Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Ten

I WAKE UP the next morning with a pounding headache. We went on from the Royalton to someplace for dinner, and I drank even more there — and I can’t even remember getting back to the hotel. Thank God I don’t have an interview today. To be honest, I could quite happily spend the whole day in bed with Luke.

Except that Luke is already up, sitting by the window, talking grimly into the phone.

“OK, Michael. I’ll talk to Greg today. God knows. I have no idea.” He listens for a bit. “That may be the case. But I’m not having a second deal collapse on us.” There’s a pause. “Yes, but that would put us back — what, six months? OK. I hear what you’re saying. Yes, I will. Cheers.”

He puts down the receiver and stares tensely out of the window, and I rub my sleepy face, trying to remember if I packed any aspirin.

“Luke, what’s wrong?”

“You’re awake,” says Luke, turning round, and gives me a quick smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“What’s wrong?” I repeat, ignoring him. “What’s wrong with the deal?”

“Everything’s fine,” says Luke shortly, and turns back to the window.

“Everything isn’t fine!” I retort. “Luke, I’m not blind. I’m not deaf. I can tell something’s up.”

“A minor blip,” says Luke after a pause. “You don’t need to worry about it.” He reaches for the phone again. “Shall I order you some breakfast? What would you like?”

“Stop it!” I cry frustratedly. “Luke, I’m not some… some stranger! We’re going to live together, for God’s sake! I’m on your side. Just tell me what’s really going on. Is your deal in trouble?”

There’s silence — and for an awful moment I think Luke’s going to tell me to mind my own business. But then he pushes his hands through his hair, exhales sharply, and looks up.

“You’re right. The truth is, one of our backers is getting nervous.”

“Oh,” I say, and pull a face. “Why?”

“Because some fucking rumor’s going around that we’re about to lose Bank of London.”

“Really?” I stare at him, feeling a cold dismay creep down my back. Even I know how important Bank of London is to Brandon Communications. They were one of Luke’s first clients — and they still bring in about a quarter of the money the company makes every year. “Why would people be saying that?”

“Fuck knows.” He pushes his hair back with his hands. “Bank of London denies it completely, of course. But then, they would. And of course it doesn’t help that I’m here, not there…”

“So are you going to fly back to London?”

“No.” He looks up. “That would give out completely the wrong signals. Things are shaky enough here already. If I suddenly disappear…” He shakes his head and I stare at him apprehensively.

“So — what happens if your backer pulls out?”

“We find someone else.”

“But what if you can’t? Will you have to give up on coming to New York?”

Luke turns to look at me — and he’s suddenly got that blank, scary expression that used to make me want to run away from him at press conferences.

“Not an option.”

“But I mean, you’ve got a really successful business in London,” I persist. “I mean, you don’t have to set up one in New York, do you? You could just…”

I tail away at the look on his face.

“Right,” I say nervously. “Well — I’m sure it’ll all be OK. In the end.”

For a while we’re both silent — then Luke seems to come to, and looks up.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to hold a few hands today,” he says abruptly. “So I won’t be able to make this charity lunch with you and my mother.”

Oh shit. Luke’s mother. Of course, that’s today.

“Can’t she rearrange?” I suggest. “So we can both go?”

“Unfortunately not,” says Luke. He gives a quick smile, but I can see true disappointment on his face, and I feel a flash of indignation toward his mother.

“Surely she could find time—”

“She’s got a very busy schedule. And as she pointed out, I didn’t give her very much warning.” He frowns. “You know, my mother’s not just some… society lady of leisure. She has a lot of important commitments. She can’t just drop everything, much as she would like to.”

“Of course not,” I say hurriedly. “Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll just go along to this lunch with her on my own, shall I?” I add, trying to sound as though I’m not at all intimidated by this prospect.

“She has to go to the spa first,” says Luke, “and she suggested you accompany her.”

“Oh right!” I say cautiously. “Well, that could be fun…”

“And then there’s the charity lunch she’s going to take you to. It’ll be a chance for you two to get to know one another. I really hope you hit it off.”

“Of course we will,” I say firmly. “It’ll be really nice.” I get out of bed and go and put my arms around Luke’s neck. His face still looks strained, and I put up my hand to smooth away the creases in his brow. “Don’t worry, Luke. People will be queuing up to back you. Round the block.”

Luke gives a half-smile and kisses my hand.

“Let’s hope so.”

As I sit in reception, waiting for Luke’s mother to arrive, I feel a combination of nerves and intrigue. I mean, for a start, what are we going to talk about? If I were meeting his stepmum, she could tell me all about Luke when he was a little boy, and bring out all the embarrassing photographs. But Luke’s real mum barely saw him when he was a little boy. Apparently she just used to send him huge presents at school, and visit about every three years.

You’d think that would have made him a bit resentful — but he adores her. In fact, he simply can’t find one bad thing to say about her. I once asked him whether he minded that she left him — and he got all defensive and said she had no choice. And he’s got this enormous glamorous photograph of her in his study at home — much bigger than the one of his dad and stepmum on their wedding day. I do sometimes wonder what they think about that. But it’s not something I really feel I can bring up.

“Rebecca?” A voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up, startled. A tall, elegant woman in a pale suit, with very long legs and crocodile shoes, is staring down at me. It’s the glamorous photograph in the flesh! And she looks just the same as she does in the picture, with high cheekbones and dark, Jackie Kennedy — style hair — except her skin is kind of tighter, and her eyes are unnaturally wide. In fact, it looks as though she might have some difficulty closing them.

“Hello!” I say, getting awkwardly to my feet and holding out my hand. “How do you do?”

“Elinor Sherman,” she says in a strange half-English, half-American drawl. Her hand is cold and bony, and she’s wearing two enormous diamond rings that press into my flesh. “So pleased to meet you.”

“Luke was very sorry he couldn’t make it,” I say, and hand her the present he gave me to give. As she undoes the wrapping, I can’t help goggling. A Herm`es scarf!

“Nice,” she says dismissively, and puts it back into the box. “My car is waiting.”

“Luke was really hoping we might get to know each other a bit,” I say, with a friendly smile.

“I have until two fifteen,” says Elinor crisply.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, never m—”

“So that should be ample time. Shall we go?”

Blimey. A car with a chauffeur. And a crocodile Kelly bag — and are those earrings real emeralds?

As we drive away, I can’t help surreptitiously staring at Elinor. Now I’m close up I realize she’s older than I first thought, probably in her fifties. And although she looks wonderful, it’s a bit as though that glamorous photo has been left out in the sun and lost its color — and then been painted over with makeup. Her lashes are heavy with mascara and her hair is shiny with lacquer and her nails are so heavily varnished, they could be red porcelain. She’s so completely… done. Groomed in a way I know I could never be, however many people went to work on me.

I mean, I’m looking quite nice today, I think. In fact, I’m looking really sharp. There was a spread in American Vogue on how black and white is the look at the moment, so I’ve teamed a black pencil skirt with a white shirt I found in the sample sale the other day, and black shoes with fantastic high heels. And I’ve shaded my eyes just like Mona showed me. I was really pleased with myself this morning. But now, as Elinor surveys me, I’m suddenly aware that one of my nails is very slightly chipped, and my shoe has got a tiny smear on the side — and oh God, is that a thread hanging down from my skirt? Should I quickly try to pull it off?

Casually, I put my hand down on my lap to cover up the loose thread. Maybe she didn’t see. It’s not that obvious, is it?

But Elinor is silently reaching into her bag, and a moment later she hands me a pair of small silver tortoiseshell-handled scissors.

“Oh… er, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I snip the offending thread, and hand back the scissors, feeling like a schoolchild. “That always happens,” I add, and give a nervous little giggle. “I look in the mirror in the morning and I think I look fine, but then the minute I get out of the house…”

Great, now I’m gabbling. Slow down, Becky.

“The English are incapable of good grooming,” says Elinor. “Unless it’s a horse.”

The corners of her lips move a couple of millimeters up into a smile — although the rest of her face is static — and I burst into sycophantic laughter.

“That’s really good! My flatmate loves horses. But I mean, you’re English, aren’t you? And you look absolutely… immaculate!”

I’m really pleased I’ve managed to throw in a little compliment, but Elinor’s smile abruptly disappears. She gives me a blank stare and suddenly I can see where Luke gets that impassive scary expression from.

“I’m a naturalized American citizen.”

“Oh right,” I say. “Well, I suppose you’ve been here for a while. But I mean, in your heart, aren’t you still… wouldn’t you say you’re a… I mean, Luke’s very English…”

“I have lived in New York for the majority of my adult life,” says Elinor coldly. “Any attachment of mine to Britain has long disappeared. The place is twenty years out of date.”

“Right.” I nod fervently, trying to look as though I understand completely. God, this is hard work. I feel like I’m being observed under a microscope. Why couldn’t Luke have come? Or why couldn’t she have rescheduled? I mean, doesn’t she want to see him?

“Rebecca, who colors your hair?” says Elinor abruptly.

“It’s… it’s my own,” I say, nervously touching a strand.

“Meione,” she echoes suspiciously. “I don’t know the name. At which salon does she work?”

For a moment I’m completely silenced.

“Erm… well,” I flounder at last. “Actually… I… I’m not sure you’ll have heard of it. It’s very… tiny.”

“Well, I think you should change colorist,” says Elinor. “It’s a very unsubtle shade.”

“Right!” I say hurriedly. “Absolutely.”

“Guinevere von Landlenburg swears by Julien on Bond Street. Do you know Guinevere von Landlenburg?”

I hesitate thoughtfully, as though going through a mental address book. As though checking all the many, many Guineveres I know.

“Um… no,” I say at last. “I don’t think I do.”

“They have a house in South Hampton.” She takes out a compact and checks her reflection. “We spent some time there last year with the de Bonnevilles.”

I stiffen. The de Bonnevilles. As in Sacha de Bonneville. As in Luke’s old girlfriend.

Luke never told me they were friends of the family.

OK, I’m not going to stress. Just because Elinor is tactless enough to mention Sacha’s family. It’s not as though she’s actually mentioned her—

“Sacha is such an accomplished girl,” says Elinor, snapping her compact shut. “Have you ever seen her water-ski?”

“No.”

“Or play polo?”

“No,” I say morosely. “I haven’t.”

Suddenly Elinor is rapping imperiously on the glass panel behind the driver.

“You took that corner too fast!” she says. “I won’t tell you again, I don’t wish to be rocked in my seat. So, Rebecca,” she says, sitting back in her seat and giving me a dissatisfied glance. “What are your own hobbies?”

“Uhm…” I open my mouth and close it again. My mind’s gone completely blank. Come on, I must have some hobbies. What do I do at the weekends? What do I do to relax?

“Well, I…”

This is completely ridiculous. There must be things in my life other than shopping.

“Well, obviously, I enjoy… socializing with friends,” I begin hesitantly. “And also the… the study of fashion through the um… medium of magazines…”

“Are you a sportswoman?” says Elinor, eyeing me coldly. “Do you hunt?”

“Erm… no. But… I’ve recently taken up fencing!” I add in sudden inspiration. I’ve got the outfit, haven’t I? “And I’ve played the piano since I was six.”

Completely true. No need to mention that I gave up when I was nine.

“Indeed,” says Elinor, and gives a wintry smile. “Sacha is also very musical. She gave a recital of Beethoven piano sonatas in London last year. Did you go to it?”

Bloody Sacha. With her bloody water-skiing and bloody sonatas.

“No,” I say defiantly. “But I… I gave one myself, as it happens. Of… of Wagner sonatas.”

“Wagner sonatas?” echoes Elinor suspiciously.

“Erm… yes.” I clear my throat, trying to think how to get off the subject of accomplishments. “So! You must be very proud of Luke!”

I’m hoping this comment will trigger a happy speech from her lasting ten minutes. But Elinor simply looks at me silently, as though I’m speaking nonsense.

“With his… his company and everything,” I press on doggedly. “He’s such a success. And he seems very determined to make it in New York. In America.” Elinor gives me a patronizing smile.

“No one is anything till they make it in America.” She looks out of the window. “We’re here.”

Thank God for that.

To give Elinor her due, the beauty spa is absolutely amazing. The reception area is exactly like a Greek grotto, with pillars and soft music and a lovely scent of essential oils in the air. We go up to the reception desk, where a smart woman in black linen calls Elinor “Mrs. Sherman” very deferentially. They talk for a while in lowered voices, and the woman occasionally gives me a glance and nods her head, and I try to pretend not to be listening, looking at the price list for bath oils. Then abruptly Elinor turns away and ushers me to a seating area where there’s a jug of mint tea and a sign asking patrons to respect the tranquility of the spa and keep their voices down.

We sit in silence for a while — then a girl in a white uniform comes to collect me and takes me to a treatment room, where a robe and slippers are waiting, all wrapped in embossed cellophane. As I get changed, she’s busying herself at her counter of goodies, and I wonder pleasurably what I’ve got in store. Elinor insisted on paying for all my treatments herself, however much I tried to chip in — and apparently she selected the “top-to-toe grooming” treatment, whatever that is. I’m hoping it’ll include a nice relaxing aromatherapy massage — but as I sit down on the couch, I see a pot full of wax heating up.

I feel an unpleasant lurch in my tummy. I’ve never been that great at having my legs waxed. Which is not because I’m afraid of pain, but because—

Well, OK. It’s because I’m afraid of pain.

“So — does my treatment include waxing?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“You’re booked in for a full waxing program,” says the beautician, looking up in surprise. “The ‘top-to-toe.’ Legs, arms, eyebrows, and Brazilian.”

Arms? Eyebrows? I can feel my throat tightening in fear. I haven’t been this scared since I had my jabs for Thailand.

“Brazilian?” I say in a scratchy voice. “What… what’s that?”

“It’s a form of bikini wax. A total wax.”

I stare at her, my mind working overtime. She can’t possibly mean—

“So if you’d like to lie down on the couch—”

“Wait!” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “When you say ‘total,’ do you mean…”

“Uh-huh.” The beautician smiles. “Then, if you wish, I can apply a small crystal tattoo to the… area. A love heart is quite popular. Or perhaps the initials of someone special?”

No. This can’t be real.

“So, if you could just lie back on the couch and relax—”

Relax? Relax?

She turns back to her pot of molten wax — and I feel a surge of pure terror.

“I’m not doing it,” I hear myself saying, and slither off the couch. “I’m not having it.”

“The tattoo?”

“Any of it.”

“Any of it?”

The beautician comes toward me, the wax pot in hand — and in panic I dodge behind the couch, clasping my robe defensively around me.

“But Mrs. Sherman has already prepaid for the entire treatment—”

“I don’t care what she’s paid for,” I say, backing away. “You can wax my legs. But not my arms. And definitely not… that other one. The crystal love heart one.”

The beautician looks worried.

“Mrs. Sherman is one of our most regular customers. She specifically requested the ‘top-to-toe wax’ for you.”

“She’ll never know!” I say desperately. “She’ll never know! I mean, she’s not exactly going to look, is she? She’s not going to ask her son if his initials are tattooed on his girlfriend’s…” I can’t bring myself to say area. “I mean, come on. Is she?”

I break off, and there’s a tense silence, broken only by the sound of tootling panpipes.

Then suddenly the beautician gives a snort of laughter. I catch her eye — and find myself starting to laugh, too, albeit slightly hysterically.

“You’re right,” says the beautician, sitting down and wiping her eyes. “You’re right. She’ll never know.”

“How about a compromise?” I say. “You do my legs and eyebrows and we keep quiet about the rest.”

“I could give you a massage instead,” says the beautician. “Use up the time.”

“There we are, then!” I say in relief. “Perfect!”

Feeling slightly drained, I lie down on the couch, and the beautician covers me up expertly with a towel.

“So, does Mrs. Sherman have a son, then?” she says, smoothing back my hair.

“Yes.” I look up, taken aback. “Has she never even mentioned him?”

“Not that I recall. And she’s been coming here for years…” The beautician shrugs. “I guess I always assumed she didn’t have any children.”

“Oh right,” I say, and lie back down, trying not to give away my surprise.

When I emerge an hour and a half later, I feel fantastic. I’ve got brand-new eyebrows, smooth legs, and a glow all over from the most wonderful aromatherapy massage.

Elinor is waiting for me in reception, and as I come toward her, she runs her eyes appraisingly up and down my body. For a horrible moment I think she’s going to ask me to roll up my sleeves to check the smoothness of my arms — but all she says is, “Your eyebrows look a lot better.” Then she turns and walks out, and I hurry after her.

As we get back into the car, I ask, “Where are we having lunch?”

“Nina Heywood is holding a small informal charity lunch for Ugandan famine relief,” she replies, examining one of her immaculate nails. “She holds events like this nearly every month. Do you know the Heywoods? Or the van Gelders?”

Of course I don’t bloody know them.

“No,” I hear myself saying. “But I know the Websters.”

“The Websters?” She raises her arched eyebrows. “The Newport Websters?”

“The Oxshott Websters. Janice and Martin.” I give her an innocent look. “Do you know them?”

“No,” says Elinor, giving me a frosty look. “I don’t believe I do.”

For the rest of the journey we travel in silence. Then suddenly the car is stopping and we’re getting out, and walking into the grandest, most enormous lobby I’ve ever seen, with a doorman in uniform and mirrors everywhere. We go up what seems like a zillion floors in a gilded lift with a man in a peaked cap, and into an apartment. And I have never seen anything like it.

The place is absolutely enormous, with a marble floor and a double staircase and a grand piano on a platform. The pale silk walls are decorated with enormous gold-framed paintings, and on pedestals around the room there are cascading flower arrangements like I’ve never seen before. Pin-thin women in expensive clothes are talking animatedly to one another, a smaller number of well-dressed men are listening politely, there are waitresses handing out champagne, and a girl in a flowing dress is playing the harp.

And this is a small charity lunch?

Our hostess Mrs. Heywood is a tiny woman in pink, who is about to shake hands with me when she’s distracted by the arrival of a woman in a bejeweled turban. Elinor introduces me to a Mrs. Parker, a Mr. Wunsch, and a Miss Kutomi, then drifts away, and I make conversation as best I can, even though everyone seems to assume I must be a close friend of Prince William.

“Tell me,” says Mrs. Parker urgently. “How is that poor young man bearing up after his… great loss?” she whispers.

“That boy has a natural nobility,” says Mr. Wunsch fiercely. “Young people today could learn a lot from him. Tell me, is it the army he’s headed for?”

“He… he hasn’t mentioned it,” I say helplessly. “Would you excuse me.”

I escape to the bathroom — and that’s just as huge and sumptuous as the rest of the apartment, with racks of luxury soaps and bottles of free perfume, and a comfy chair to sit in. I kind of wish I could stay there all day, actually. But I don’t dare linger too long in case Elinor comes looking for me. So with a final squirt of Eternity, I force myself to get up and go back into the throng, where waiters are moving quietly around, murmuring, “Lunch will be served now.”

As everyone moves toward a set of grand double doors I look around for Elinor but I can’t see her. There’s an old lady in black lace sitting on a chair near to me, and she begins to stand up with the aid of a walking stick.

“Let me help,” I say, hurrying forward as her grip falters. “Shall I hold your champagne glass?”

“Thank you, my dear!” The lady smiles at me as I take her arm, and we walk slowly together into the palatial dining room. People are pulling out chairs and sitting down at circular tables, and waiters are hurrying round with bread rolls.

“Margaret,” says Mrs. Heywood, coming forward and holding out her hands to the old lady. “There you are. Now let me find your seat…”

“This young lady was assisting me,” says the old lady as she lowers herself onto a chair, and I smile modestly at Mrs. Heywood.

“Thank you, dear,” she says absently. “Now, could you take my glass too, please… and bring some water to our table?”

“Of course!” I say with a friendly smile. “No problem.”

“And I’ll have a gin and tonic,” adds an elderly man nearby, swiveling in his chair.

“Coming right up!”

It just shows, what Mum says is right. The way to make a friend is to give a helping hand. I feel quite special, helping out the hostess. It’s almost like I’m throwing the party with her!

I’m not sure where the kitchen is, but the waiters are all heading toward one end of the room. I follow them through a set of double doors, and find myself in the kind of kitchen Mum would absolutely die for. Granite and marble everywhere, and a fridge which looks like a space rocket, and a pizza oven set into the wall! There are waiters in white shirts hurrying in and out with trays, and two chefs standing at a central island hob, holding sizzling pans, and someone’s yelling, “Where the fuck are the napkins?”

I find a bottle of water and a glass, and put them on a tray, then start looking around to see where the gin might be. As I bend down to open a cupboard door, a man with cropped bleached hair taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Oh hi!” I say, standing up. “I’m just looking for the gin, actually. Somebody wanted a gin and tonic.”

“We haven’t got time for that!” he barks. “Do you realize how short-staffed we are? We need food on tables!”

Short-staffed? I stare at him blankly for a moment. Then, as my eye falls on my black skirt and the realization hits me, I give a shocked laugh.

“No! I’m not a… I mean, I’m actually one of the…”

How do I say this without offending him? I’m sure being a waiter is actually very fulfilling. Anyway, he’s probably an actor in his spare time.

But while I’m dithering, he dumps a silver platter full of smoked fish in my arms.

“Get! Now!”

“But I’m not—”

“Now! Food on tables!”

With a pang of fright I quickly hurry away. OK. What I’ll do is I’ll just get away from him, and put this platter down somewhere, and find my place.

Cautiously I walk back into the dining room, and wander about between the tables, looking for a handy surface to leave the platter. But there don’t seem to be any side tables or even spare chairs. I can’t really leave it on the floor, and it would be a bit too awkward to reach between the guests and dump it on a table.

This is really annoying, actually. The platter’s quite heavy, and my arms are starting to ache. I pass by Mr. Wunsch’s chair and give him a little smile, but he doesn’t even notice me. It’s as though I’m suddenly invisible.

This is ridiculous. There must be somewhere I can put it down.

“Will-you-serve-the-food!” hisses a furious voice behind me, and I feel myself jump.

“OK!” I retort, feeling slightly rattled. “OK, I will!”

Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s probably easier just to serve it. Then at least it’ll be gone, and I can sit down. Hesitantly I approach the nearest table.

“Erm… would anyone like some smoked fish? I think this is salmon… and this is trout…”

“Rebecca?”

The elegantly coiffured head in front of me swivels round and I give a startled leap. Elinor is staring up at me, her eyes like daggers.

“Hi,” I say nervously. “Would you like some fish?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she says in a low, furious voice.

“Oh!” I swallow. “Well, I was just, you know, helping out…”

“I’ll have some smoked salmon, thanks,” says a woman in a gold jacket. “Do you have any nonfat French dressing?”

“Erm… well, the thing is, I’m not actually…”

“Rebecca!” Elinor’s voice comes shooting out of her barely opened mouth. “Put it down. Just… sit down.”

“Right. Of course.” I glance uncertainly at the platter. “Or should I serve it, since I’m here anyway…”

“Put it down. Now!”

“Right.” I look helplessly about for a moment, then see a waiter coming toward me with an empty tray. Before he can protest I deposit the smoked fish platter on his tray, then hurry round with trembling legs to my empty chair, smoothing down my hair.

As I sit down, and spread my thick napkin over my knees, there’s silence around the table. I try a friendly little smile, but nobody responds. Then an old lady wearing about six rows of huge pearls and a hearing aid leans toward Elinor and whispers, so audibly we can all hear, “Your son is dating… a waitress?”