This is Fifth Avenue! There are women striding along in immaculate coats and sunglasses, yellow taxicabs honking at each other, two men are standing on a street corner, arguing in Italian… And everywhere I look, there are fabulous shops. There’s Gucci — and that’s the hugest Gap I’ve ever seen in my life… and oh God, look at that window display over there! And we’re just walking straight past Armani Exchange and no one’s even pausing…

What is wrong with these people? Are they complete philistines?

We walk on a bit farther, and I’m trying my best to catch a glimpse inside a window full of amazing-looking hats when… oh my God. Just… just look there. It’s Saks Fifth Avenue. Right there, across the street. One of the most famous department stores in the world. Floors and floors of clothes and shoes and bags… And thank God, at last, Christoph is coming to his senses and stopping.

“This is one of New York’s most famous landmarks,” he’s saying, with a gesture. “Many New Yorkers regularly visit this magnificent place of worship — once a week or even more often. Some even make it here daily! We don’t have time to do more than have a quick look inside — but those that are interested can always make a return trip.”

“Is it very old?” asks a man with a Scandinavian accent.

“The building dates from 1879,” says Christoph, “and was designed by James Renwick.”

Come on, I think impatiently, as someone else asks a question about the architecture. Who cares who designed it? Who cares about the stonework? It’s what’s inside that matters.

“Shall we go in?” says Christoph at last.

“Absolutely!” I say joyfully, and hurry across the street toward the entrance.

It’s only as my hand is actually on the door that I realize no one else is with me. Where’ve they all gone? Puzzled, I look back — and the rest of the group is processing into a big stone church, outside which there’s a board reading “St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

Oh.

Oh, I see. When he said “magnificent place of worship” he meant…

Right. Of course.

I hesitate, hand on the door, feeling torn. I should go into the cathedral. I should take in some culture and come back to Saks later.

But then — how is that going to help me get to know whether I want to live in New York or not? Looking around some old cathedral?

Put it like this — how many millions of cathedrals do we have in England? And how many branches of Saks Fifth Avenue?

“Are you going in?” says an impatient voice behind me.

“Yes!” I say, coming to a decision. “Absolutely. I’m going in.”

I push my way through the heavy wooden doors and into the store, feeling almost sick with anticipation. I haven’t felt this excited since Octagon relaunched their designer floor and I was invited to the cardholders’ champagne reception.

I mean, visiting any shop for the first time is exciting. There’s always that electric buzz as you push open the door; that hope, that belief, that this is going to be the shop of all shops, which will bring you everything you ever wanted, at magically low prices. But this is a thousand times better. A million times. Because this isn’t just any old shop, is it? This is a world-famous shop. I’m actually here. I’m in Saks on Fifth Avenue in New York. As I walk slowly into the store — forcing myself not to rush — I feel as though I’m setting off for a date with a Hollywood movie star.

I wander through the perfumery, gazing around at the elegant Art Deco paneling; the high, airy ceilings; the foliage everywhere. God, this has to be one of the most beautiful shops I’ve ever been in. At the back are old-fashioned lifts which make you feel you’re in a film with Cary Grant, and on a little table is a pile of store directories. I pick one up, just to get my bearings… and I don’t quite believe it. There are ten floors to this store.

Ten.

I stare at the list, transfixed. I feel like a child trying to choose a sweetie in a chocolate factory. Where am I going to start? How should I do this? Start at the top? Start at the bottom? All these names, jumping out at me, calling to me. Anna Sui. Calvin Klein. Kate Spade. Kiehl’s. I am going to hyperventilate.

“Excuse me?” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to see a girl with a Saks name badge smiling at me. “Can I help you?”

“Um… yes,” I say, still staring at the directory. “I’m just trying to work out where to start, really.”

“Were you interested in clothes? Or accessories? Or shoes?”

“Yes,” I say dazedly. “Both. All. Everything. Erm… a bag,” I say randomly. “I need a new bag!”

Which is true. I mean, I’ve brought bags with me — but you can always do with a new bag. Plus, I’ve been noticing that all the women in Manhattan seem to have very smart designer bags — so this is a very good way of acclimatizing myself to the city.

The girl gives me a friendly smile.

“Bags and accessories are through there,” she says, pointing. “You might want to start there and work your way up.”

“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I’ll do. Thanks!”

God, I adore shopping abroad. I mean, shopping anywhere is always great — but the advantages of doing it abroad are:

1. You can buy things you can’t get in Britain.2. You can name-drop when you get back home. (“Actually, I picked this up in New York.”)3. Foreign money doesn’t count, so you can spend as much as you like.

OK, I know that last one isn’t entirely true. Somewhere in my head I know that dollars are proper money, with a real value. But I mean, look at them. I just can’t take them seriously. I’ve got a whole wodge of them in my purse, and I feel as though I’m carrying around the bank from a Monopoly set. Yesterday I went and bought some magazines from a newsstand, and as I handed over a twenty-dollar bill, it was just like playing shop. It’s like some weird form of jet lag — you move into another currency and suddenly feel as though you’re spending nothing.

So as I walk around the bag department, trying out gorgeous bag after gorgeous bag, I’m not taking too much notice of the prices. Occasionally I lift a price tag and make a feeble attempt to work out how much that is in real money — but I have to confess, I can’t remember the exact exchange rate.

But the point is, it doesn’t matter. Because this is America, and everyone knows that prices in America are really low. It’s common knowledge. So basically, I’m working on the principle that everything’s a bargain. I mean, look at all these gorgeous designer handbags. They’re probably half what they’d cost in England, if not less!

As I’m hovering over the DKNY display, an elderly woman wearing a gold-colored suit and carrying a Gucci tote comes up to me.

“Which one matches?” she says. “This… ” She holds out a tan satin bag. “… or this… ” She holds out a paler one. “It’s for evening,” she adds.

“Erm…” I look at her suit and at the bags again — and wonder how to tell her they don’t match at all. “The thing is, they’re both a kind of brownish color… and your suit’s more of a golden, yellowish…”

“Not the suit!” she exclaims. “The dog!”

I look at her perplexedly — then spot a tiny face poking out of the Gucci tote. Oh my God! Is that a real live dog?

“Don’t hide, Muffy!” says the woman, reaching into the bag and hauling it out. And honestly, it’s more like a rat than a dog — except a rat with a Gucci collar and a diamante name tag.

“You want your bag to match your… dog?” I say, just to be sure.

“If I can’t find anything, I’ll just have to have her hair tinted again.” The woman sighs. “But it’s so time-consuming…”

“No, don’t do that!” I say hastily. “I think the paler bag goes perfectly.”

“I think you’re right.” She gives it a critical look, then nods. “Thank you for your help. Do you have a dog?”

“Erm… not on me.”

The woman stares at me suspiciously — then stuffs the dog back in the Gucci tote. She walks off, and I resume my search, wondering if I need to buy a dog in order to be a real New Yorker. Except I only like big ones. And you couldn’t exactly lug a Labrador around in a Fendi clutch, could you?

Eventually I choose a beautiful Kate Spade bag in tan leather, and take it up to the counter. It costs five hundred dollars, which sounds quite a lot — but then, “a million lira” sounds like a lot too, doesn’t it? And that’s only about fifty pence. So this is sure to be a bargain.

As the assistant hands me my receipt, she even says something about it being “a gift”—and I beam in agreement.

“A complete gift! I mean, in London, it would probably cost—”

“Gina, are you going upstairs?” interrupts the woman, turning to a colleague. “Gina will show you to the seventh floor,” she says, and smiles at me.

“Right,” I say, in slight confusion. “Well… OK.”

Gina beckons me briskly and, after a moment’s hesitation, I follow her, wondering what’s on the seventh floor. Maybe some complimentary lounge for Kate Spade customers, with free champagne or something!

It’s only as we’re approaching a department entitled “Gift Wrapping” that I suddenly realize what’s going on. When I said gift, she must have thought I meant it was an actual—

“Here we are,” says Gina brightly. “The Saks signature box is complimentary — or choose from a range of quality wrap.”

“Right!” I say. “Well… thanks very much! Although actually, I wasn’t really planning to—”

But Gina has already gone — and the two ladies behind the gift wrap counter are smiling encouragingly at me.

This is a bit embarrassing.

“Have you decided which paper you’d like?” says the elder of the two ladies, beaming at me. “We also have a choice of ribbons and adornments.”

Oh, sod it. I’ll get it wrapped. I mean, it only costs $7.50—and it’ll be nice to have something to open when I get back to the hotel room.

“Yes!” I say, and beam back. “I’d like that silver paper, please, and some purple ribbon… and one of those clusters of silver berries.”

The lady reaches for the paper and deftly begins to wrap up my bag — more neatly than I’ve ever wrapped anything in my life. And you know, this is quite fun! Maybe I should always get my shopping gift wrapped.

“Who’s it to?” says the lady, opening a card and taking out a silver pen.

“Um… to Becky,” I say vaguely. Three girls, all wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, have come into the gift wrap room — and I’m slightly intrigued by their conversation.

“… below wholesale…”

“… sample sale…”

“… Earl jeans…”

“And who is it from?” says the gift wrap lady pleasantly.

“Um… from Becky,” I say without thinking. The gift wrap lady gives me a rather strange look and I suddenly realize what I’ve said. “A… a different Becky,” I add awkwardly.

“… sample sale…”

“… Alexander McQueen, pale blue, 80 percent off…”

“… sample sale…”

“… sample sale…”

I cannot bear this any longer.

“Excuse me,” I say, turning round. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your conversation — but I just have to know one thing. What is a sample sale?”

The whole gift wrap area goes quiet. Everyone is staring at me, even the lady with the silver pen.

“You don’t know what a sample sale is?” says a girl in a leather jacket eventually, as though I’ve said I don’t know my alphabet.

“Erm… no,” I say, feeling myself flush red. “No, I… I don’t.” The girl raises her eyebrows, reaches in her bag, rummages around, and eventually pulls out a card. “Honey, this is a sample sale.”

I take the card from her — and as I read, my skin starts to prickle with excitement.

SAMPLE SALE

Designer clothes, 50–70 % off.

Ralph Lauren, Comme des Garçons, Gucci.

Bags, shoes, hosiery, 40–60 % off.

Prada, Fendi, Lagerfeld.

“Is this for real?” I breathe at last, looking up. “I mean, could… could I go to it?”

“Oh yeah,” says the girl. “It’s for real. But it’ll only last a day.”

“A day?” My heart starts to thump in panic. “Just one day?”

“One day,” affirms the girl solemnly. I glance at the other girls — and they’re nodding in agreement.

“Sample sales come without much warning,” explains one.

“They can be anywhere. They just appear overnight.”

“Then they’re gone. Vanished.”

“And you just have to wait for the next one.”

I look from face to face, utterly mesmerized. I feel like an explorer learning about some mysterious nomadic tribe.

“So you wanna catch this one today,” says the girl in blue, tapping the card and bringing me back to life, “you’d better hurry.”

I have never moved as fast as I do out of that shop. Clutching my Saks Fifth Avenue carrier, I hail a taxi, breathlessly read out the address on the card, and sink back into my seat.

I have no idea where we’re heading or what famous landmarks we’re passing — but I don’t care. As long as there are designer clothes on sale, then that’s all I need to know.

We come to a stop, and I pay the driver, making sure I tip him about 50 percent so he doesn’t think I’m some stingy English tourist — and, heart thumping, I get out. And I have to admit, on first impression, things are not promising. I’m in a street full of rather uninspiring-looking shop fronts and office blocks. On the card it said the sample sale was at 405, but when I follow the numbers along the road, 405 turns out to be just another office building. Am I in the wrong place altogether? I walk along the pavement for a little bit, peering up at the buildings — but there are no clues. I don’t even know which district I’m in.

Suddenly I feel deflated and rather stupid. I was supposed to be going on a nice organized walking tour today — and what have I done instead? I’ve gone rushing off to some strange part of the city, where I’ll probably get mugged any minute. In fact, the whole thing was probably a scam, I think morosely. I mean, honestly. Designer clothes at 70 percent discount? I should have realized it was far too good to be—

Hang on. Just… hang on a minute.

Another taxi is pulling up, and a girl in a Miu Miu dress is getting out. She consults a piece of paper, walks briskly along the pavement, and disappears inside the door of 405. A moment later, two more girls appear along the street — and as I watch, they go inside, too.

Maybe this is the right place.

I push open the glass doors, walk into a shabby foyer, and nod nervously at the concierge sitting at the desk.

“Erm… excuse me,” I say politely. “I was looking for the—”

“Twelfth floor,” he says in a bored voice. “Elevators are in the rear.”

I hurry toward the back of the foyer, summon one of the rather elderly lifts, and press twelve. Slowly and creakily the lift rises — and I begin to hear a kind of faint hubbub, rising in volume as I get nearer. The lift suddenly pings and the doors open and… Oh my God. Is this the queue?

A line of girls is snaking back from a door at the end of the corridor. Girls in cashmere coats, girls in black suits, girls tossing their springy ponytails around, and chattering excitedly into their mobile phones. There’s not a single one who isn’t wearing full makeup and smart shoes and carrying some sort of designer bag, even if it’s the teeniest little Louis Vuitton coin purse — and the babble of conversation is peppered with names of fashion houses. They’re all pressing forward, firmly moving their stilettos inch by inch along the floor, and all have the same urgent look in their eyes. Every so often somebody pushes their way out of the door, holding an enormous, nameless carrier bag — and about three girls push their way in. Then, just as I join the end of the line, there’s a rattling sound, and a woman opens up a door, a few yards behind me.

“Another entrance this way,” she calls. “Come this way!”

In front of me, a whole line of heads whips round. There’s a collective intake of breath — and then it’s like a tidal wave of girls, all heading toward me. I find myself running toward the door, just to avoid being knocked down — and suddenly I’m in the middle of the room, slightly shaken, as everybody else peels off and heads for the racks.

I look around, trying to get my bearings. There are racks and racks of clothes, tables covered in bags and shoes and scarves. I can already spot Ralph Lauren knitwear… a rack full of fabulous coats… there’s a stack of Prada bags… I mean, this is like a dream come true! Everywhere I look, girls are feverishly sorting through garments, looking for labels, trying out bags. Their manicured nails are descending on the stuff like the claws of birds of prey and I can’t believe quite how fast they’re working. As I see the girl who was standing in front of me in the line, I feel a surge of panic. She’s got a whole armful of stuff, and I haven’t even started. If I don’t get in there, everything will be gone. I have to grab something now!

I fight my way through to one of the racks and start leafing through chiffon pleated dresses. Three hundred dollars, reduced to seventy dollars! I mean, even if you only wore it once… And oh God, here are some fantastic print trousers, some label I’ve never heard of, but they’re reduced by 90 percent! And a leather coat… and those Prada bags. I have to get one of the Prada bags!

As I breathlessly reach for one, my hand collides with another girl’s.

“Hey!” she says at once, and snatches the bag up. “I was there first!”

“Oh,” I say. “Erm… sorry!” I quickly grab another one which, to be honest, looks exactly the same. As the girl starts examining the interior of her bag, I can’t help staring at her nails. They’re filed into square shapes and carefully decorated in two different shades of pink. How long did that take to do? As she looks up, I see her hair is two-tone as well — brown with aubergine tips — while her mouth is carefully lined with purple and filled in with pale mauve.

“Got a problem?” she says, suddenly looking at me, and I jump.

“No! I was just wondering — where’s the changing room?”

“Changing room?” She chuckles. “Are you kidding? No such thing.”

“Oh.” I look around again, and notice a spectacular black girl, about nine feet tall, stripping off to her bra and knickers. “I see. So we… change right here? Great!” I swallow. “No problem at all.”

Hesitantly I start unbuttoning my coat, telling myself that I’ve got no alternative — and no one’s watching anyway. But Two-Tone Girl’s expression is changing as she gazes at me.

“Are you British?”

“Yes! Did you recognize my accent?”

“I love the British!” Her eyes light up. “That film, Notting Hill? I loved that!”

“Oh right! So did I, actually.”

“That Welsh guy. He was hilarious!” She suddenly frowns as I step out of my shoes. “Hey, but wait. You shouldn’t have to get changed out here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re British! Everyone knows the Brits are reserved. It’s like… your national disease or something.”

“Honestly, it’s fine…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” To my horror the girl strides over and pokes the woman in black standing by the door. “Excuse me? This girl is British. She needs privacy to try on her things. OK?”

The woman turns to stare at me as though I’m a Martian and I smile nervously back.

“Really, don’t worry. I don’t mind…”

“She needs privacy!” insists the girl. “They’re different than us. It’s a whole other culture. Can she go behind those racks there?”

“Please. I don’t want to—”

“Whatever,” says the woman, rolling her eyes. “Just don’t mess up the displays.”

“Thanks,” I say to the girl, a little awkwardly. “I’m Becky, by the way.”

“Jodie.” She gives me a wide grin. “Love your boots!”

I disappear behind the rack and begin trying on all the clothes I’ve gathered. With each one I feel a little frisson of delight — and when I get to the Prada bag, it’s a surge of pure joy. Prada at 50 percent off! I mean, this would make the whole trip worthwhile, just on its own.

When I’ve eventually finished, I come out from behind the rack to see Jodie wriggling into a stretchy white dress.

“This sample sale is so great!” she exclaims. “I’m just like… where do I stop?”

“I know what you mean.” I give her a blissful smile. “That dress looks great, by the way.”

“Are you going to buy all that?” she says, giving my armload an impressed look.

“Not all of it.” I reach into the pile. “Not… these trousers. But everything else.”

“Cool! Go, girl.”

As I happily head toward the paying table, the room is reverberating with high-pitched female voices and I can hear snippets of conversation floating around.

“I have to have it,” a girl is saying, holding up a coat against herself. “I just have to have it.”

“OK, what I’m going to do is, I’m just going to put the $450 I spent today onto my mortgage,” another girl is saying to her friend as they walk out, laden with bags. “I mean, what’s $450 over thirty years?”

“One hundred percent cashmere!” someone else is exclaiming. “Did you see this? It’s only fifty dollars! I’m going to take three.”

I dump my stuff on the table and look around the bright, buzzing room at the girls milling about, grabbing at merchandise, trying on scarves, piling their arms full of glossy new gorgeous things. And I feel a sudden warmth, an overwhelming realization. These are my people. I’ve found my homeland.

Several hours later, I arrive back at the Four Seasons, still on a complete high. After the sample sale, I ended up going out for a “welcome to New York” coffee with Jodie. We sat at a marble table, sipping our decaf Frappuccinos and nibbling at nonfat cranberry muffins, and both worked out exactly how much money we’d saved on our bargains ($1,230 in my case!). We agreed to meet up again during my visit — and then Jodie told me all about this amazing Web site that sends you information on these kind of events every day. Every day! I mean, the possibilities are limitless. You could spend your whole life going to sample sales!

You know. In theory.

I go up to our room — and as I open the door I see Luke sitting at the desk, reading through some papers.

“Hi!” I say breathlessly, dumping my bags on the enormous bed. “Listen, I need to use the laptop.”

“Oh right,” says Luke. “Sure.” He picks up the laptop from the desk and hands it to me, and I go and sit on the bed. I open the laptop, consult the piece of paper Jodie gave me, and type in the address.

“So, how was your day?” asks Luke.

“It was great!” I say, tapping the keys impatiently. “I made a new friend, and I saw lots of the city… Ooh, and look in that blue bag! I got you some really nice shirts!”

“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.”

HOWSKI AND FORLANO

U.S. Immigration Lawyers

568 E. 56th Street

New York, N.Y. 10016

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